Anew: Book One: Awakened (11 page)

I can’t begin to answer that or
much of anything else. Doubt threatens to overwhelm me.

“I suppose…”

He props himself up on his
elbows and frowns down at me. “Don’t tell me you’re still not convinced that
you can choose?”

“No, I am but--”

He catches a stray wisp of my
hair and twines it around his fingers, tugging gently. For a moment, an
expression flits across his face--surprise, reflection? I can’t be sure. It
vanishes as his eyes turn dark and smoky.

“Maybe we need another
experiment,” he says.

To my embarrassment, he has my
immediate attention. “What kind of…experiment?”

The swiftness with which he
responds tells me he’s been giving this some thought. “Instead of my telling
you that you can’t come, you make up your mind that you won’t. I’ll try my best
to persuade you otherwise, purely in the interest of scientific inquiry. But if
your will is strong enough--”

His smile, more of a leer
really, is an invitation to a contest we both know I can’t win.

I snort and try to swat his hand
away at the same time I marvel at his resiliency. “All we’d demonstrate is that
where you’re concerned, my body overrules my mind.”

He looks so smugly pleased that
I feel compelled to right the balance. On a sudden impulse, I say, “I have a better
idea. Why don’t we find out what I really want?”

Belatedly, I remember that he
spent five years in the Special Forces. His instincts for danger, or at least
potential trouble, must be finely honed and his methods for dealing with either
are likely to be ruthless.

Without taking his eyes from me,
he asks, “How would we do that?”

Before I can reconsider, I take
hold of my courage and say, “You’re always in control. What if I was, instead?”

In a heartbeat, his expression
runs the gamut from surprise and wariness to a pleasure so feral that his eyes
blaze. A low growl rises from deep in his throat.

I am more than a little
intimidated yet at the same time emboldened. Such is the contradictory nature
of my response to this man, drawn to him irresistibly and at the same time
afraid that in his thrall I will have no existence of my own.

Words rush from me. “I want to
touch you…all of you…in my own way at my own pace. I want to discover you.”
Leaping from daring to recklessness, I add, “Purely in the interest of
scientific inquiry.”

Ian takes a deep, shuddering
breath and lets it out slowly. His body shifts on top of mine, widening the
spread of my legs.

He strokes my lower lip, tugging
gently, and says, “I don’t do that…giving up control, I mean. At least, I haven’t.
But you--” His eyes narrow speculatively. “You tempt me, Amelia--”

He slides a hand under my blouse
and cups my breast, his thumb making lazy circles over my nipple. At once, a
bolt of pleasure lances through me. I want… I need-- My head arches back.
Staring up at the wrought iron dome above the pavilion and at the braided ropes
holding the bed in the air, I have a sudden flashing image of the golden cage
in the Cabinet of Secret Delights, and myself suspended there waiting for--

Abruptly, I remember where we
are. I press my hands against his shoulders, pushing hard but with no effect.
He’s heavier even than his long, lithe body would suggest and he’s pure muscle.

“Ian, not here! The staff--”

His mouth traces a line of fire
down my throat as his hand reaches lower to pull up my skirt. Against my skin,
he murmurs, “They’re very discreet.”

Since the only one I’ve seen so
far is Hodgkin, I can believe him but it doesn’t make any difference.

“Are they also blind and deaf?
Stop!”

What happened to letting me take
control? How did we get off that subject? It’s all well and good that I
fantasized about being with him in the pavilion that first evening but that
doesn’t mean I actually want to do it!

He raises his head and every
nerve ending in my body tingles. The molten heat in his eyes threatens to
dissolve me. I try to close my legs but he won’t allow it. His long, skillful
fingers slide under the edge of my panties, probing for and finding the lips of
my sex, opening me to him--

I am on the verge of forgetting
all my inhibitions when the taut, carnal set of his face softens suddenly.

“Shit!” He levers himself up on
his elbows, looking dazed and more than a little disgusted with himself. Before
he can say anything more, we both freeze at the sound of a throat being cleared
nearby.

