How To Host a Seduction (14 page)

Ellen declined, and Christopher said, “She'll share mine.”

With a polite nod, the waiter moved on.

“Were those the clues I think they were?” Ellen whispered.

He speared a small bite of the dessert on to his spoon. “But what was he telling us, besides the fact the captain doted on his sister?”

She eyed the spoon with a wary frown. “I'm stuffed. I was hoping the caffeine would revive me.”

“Sugar will help.”

He'd been hoping to feed her himself, but wasn't surprised when she plucked the spoon from his grasp. She brought it to her lips just as Josh and Lennon took their turn in the hot seat.

The other couples had yielded a gold mine of information in comparison to the Eastmans. Together, Lennon and Josh managed to reveal next to nothing about the family whose land bordered Félicie Allée except that they hadn't been happy to become the Lafevers' neighbors.

“Who were they?” Christopher asked.

“We don't know any more than that they were an influential New Orleans family who also kept a mansion in the city.”

He and Ellen tried to be equally evasive when they took their turn.

“We've discovered that the captain's mother went by the nickname Allie,” Ellen explained. “So we're speculating that he named the plantation after her. Félicie Allée. We're not sure of the translation, since neither of us remembers much from high school French class.”

“There's always significance to the names in my books,” Lennon said.

Tracy and Susanna both agreed, which began a rousing dialogue about the translation of Félicie Allée and neatly directed the questions along this vein. Of course, no one else remembered much from French class, either, except to guess that
félicie
sounded like a variation of
happy.
The conversation ultimately wound around to Lennon, whose mother currently made her home in Monte Carlo and spoke the language fluently.

She agreed to make a call for an accurate translation, but as her mother was out, she wound up leaving a message.

The night was getting on and even Christopher had be
gun feeling the effects of their largely sleepless night. “Tired?”

“A bit.” Ellen set the cup back onto its saucer.

A dab of foam remained on the corner of her lip and he smudged the fleck away with his thumb, resisting the urge to trace her pouty lower lip.

But his one small touch introduced an intimacy to the moment that Ellen clearly hadn't expected. Her gaze darted around the table to see if anyone had noticed, and the relief he saw in her expression was way out of balance with what he'd perceived as a very casual gesture.

In the blink of an eye, it was over. She dabbed at her lip with a napkin, her profile set in creamy lines, her expression so schooled he might have imagined her reaction.

He hadn't.

Her upbringing had conditioned her to keep up appearances. Christopher understood that. He also understood that she felt compelled to maintain her professionalism with Susanna and Tracy during this event. But her response had been so automatic, so reflexive that he couldn't help but wonder why someone familiar with the spotlight would be so unsure of herself.

It was a question that needed an answer. Part of his initial attraction to Ellen had been the challenge of slipping past her barriers to get to know the real woman. The more progress he made, the more fascinating he found her. He had gotten to know the intelligent woman beneath that polished veneer and had fallen in love.

But he had already learned the hard way that love didn't give him an advantage. Nor would simply asking the question yield a straight answer.

Which meant Christopher had some sleuthing of his own to do.

The Garden Suite

E
LLEN DEPARTED THE BATHROOM
with what felt like great ceremony. Hair combed. Face scrubbed. Teeth minty fresh. Her attire…well, her choices had been a comfortable but unsexy cotton shorts set or another Toni Maxwell original. She'd gone with the Toni Maxwell, which meant she was practically naked. Whatever body parts were covered could still be seen through the transparent eggshell lace.

Just perfect for climbing into Mr.
Not-the-One
's bed.

Ellen hung the red satin gown back in the closet, placed the low-heeled shoes in the rack. Christopher was nowhere to be seen, which meant he was either outside enjoying the sultry bayou night or in the sitting room poring over their notes. Either way, she appreciated the privacy. A chance to make peace with this course and rally her determination to see it through.

Which meant climbing into that bed, knowing she wouldn't climb back out again until dawn. It was one thing to share a suite and flirt with Christopher all day long, but sharing a bed represented an intimacy and permanence that she didn't want to think about.

As far as beds went, this was a perfectly good one. Given last night's sexy surprises, she understandably hadn't fully appreciated it. The antique tester had carved posts with sheer side curtains draped softly to match the
white comforter. A special bed that had been crafted for a pirate hero long ago and had endured the test of time. A bed worthy of laying aside her hard-and-fast relationship rule.

Pulling down the comforter, Ellen climbed the matching rosewood steps and slipped between the sheets with what also felt like great ceremony. She propped the pillows behind her. Flipped on the bedside lamp. Retrieved the notebook and pen from the night table. Inhaled deeply.

There, she was all set.

Let the night begin.

Almost as if he'd been waiting for his cue to enter, Christopher strolled in from the courtyard, stopping short in the doorway when he saw her.

