Echoes in the Darkness (8 page)

Oddly enough, it was the dispassionate way he could speak of it, rather than the crudeness of his words, that singed my emotions. He flashed that coldly charming smile again, secure in the knowledge that I was remembering every detail of the night we had spent together. With calculated casualness, he began a conversation with his father about the acquisition of a new mill. The identity of the man to whom I had given my body—and, yes, my heart—with such desperate abandon, was no longer a mystery. For the remainder of the meal my mind insistently took me back, with a combination of embarrassment and pleasure, to that delirious afternoon, soon after my arrival in Paris.

“How did you know Paris was ‘buzzing’ about my engagement to Eddie?” I asked him later, when we were sipping tea in the parlour. Tynan, still weakened by his illness, had already retired to bed. Lucy and Eleanor were seated at a table in a corner of the room, poring over a magazine. Cad and I sat on opposite sides of the hearth watching the leaping ballet of the firelight. The very normality of the scene added to the surreal sensations I was experiencing.

“I was there.”

I started in surprise. “You were in Paris at the same time as your brother, but you didn’t come to see him?” This was the strangest family I had ever known.

“I got the distinct feeling he didn’t wish to be seen,” he replied. “Not by me, anyway. In fact, Eddie has become quite skilled over the years at evading me.” He laughed at my puzzled expression. “I have made several trips to Paris during the past few years, the purpose of which has been to apprise Eddie of certain aspects of the business that he needs to be aware of. He has managed to successfully avoid me every time.” He smiled into my eyes. “Of course, some of my visits to Paris have been more memorable than others.”

* * *

Twelve months earlier

I lay back on the velvet chaise longue while two men stood to one side of me, discussing my nipples. The conversation had been going on for some time and my left calf was cramping painfully. When I attempted to stretch my foot out, however, Maurice squealed in outrage. “
Cherie! S’il vous plaît.
Please, the pose you strike now is perfection, do not, I beg you, ruin it!”

I subsided, surreptitiously wiggling my toes when he wasn’t looking. He was, after all, paying me double my usual hourly rate for this private sitting, so it wouldn’t do to upset him.

“The colour and texture are quite divine, reminiscent of perfectly placed rose petals on cream silk,” Claude said pompously, regarding my errant breasts thoughtfully. “But the nipples should stand proud, and they will not stay that way.” He stuck his lower lip out sulkily and regarded me with an accusing stare.

“It’s too warm in here,” I pointed out for the third or fourth time. My head was thrown back over the curve of the chaise so that the heavy mass of my hair tumbled almost to the floor. Maurice had piled cushions behind me so that my back was arched, emphasising the contrast between the slenderness of my waist and the full curves of my breasts. I held two feathered fans, one shielding my face so that only my eyes showed above it, and the other teasingly positioned so that it didn’t quite cover my pubic bone.

The third man had not spoken since he entered the room. He stood in the shadows beyond the light of the open window, and all I had was the impression of height and a faint aroma of expensive cologne. Maurice and Claude had greeted him with fawning sycophancy, so I assumed he was a wealthy patron.

I heard the stranger move across the room. Whatever he was doing now, he was out of my vision, but, after some clattering around in Claude’s tiny kitchen area, he approached me. My boredom vanished instantly. I had heard men described as “beautiful” and dismissed the phrase as overly poetic. Suddenly, I knew exactly what it meant. This man’s masculinity was so perfect—so pure—that my breath caught in my throat just to look at him. His smile was as devastating as the first ray of sunlight breaking through storm clouds. I knew, beyond rational thought or reason, that this was a defining moment, a point from which there was to be no return. This man was going to change my life. Was it as simple as love at first sight? The cynic in me dismissed the notion. And I had more cause than most to be cynical about men. Nevertheless, I was severely jolted.

He came and sat on the edge of the chaise, his hip pressed into the curve of my waist. I had never seen eyes so unambiguously gold. The contrast of their brightness against the raven-wing darkness of his hair and tawny tint of his skin was stunning.

“This could hurt a little. But I think you might also quite like it.” He held up his hand to show me a glass full of ice, which he placed on the floor. The piece he held in his other hand was already starting to melt in the cloying heat of the Parisian afternoon.

