Heart Choice (9 page)

Straif grimaced. “I haven't had Drina as a Fam for very long, but I think she expects perfection.” He shrugged again, but his voice sounded lighter. “She'll no doubt supervise the cleaning.” He gestured to the left. “I've found a sitting room that can serve as a base of operations. Our contract is there, with the terms we discussed.”

His hand slid down to clasp her fingers, and she realized with a flush of heat that she'd been touching him far too much, too casually, as if he were more of a friend than a client. Her nerves shivered as she became intensely aware of the strength and warmth of his fingers around hers, the callouses on his hand, the tingle of
Flair
he transmitted to her skin.

Her breath came shorter, and she steadied it. They walked to the room in silence, but now that she experienced the attraction to him again, she could only think of his body, how their steps matched. How they might match in bed.

He stopped at a door midway down the corridor and opened it to a dark purple room. Mitchella flinched at the sight of heavy velvet curtains coated with grime and frayed upholstery. At her reaction, Straif dropped her hand. Her lips thinned in irritation at herself. Nothing to do but act grandly.

Mitchella swept into the purple parlor before him. It was far too dim for Straif's need to appreciate her. Just the simple walk down the corridor with her, the sensual heat and movement of her body beside his, had distracted him from painful memories and set his mind on the future.

With a wave of his hand and a murmured Word he sent the drapes opening, and watched with a wince as several dropped to the floor in heaps. The windows were filthy, as if they were covered with some sort of scum. Racking his brain, he couldn't think of the proper spell to clean them.

She stood in the middle of the room, hands on hips, surveying it. “Are the standard housekeeping spells in effect?”

Before he could answer, the Residence replied with surprising eagerness. “Yes, Gentlelady Clover.”

Mitchella hesitated, cleared her throat. “Is that you, GrandHouse T'Blackthorn Residence?”

“Yes, Gentlelady Clover. I have communicated with T'Ash Residence. It is most pleased with the results of your skills. It has shown me your work.” The Residence sighed. “It brags. It is still a very young Residence, no more than two decades old.”

Straif enjoyed the blush that enhanced Mitchella's beauty. “My thanks for your kind words, Residence.” Her smile made Straif forget the state of the room, drew him to her.

“Clear windows,” Mitchella said. The room darkened into blackness for an instant, there was a swish, and a moment later the glass of the windows sparkled. Light seemed to dance into the room, and Straif felt a corresponding lift in his spirits.

Striding over to a small desk, Mitchella scanned the contract and nodded, but didn't sign it.

Mitchella turned the desk from facing the windows to facing the inside of the chamber. Then she sat, set the contract aside, and pulled out a writing tablet and drawstick. She glanced at him, that professional smile on her lips.

Straif vowed to turn that smile into something more sultry before she left the room. He wondered if she was trying to make him feel awkward. It wasn't working. He prowled to the twoseat at right angles to the desk, sat, and stretched out his legs. He found himself steepling his fingers as his father had been wont to do in his ResidenceDen. The image brought less pain than it had the night before.

Mitchella leaned forward, her full breasts shifted and caught his focus. She huffed a breath. “GrandLord T'Blackthorn, may I have your attention?”

“Oh, you do. You certainly do.” He didn't bother to mask the huskiness in his voice, the attraction in his gaze. He smiled slowly. “Call me Straif.”

She nibbled her full bottom lip. Another immediate goal entered his mind. He'd taste those lips before she left. “Straif, then. I need to ask you a very important question.”

Six

Straif met Mitchella's gaze. “Yes, what is your very im
portant question?” He wished it would have something to do with them and sex, but figured she'd stay on the painful topic of his Residence.

“You're very sure that you don't want to restore the rooms of the Residence as they were. You wish everything to be different—to follow your own taste?”

Just as he'd thought, nothing about exploring each other intimately. Her question
was
tough. He should think about it, but he didn't want to. He never wanted to see some rooms as they once were.

“I want it changed.” His voice was even rougher. “Especially the ResidenceDen, my sister's rooms. I never want to see the ballroom as it is or was again.”

Mitchella exuded sympathy, as if she'd thrown a soft, warm cloak around him. He liked the feeling. Concentrate on her instead of his raw memories. Think of the last septhour, how they'd walked the Residence together and it hadn't been as bad as he'd dreaded.

Yes, they'd collaborate well—and be fiery in bed.

“Then I won't consult the ResidenceDen records,” she said. “We can start from the ground up, literally.”

She made a note on the papyrus tablet. “Most of the furniture needs only to be cleaned or have minor repairs, then you can choose which to use and which to store.”

That sounded like another in-depth tour. It wasn't something he'd subject himself to. He sat up straight. “I don't want the ResidenceDen, the Master- or MistrysSuite, my sister's rooms or my old Heir'sSuite to remain the same in any way. As for the ballroom—” he sucked in a deep breath “—I will not step into that room. I'm not sure I want it to remain one room.” He waved a hand. “Consider alternatives.”

Mitchella decided to find out what had happened in the ballroom as soon as possible. She tapped the drawstick on the papyrus. “GrandLord—Straif, why don't we work this way, I'll oversee the cleaning and refurbishing of your Family's possessions in those chambers, make an inventory, and arrange the items to be stored. Then I'll work up a proposal for each room for us to discuss and present you with holomodels. Does this sound acceptable to you?”

Straif thought a moment. “Yes.”

She nodded. “Very well.”

“Ahem,” said the Residence, in general audio mode.

Mitchella jerked a little.

Straif thought it was good that the Residence went audio. Mitchella was someone else for it to talk to. He was feeling surly to his home, and Lady and Lord knew that Drina was only interested in topics that related directly to her.