The moment took on a strangely surreal quality as his gaze cut the distance between them, taking in everything in a glance.

“You're amused,” she said. Not a question.

“I'm honored.”

“You don't have to seduce me into another coma to get me to sleep with you. I agreed to be your partner and I'll live up to my end of the deal.”

Christopher inclined his head slowly, and she could tell by the slight narrowing of his eyes that he was considering her statement, looking at all the angles. “I see.”

And something about his calmly voiced statement suggested he did. Right through her. Ellen might look composed. She might sound composed. But that didn't change the fact that when Christopher stared at her with that lightning gaze, her insides melted into a giant puddle of conflicting emotions and sensations.

He didn't utter another word, just crossed the room, unbuttoning his shirt as he headed toward the closet.

Ellen flipped open the notebook, stared down at the
notes she'd taken earlier. With sheer stubborn will she focused on the words, kept her gaze averted from the sight of him stripping off his shirt in an eye-catching display of bunching muscle.

She managed to focus, which was a feat in itself, but she wasn't comprehending a thing she read. How could she, when he shifted his hips around to slide his slacks over a certain
protruding
body part and down those long, strong legs? How could she be expected to concentrate on anything other than the sight of him standing there in briefs that molded his butt to white cotton perfection?

She snapped the notebook shut.

Glancing up, Christopher caught her folding her hands primly on the cover. He arched a dark brow as if to ask “Is there a problem?”

“I'd rather enjoy the show.”

Not looking the least bit chagrined, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband in a confident move designed to make the show worth her while. Sliding the briefs down his hips, he exposed a male body part that appeared to be enjoying his audience. That very same part bobbled suggestively as he shimmied the briefs down his legs and kicked them off his feet.

Ellen admired the display with a casual expression that felt frozen onto her face—another huge feat given the way her breath was suddenly skittering through her windpipe.

On the upside, she had a moment to catch her breath when he disappeared into the bathroom. She heard running water before he reappeared, only to disappear again, this time into the sitting room. Then he returned with the remainder of their mystery gear.

On a not-so-upside, Ellen's breathing troubles resumed in force when Christopher hopped onto the bed, lying full-length beside her, comfortable with his nudity in a way
that was so uniquely male. His skin, though not tanned, seemed striking against the white comforter, a display of sculpted muscle that could have been at home in any museum for its sheer masculine grace.

He propped himself up on an elbow, and Ellen noticed that his face was damp. She'd be willing to bet if he leaned close enough she'd catch a whiff of breath as minty fresh as hers.

Well, here they were, all ready to start their night.

Her heartbeat did a ridiculous little hop-skip. She cleared her throat. “Listen, Christopher. I want to say something about what happened this afternoon in the library.”

The dimples faded. “I was out of line. I'm sorry.”

There was something so earnest in his expression, something so gallant about him accepting all the responsibility when she'd been the one in the wrong, that her heart gave another queer twist. “
I'm
sorry. I overreacted.”

His eyes widened just enough to let her know her admission surprised him, a reaction that rankled. But could she honestly expect him to respond any differently? Opening up and sharing her feelings wasn't one of her strengths—not with Christopher. Not with anyone, if she were truthful.

And the moment demanded she be truthful. With only a few inches of comforter between them and a night together looming before them, watching Christopher play the hero demanded she be equally honest, and gallant.

“What you suggested wasn't so outrageous. Definitely not worthy of a subculture Web site.” At his frown, she had to take a deep breath to get the rest of the words out.

“It wasn't really about you. I sometimes…talk myself out of doing things because I worry about the consequences.”

For one bizarre instant, her admission hung in the air between them, leaving her exposed. It was a strange feeling, one that reminded her why she chose to avoid it whenever possible. Fortunately Ellen only had to endure a split second of waiting, of feeling
vulnerable,
before Christopher reacted.

With insight she'd have expected from a hero in a book rather than a real-live man in the flesh, he understood that she wouldn't welcome questions or comments. He simply slipped warm fingers over hers where she held them clasped on the notebook cover. It was the perfect reply.

Awareness sizzled through her like the beams from the bayou sun, filtered through her slowly, emphasizing the intensity of his gaze, the richness of the silence between them.

“I didn't want to get caught, either, love. I got carried away. You have that effect on me.”

Another easy, honest admission. She marveled that he didn't look as though he felt remotely exposed or vulnerable. And even though she did, Ellen couldn't help notice that his strong grip on her hand made the feeling tolerable.

She wasn't sure what else to say—what
could
she possibly say? She'd charged him with being a daredevil when he'd simply been as caught up in the moment as she'd been. After spreading her legs and allowing him to bring her to orgasm, who was she to fault him for wanting to do the same?