I returned his stare challengingly over the top of my fan, and the grin deepened appreciatively. Cupping my left breast with a warm hand, he ran his thumb lightly over my nipple. It hardened instantly.

“
Mais oui!
But yes!” Claude cried out exultantly. “That is what I wanted!
Exactement.
”

The stranger was concentrating on caressing my breast and did not reply. His eyes remained locked on mine as, very gently, he lifted the piece of ice and used it to draw a circle around my already sensitised nipple. My back arched and I bit my lip as a maddeningly wonderful bolt of pain shot through me.

He moved his hand to my right breast and repeated the process. I wanted to scream. But I wasn’t sure if I wanted to scream at him to stop, or because I never wanted the velvet torture of his touch to end. “It’s funny,” he observed casually. “I thought from a distance that, because your eyes are so dark, they must be brown. But now I see they are the exact shade of the heart of a purple pansy. And,” he added, leaning closer so that Claude and Maurice couldn’t hear, “now you are aroused, there are thunderclouds of passion looming just below the surface.” His French was perfect, but there was a faint trace of an accent.

He rose abruptly, brushing back the lock of hair that flopped forward to caress his brow. “Just use the ice when you need to,” he instructed me, indicating the glass next to the chaise. “That should keep Claude here quiet while he gets his masterpiece started.” He began to walk away toward the door and I lay back, unable to speak. I was completely stunned by the effect he had on me. My nipples were throbbing painfully, a sensation that had nothing whatsoever to do with the ice. Pausing with his hand on the door handle, he flashed that incredible smile my way once more. But his words were directed at Claude, “Do tell our mutual friend I was looking for him. And that he can’t hide forever. I
will
find him.” Then he was gone.

Throughout the remainder of that sultry, cloud-dulled afternoon, my whole body thrummed with longing. Even Claude’s posturing and Maurice’s rattling, self-absorbed conversation could not pierce the bubble of my anticipation. A drizzling rain had begun to fall by the time I left the tiny attic apartment and stepped into a darkening evening. Sure enough, my golden-eyed stranger was lounging against a gatepost across the street. Just as I knew he would be. His hands were dug deep in his coat pockets, and a brooding, haunted look lowered his brow. I went and stood before him, so close that, when we both breathed out at the same time, our bodies touched. The spicy undertones of his cologne made my nostrils twitch appreciatively. He cupped my face in his hands, studying me intently.

“My God,” he said in English. “You are the most perfect thing I have ever seen.”

“Finish what you started,” I whispered, also in English. And, obligingly, he pulled me to him, crushing me against his chest and bruising my lips with the intensity of his kiss. Dragging me along with him by the hand, he propelled us with long, urgent strides down the narrow, cobbled street. Because we had to stop to kiss under every streetlamp, by the time we reached his apartment, I was soaked to the skin and half-crazy with lust.

There were twelve stairs leading to his door. I know because he stopped to remove a piece of my wet clothing on every stair. By the time we crashed through the door of his two-room apartment, I was clad only in my underwear. Without removing his lips from mine, he slammed the door closed with one hand and shoved me hard against the wall. In one swift movement, he hauled my petticoat skirts up around my waist and dragged my bloomers down. I fumbled desperately with the buttons on his trousers and, as soon as I had freed him, taut and throbbing, from the restraining cloth, he lifted me so that could I wrap my legs around his waist. My shoulders slammed repeatedly against the wall as, buttocks pumping in a relentless rhythm, he drove himself hard into me. We rocked frantically together and, within seconds, I was gasping as wave upon wave of ecstasy shuddered through me. He jerked violently and groaned as his own orgasm tore him apart, pressing his face into the curve of my neck and muttering something appreciative, but unintelligible.

When our mutual trembling had subsided slightly, he carried me, with my legs still wound around his waist, into the bedroom and tumbled us both onto the bed.

“Where are you from?” he asked later, when, having removed what was left of our clothing, we lay wrapped in each other’s arms. He slid an admiring hand down the curve of my waist and over my naked buttocks as he spoke.

I paused. Had I really almost blurted out the truth? I had to be careful not to allow this burning attraction to cause me to lower my guard. “I came here from Austria.” The words came out on a sigh as his long fingers parted my legs and slid inside me.