From somewhere behind the
pavilion, thankfully not in a position to view its occupants, Hodgkin says,
“Your pardon, sir, but the party you wanted to speak with has called back
again.”

Ian lowers his forehead to the
pillow beside me and takes a long, shuddering breath. In the next moment, he
angles himself off my body. The sudden absence of his weight and touch leave me
bereft. He pauses a moment beside the bed, scorching me with a look of pure
sensual carnality, before striding off toward the main wing.

Well! That was--

I haven’t a clue what it was
apart from being frustrating on multiple levels. Only the painful tightness in
my chest reminds me to breathe. I should get up and do something but I can’t
bring myself to disturb the lingering sense of his body on mine. It feels that
rare and precious to me.

Without wanting to dwell on how
open and vulnerable I am to him, I go back to staring at the sky through the
wrought iron lacing, trying to make sense of what just happened until I accept
that I’m not going to be able to do so. I have no idea what was so compelling
as to make him leave, or indeed if anything was. Perhaps he merely seized on
the call as an excuse to get away from both the situation and me. My heart
sinks at that thought but I have to acknowledge that it was probably best for
both of us.

I need a distraction, something
to think about in this world other than Ian and how he makes me
feel…want…yearn…need. My hands still ache from the long hours at the piano
yesterday and the rest of my body continues to remind me that I overdid in the
studio this morning, although I can’t manage to regret the results. Ian is
likely to be in the library which makes this as good a time as any to explore
more of the palazzo and its grounds.

I leave the pavilion but not
before entering a note into the link and putting it on the bed where Ian cannot
fail to find it if he comes in search of me.

Gone exploring. On the
grounds! No need to send out the scary elite security (not goon) guys.

Hoping that will keep him from
worrying, I walk a little distance in the opposite direction from the palazzo.
Stone steps lead down a gentle slope to a broad lawn. In the distance, I can
see the tree line and beyond it the wilderness. But I’m more interested in the
glint of late afternoon sun shining off the long expanse of a glass roof.

Drawing closer, I realize that
it belongs to a greenhouse. There’s no sign of anyone about but even so I
hesitate before trying the door. It opens readily, releasing a puff of warm,
moist air lush with a panoply of scents, some a little sweet, others tart with
a hint of spice. But without the earthy, loamy smell that I would have
expected.

As soon as I enter, I realize
that this is a working greenhouse, designed not for the display of beautiful
plants but for the production of fresh fruits, vegetables, herbs, and greens,
all grown hydroponically in nutrient solutions rather than soil. Wandering
among the beds and hanging trellises, I quickly become so fascinated that I
lose track of time.

Nibbling on a cherry tomato
plucked from a climbing vine, I watch the ladybugs at work in a bed of potato
plants, on the prowl for other, harmful insects to snack on. The greenhouse is
very quiet except for the hum of machinery mixing nutrients, pumping water and
circulating air. I could pull up a chair, settle in and be perfectly content
here at least for awhile, only stirring to graze when hunger moved me.

Even better, I can imagine
myself wandering about with a basket in hand, picking and choosing from the
bounty. Yet I can’t help wondering why this place even exists. If Ian has a
passion for gardening, he hasn’t revealed it yet.

I’m still there, trying to
puzzle it all out, when Hodgkin comes to tell me that dinner will be served in
an hour.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have no idea what mood I will
find Ian in nor am I entirely certain of my own. The daring request I made in
the pavilion and his vehement response are uppermost in my mind. But so are his
swift withdrawal, and all the doubts and concerns that I have in general.

Perhaps because of that, I take
extra trouble with my appearance, debating what to wear before deciding on a
short-sleeved dress with a bodice of broad, tightly woven silk ribbons above a
fitted waist and a flounced chiffon skirt that ends well above my knees.

I pick it for the color, a pale
yellow that reminds me of spring and makes me think of some of the furled
blossoms on plants just coming into flower in the greenhouse. I leave my hair
down but pull it back from my face with a comb on each side.