That question invited a few others—hard questions, and necessary questions. Like why had she freaked? Gotten angry?

The only answer she could come up with was that Christopher pushed her past her comfort zone, introduced risks that conflicted with the way she chose to conduct her life.

Risks that made her question whether she wanted to continue conducting her life business as usual.

A
really
hard question.

Following Christopher's lead, she squeezed his hand.

He squeezed back.

And then he simply slipped out the notebook, flipped it open and moved them on to the work ahead. “So what have we got?”

“A lot of information to pull together.”

“Brainstorming sounds like our best bet.”

Ellen nodded. “I'll sort through our notes and you make the lists, or vice versa?”

“I'd rather sort. I think better on my feet.”

Ellen didn't point out that he was lying down, stretched out in such a gorgeous display of nudity that her mouth was dry. “Works for me. I think better on paper.”

“What a team.”

That was the bloody irony of it. But she didn't say that to him, just smiled, and was soon occupied with recording his swift recap of the day's discoveries.

And so on… Ellen's hand rarely paused in her efforts, as Christopher flipped through the notebook, summarizing passages in his hint-of-the-Deep-South voice, a voice that seemed fashioned to complement the wild bayou night deepening beyond the French doors. A voice designed to sound just right when two people were lying in bed, one
nude, the other practically nude, talking in hushed whispers.

Nudity aside, Ellen caught glimpses of what Christopher must look like at work—intense, focused and so confident in his manner and presentation, the gears working in his sharp mind before he opened his mouth to speak a word.

A high-powered individual, he was a man comfortable with responsibility and action, as comfortable working in his upscale Manhattan office wearing a several-thousand-dollar custom-made business suit as he was lying naked in a bed.

And he was a natural leader, she realized suddenly, because he'd convinced her that bed was the perfect place to work, too.
She,
who was so very private and particular about what she did in a bed. Beds were reserved for sleeping, or reading manuscripts before falling asleep, or for making love to a man she had no intention of sleeping with.

Yet here she was working side-by-side with the one man who'd driven her crazy since the moment they'd met. Comfortably, companionably, as if working with him anywhere was perfectly normal. Christopher had promised to prove they were compatible, and if he'd meant to convince her they made a great team in and out of bed, he was succeeding.

The thought brought to mind Susanna—pull-no-punches Susanna!—who'd been drooling over Olaf tonight. Ellen thought about how she must feel facing an empty house for the first time in so many years. Perhaps similar to the way Ellen felt arriving home late to her quiet apartment, where no one ever noticed whether she was late or on time. Except for her cat, who never commented.

Alone. A feeling she knew intimately.

How would Susanna, who was barely forty, successful
and deserving of someone special in her life, make the transition? Ellen hoped she wasn't so rattled by the idea of being alone that she'd chase after the first guy who happened down the pike.

Not that there was anything wrong with Olaf. He was an absolute doll. Not conventional romance-hero material, true, but very striking with his ethnic features and grizzly-bear size. Could he be
the one
for Susanna? Ellen didn't have a clue.

And that was also a feeling she was well acquainted with.

“I'm just not seeing the significance of this newspaper article,” he said, dragging Ellen from her introspection and making her realize she'd missed whatever he'd been saying. “The only thing this newspaper article tells me is that the Lafevers weren't present at a Mardi Gras ball that other influential society people attended.”

The Lafevers weren't present at the Mardi Gras ball.
She scribbled into the notebook, then stared at the words, barely able to read her writing…but something about what she saw was enough to jolt her thoughts back into gear.

The Lafevers weren't present at the Mardi Gras ball.

“Why weren't they at the ball?” she asked, drawing Christopher's gaze. “Look at the date on the newspaper. The captain's sister would certainly have been old enough to attend. About the only thing Josh told us tonight was that Brigitte was a pupil in the same young ladies finishing academy as all those other families the column mentions. Doesn't it strike you as odd that she wouldn't be at the biggest ball of the season?”

Christopher only nodded, apparently recognizing she was on a roll and encouraging her to follow the thread.

“We need to think this through. The captain brought Brigitte to New Orleans. This is significant, so we need to
know why. For some reason he felt it was important to expose her to society. To have her educated at the same exclusive young ladies academy other influential socialites attended.”

Pausing, she collected her thoughts. “Okay, we've got to remember this was the early eighteen hundreds. There might have been a dozen of these schools around the country, and only for the very wealthy. So why would the captain relocate his business and spend a fortune to educate his sister?”

“Obvious. Dispossessed or not, the man was still a nobleman. He would have had certain expectations for his sister's situation and would have provided her with the means to live that type of life. It was his obligation.”

“Makes sense. Especially given he was so much older than she was. He'd been her guardian most of his adult life. At his age, he'd be looking to secure her future, which would mean—”