“You accent does not sound Austrian,” he stated, the distant politeness of his tone contrasting with the relentless pressure of his thumb on my clitoris.

“My mother was English,” I gasped. It was very difficult to remain aloof and evasive in the circumstances. He started to kiss my neck, and, hovering on the brink of orgasm, I found I couldn’t speak anymore.

“Well, wherever you are from, it’s very nice to meet you,” he murmured, as, with strong, commanding hands, he turned me onto my stomach and raised my buttocks. In the same movement, he positioned himself between my legs and replaced his questing fingers with the iron-hard length of his cock. I came instantly, screaming with pleasure as, holding my hips steady, he thrust in and out of my shuddering body.

We spent that night and most of the next day in bed, only venturing into the kitchen once in search of bread and wine. “You have the most amazing mouth I have ever seen,” he said as we sat on the bed, sharing this feast. “Almost a perfect cupid’s bow, but your lips are just a little too full, a touch too sensual. Beautiful mouth—
belle bouche—
how do you say it in your language?”

“It does not sound quite so pretty,” I said, achingly aware of the perfection of
his
mouth. Kissing him was the second most wonderful thing that had happened to me. Making love to him was the first. “It is ‘
szép száj.
’” I spoke Hungarian without thinking.

“No,” he said, continuing to study my lips dispassionately, “that definitely does not do you justice. I will call you
bouche
instead.” I decided it was the most wonderful endearment I had ever heard. I used the mouth he admired so much to show my appreciation.

I studied his slumbering face in the faded afternoon of the next day, and an unexpected jolt of sweet-sharp sadness tugged at my chest. I knew what it was, of course, but I could not afford to acknowledge it. I had made myself a promise, one I could not break. I slid from his embrace and quietly, in an effort not to disturb him, dressed.

As I tiptoed to the door, his sleep-filled voice halted me. “Where are you going?”

“To change my clothes and reassure my roommate that I am still alive.”

“Don’t be too long,
bouche,
” he murmured, pulling a pillow over his head to shut out the light. In muffled accents, he added, “And get back here before dark. Another girl was murdered two nights ago.”

I made my way along the familiar streets, finding them altered now by new emotions. It was then that I realised I didn’t even know his name. It didn’t matter. He was destined to forever remain a beloved, anonymous memory, and the reason my heart belonged to Paris.

Chapter Six

Meeting Cad again shook me to the very core of my being. I felt restless and alive in a way I had not felt for a long time. Not, if I was honest, since I had left him satiated and dozing in his apartment all those months ago. Sleep was a million lifetimes away, and I prowled my room in the restless candlelight. Everything looked different now because of him.

You fool!
I looked pityingly at my reflection in the mirror.
You stupid, reckless fool.
I had been unable to resist allowing myself the luxury of that one night, and look what it had brought me. This burning, aching longing bordered on madness. Everything I had heard about Cad Jago screamed at me that he was dangerous. Everything I already knew of him confirmed that fact. Yet I wanted him with a frenzy that had nothing to do with reason. It came from the depths of my soul, and it terrified me.

I threw the windows wide and stepped onto the balcony, breathing in the harsh scent of the ocean and letting the salt breeze sting my cheeks. I wondered if he was doing the same thing on the other side of the house. Because I knew, beyond any shadow of doubt, that, despite his animosity, seeing me again had affected him just as profoundly. When I stepped back into my room at last, I was shivering with a combination of despair and excitement.

I was just about to climb into bed when a sound from the balcony made me pause. There it was again. A soft, persistent scratching on the glass. My mind was still on Cad. Could it be him? Would he be so bold? A laugh trembled on my lips. Of course he would.

I threw back the heavy curtains and then recoiled in surprise. A woman stood on the balcony, shaking with cold or fear, I knew not which. She was staggeringly beautiful with high, sharp cheekbones, midnight-black hair and eyes that were unmistakably Jago-gold. Her old-fashioned gown of ruby velvet was opulently styled with full skirts and a bodice cut low to display the swell of her breasts and the creamy smoothness of her shoulders. She regarded me steadily through the glass, and I knew a sudden compulsion to let her in. I hesitated with my fingertips trembling in the act of reaching for the handle.