Looking at myself in the mirror
opposite the golden bed, I can’t help but notice that my eyes are shadowed and
I am paler than usual. Distantly, I know that events are catching up with me
but I have no more idea of what to do about that than I do about so much else.

Going out the bedroom door in a
pair of strappy heels higher than what I’ve worn before, I resolve to try to
put those concerns aside at least for the moment. After waiting so long to live
at all, I don’t want to miss savoring the present because I’m too pre-occupied
worrying about the future.

Ian is waiting in the gallery
beside the garden. He looks as elegant as two nights before but to even more
effect now that I understand the power of the perfectly sculpted body beneath
the bespoke suit. As I approach, he’s speaking to someone on a link. He gives
me a smile and an appreciative look as he wraps up the conversation.

“And it will be ready when?” he
asks. “Two days? Sooner would be better but the priority is to get it right.” He
listens for a moment, then says, “Good. Let me know when it’s done.” Without
waiting for a response, he ends the call and turns his full attention on me.

A breeze blows off the garden,
making me aware suddenly of just how much skin I’m showing. The dress really is
short and the heels somehow make it feel even more so. Moreover, the woven
ribbon bodice is a little tight, causing my breasts to swell above it. I’m
beginning to wish that I’d brought a shawl but I reconsider when I see what is
in his eyes. He desires me, as I do him. But beyond that, the sight of me alone
gives him pleasure.

Huskily, he says, “You look
beautiful, Amelia, as always.”

He leads me to the table and
pulls out my chair for me. I sit, trying surreptitiously to tug my skirt down.
Food appears, wine, candlelight, music plays somewhere nearby, torchères leap
against the gathering darkness and braziers cast a glow of warmth across the
gallery. I notice little of that; there is only Ian, the shape of his mouth,
the timbre of his voice, his hand lying on the damask cloth near mine, the
light in his eyes.

“Not in the mood for steak
tonight?” he asks.

I look down at the food before
me with surprise. It is partially eaten but I have no recollection of even
tasting it.

“It’s fine.” Tartly, I add, “At
least we know that I’m able to feed myself.”

His eyes are on my mouth. I
shift a little uneasily as he says, “I wonder what else you’re capable of,
Amelia.”

I have no appetite, not for
food. I want to touch him, feel him, possess him. The music surrounds us, a
ballad of some sort, old and knowing, filled with yearning.

“Talk to me,” I say. “Tell me
about yourself.”

He frowns, caught off balance.
“What do you want to know?”

Everything! But where to begin?
I remember something he said the other night at dinner. “Why did you join the
military when you were eighteen? That isn’t customary for the children of
wealthy families, is it?”

He hesitates and for a moment I
think he isn’t going to answer but finally he says, “My father and I didn’t get
along. I didn’t want the future he envisioned for me so I decided to make my
own.”

His tone suggests that he’s said
all he will on the subject but I want more. “How did you go from enlisting to
being in the Special Forces? You have to be chosen for that, don’t you?”

Ian nods slowly. Weighing his
words, he says, “I had…certain qualities that pointed me in that direction.
They were noticed by the man who became my commanding officer. He recruited me
into the S.F.”

I can guess at some of those
qualities--intelligence, determination, superb physical condition, a certain
ruthless focus. But I suspect there were others, perhaps having to do with his
need to always be in control of both himself and any situation.

It occurs to me that for control
to be so important to him, he must have experienced the loss of it at some time
in his life. Which makes what I have asked him for all the more daring.

Rather than dwell on that, I
ask, “What prompted you to leave when you did?”

Again, he hesitates. I can tell
this isn’t easy for him and I marvel that he’s even willing to try.

“My father died.” Pre-empting
any expression of sympathy, he adds, “Driving a high-powered sports car off a
cliff will do that to you. I had to come back to look after the family
business. Besides, I’d gotten what I could out of where I was.”

“What was that?” I ask softly,
afraid to disrupt the mood of openness between us.

Quietly, he says, “I learned
control. Mainly of myself but when it’s necessary, of others.”