Shaking her head, Mitchella laughed a little. “I'm not used to being addressed by Residences. Please feel free to advise me—”

“Wait.” Straif lifted a hand. “The Residence can advise, but I don't want you making any changes based solely on its notions. All the final decisions are mine.”

Her manner cooled before his eyes. “Of course. As you wish,” she said.

“Residence?” Straif asked.

“I need more energy from you.”

“I hear you. We'll discuss this later.”

“Fam Drina is now in the Heir'sSuite playroom, demanding a better cleaning. I will need Flair to institute a complete molecular cleaning of that room and the MasterSuite,” said the Residence.

“I don't want the MasterSuite—”

“Straif,” Mitchella said softly, rising and crossing the room to stand in front of him. He took her hand, keeping his fingers entwined with hers, and looked up into her deep green eyes. “Yes, Mitchella?”

She inhaled, and her magnificent breasts rose. A beam of sunlight lit her hair and highlighted the red of her lips. He felt better already.

“Everyone with any sensitivity knows that this will be difficult for you—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Not to mention what it will cost you in energy and Flair. I'll do everything possible to make your Residence a home for you.”

Her words comforted him. More, her concerned expression, the way her body leaned forward in sympathy. Her very presence soothed him—the soft, beautiful curves of a civilized woman, her pale skin and big green eyes.

As the silence grew he found that though being with her calmed his raw feelings, it aroused in him something else.
Attraction, lust
weren't the right words. Something about her stirred his deepest self.

Using the skill of a hunter on the track of a wary animal, he stood slowly, so he was a hand's breadth from her. One large breath of hers would brush her magnificent breasts against his chest. Sparks of passion sizzled through his blood, concentrated below his belt.

She didn't back away, but her eyes narrowed.

He curved his hands around her face, and the softness of her skin against his calloused palms was so sweet it closed his throat. He bent his head, not much, for she was a tall woman, a woman who'd match him.

His lips brushed hers, and they, too, were soft. Pliant, rich, tempting beyond measure. A groan of appreciation tore from him. He needed more. He needed all. But she was a woman who deserved the best he could give—tenderness, respect, not rough and wild passion.

Not yet.

His fingers plunged into the lushness of her hair, the silken glide of it over his hands was rich beyond belief. It glinted a hundred shades of red in the sun, and he was nearly dazzled enough to forget his intention to kiss her. Nearly.

His lips slid across hers once more, and the scent of her, floral and earthy—and womanly—spun in his head until he had to taste her or die. Gently, gently, he swept his tongue across her lips, and the unique flavor of her flashed through him until he shuddered.

She wasn't responding. She stayed still under his hands, his mouth, but did not yield. Did not participate. He groaned again, in despair. This woman was everything he'd missed for so long in his self-imposed banishment. Yet he dared not touch her roughly. He dared not lose her.

He could only court her, ignore the wild clamoring of his blood to take and ravish and forget everything of himself in her. He
would not
be rough. He nibbled at the corner of her mouth, once again tasted her.

And her breasts touched his chest, withdrew, brushed him again. Her mouth opened, panting.

Yes!

He wanted to yank her to him, feel all of her against him. Instead he thrust his tongue into the dark, damp hollow of her mouth, learned her taste that sank deep into the core of him.

Her tongue slid against his, then she was against him, her arms wrapped tight around him, so he felt enveloped by sheer femininity. Her body pressed against his, her hands set against his head for a kiss—a kiss so deep he thought he'd perish.

All thought fled. All control. His hands went to her lush bottom and squeezed, hauled her close so he could feel the soft warmth of her stomach against his erection.

Her long leg slid up along his, and he shuddered with desire. She hooked her thigh over his hip and pressed herself against him, and the hot, damp softness between her thighs was rubbing his arousal, and his head exploded with pleasure, and he took her mouth, plunging his tongue in and out, and he kneaded her bottom, and she slid her breasts against his chest, and they toppled and fell onto something soft and dusty, and her fingernails dug into his back, adding a sweet tang of pain to the pleasure, and his hands pushed up her tunic, and his fingers curled over the top of her trous, and he felt the pliant flesh of her stomach and—

What are you doing to My pillow!
Drina screeched.
It is time for lunch, too.

Mitchella shot off him. He didn't know how she untangled herself so quickly. He reached, but she was beyond his grasp.

She stared down at him. Her tunic fell over her trous, and she looked well-clothed, but her fiery hair tumbled around her shoulders, bright in the sun. Her bosom rose and fell. Her face was flushed, her eyes luminous—with shock and anger.

Straif opened his mouth, but his mind wasn't working and he had nothing to say. He was wrecked, angled half off the twoseat, only conscious of the throbbing of his body. The agonizing cold of being alone. The sunbeam didn't reach where he lay.

Drina hopped up to the arm of the twoseat and stared down at him. She looked upside down.

Straif was sure he'd never be the same.

Mitchella stalked over to the desk. He could only glimpse the movement of her bottom beneath her clothes. His senses clouded.

Drina jumped onto his chest. His breath whooshed out. He sat up, and she fell to land four-footed on the floor. She glared at him.

Papyrus rustled as Mitchella stacked them together, inserted them into her carrycase along with an audio note flexistrip. With deliberate movements, she set imaging spheres inside, too. Then she walked over to the twoseat, still keeping her distance from him, and whisked Drina's pillow off the couch. With a small shake and a Word from Mitchella, the pillow plumped, the golden tassels smoothed. The pillow looked better than it had when he'd gotten it from the Hollys.