[Montacroix Royal Family Series 01] - Guarded Moments (21 page)

"Marriage," he mused aloud. "Let's see. First of all, I'd live in the country."

"Not the city?"

"The city's no place to bring up kids."

"Then you do want children?"

He looked over at her sharply. "I thought this was a hypothetical question."

"It is," she said quickly. "So, if you were to get married, which you do not intend to do, you would want a home in the country with children."

"And a dog for the kids. None of those fancy little fuzzy toy things that spend all their time in dog beauty parlors. A real dog—an Irish setter or a golden retriever. Maybe a German shepherd."

"It sounds as if you'd need a very large house."

At the mention of houses, Chantal experienced a stab of guilt at the thought of Blair's lovely home. Fortunately, only the upstairs had suffered extensive damage, and with the help of the original blueprints, Blair and David intended to restore the house to its original glory. Chantal had talked to her friend only this morning, and although Blair had waxed enthusiastic about having a new project to embark on, she could not disguise the sadness in her voice. Immediately upon hanging up, Chantal had telephoned Burke in Montacroix, asking him to arrange for an unlimited line of credit with a prominent Philadelphia antique dealer.

"It should be roomy," Caine agreed. "Although nothing like what you're accustomed to. And it'd be white, with a wide front porch for watching your neighbors, rose bushes in the front yard and a big tree in the back for a swing."

"And what of your wife? What would she do with her days while you are out being a hero?"

He considered her question for a long moment. "She could work outside the home," he decided. "So long as it didn't interfere with her family duties."

" 'Family duties'? Cooking, cleaning?"

"Hell, no, we'd all pitch in with that household stuff. No, I was talking about the important part of a marriage. Loving me. And letting me love her."

Chantal drew in a breath. "It sounds wonderful."

Caine laughed, obviously embarrassed that he'd permitted a rare glimpse of his innermost thoughts. "It's not bad," he agreed. "For a hypothetical."

"For a hypothetical," she agreed quietly.

"One more thing."

"Yes?"

"It'd be a decided plus if she could darn my socks."

"I think it's a good thing you aren't really looking for a wife, Caine. That sort of thing went out with covered wagons."

"What are you talking about? I'll have you know, my mother used to darn my socks."

"Then why don't you simply send your holey socks to your mother?"

He grinned. "She gave it up the summer I turned twelve. I seem to recall her saying something about having always hated the job and me being old enough to take care of my own clothes."

Chantal laughed. "Your mother sounds like a very wise woman."

"The best," Caine agreed.

A comfortable silence settled over them.

"I had a wonderful time tonight, even if I couldn't understand all the logistics of the play," Chantal said after a time. "Thank you for taking me."

It had begun to rain in the bottom of the eighth inning, the moisture cooling the evening temperatures. The woodsy scent of oakmoss and sandalwood bloomed enticingly in the warmth of the car heater. Had it not been for Drew sitting in the front seat, Caine would have taken her into his arms and satisfied the hunger that had been escalating more and more with each succeeding inning.

Instead, he tugged lightly on the ends of her dark hair. "It was my pleasure," he said simply, meaning every word.

Denver also proved a city of contrasts. Having always thought of Colorado as a state consisting solely of rugged, snowcapped mountains, Chantal was surprised to discover that the mile-high city appeared to be situated on land as flat as a tabletop. To the east, rolling plains that seemed to go on forever gave the city an aura of isolation. To the west, the Rocky Mountains gave the city its mystery and brought to mind the gold and silver mining camps that had contributed to Denver's wealth.

She found the city's pioneer legacy strongly evident at the Museum of Western Art, which among action classics by Charles Russell and Frederic Remington, boasted pieces from the famed Taos school. For those who might tire of so many horses, the Denver Art Museum, where Chantal's exhibit was displayed, boasted one of the best contemporary collections in the United States.

"This is an amazing country," she said over a buffalo steak dinner at a restaurant founded by one of Buffalo Bill's scouts. She'd just finished making certain that the paintings were properly recrated and on their way to the state of Washington, where they would be on exhibit at the Seattle Art Museum Pavilion.

"I've always thought so," Caine agreed.

"It's so large. And the diversity is dizzying." She glanced around the dining room. An astonishing herd of animal trophies—bison, elk, caribou, moose—gazed unblinkingly down from the wall.

"I imagine Montacroix is more homogeneous."

"Vastly so. But, of course, it's a very small principality. And most of its citizens share the same roots." She grew pensive, pushing her home fried potatoes around on her plate. "Some people might find such similarity comforting."

"While you, on the other hand, find it stifling," Caine guessed.

"A bit," Chantal admitted on a soft little sigh. "Although I don't want you to think that I don't love my country. It's just that lately, as I've begun to expand my painting, I've also found myself wishing for more…" She paused, seeking the proper English word for her feeling. "Space."

"Elbowroom."

"Excuse me?"

"Have you ever heard of Davy Crockett?"

"Of course. He is an old American hero, is he not? The man who wore the cap made from raccoon skins?"

"That's him. Anyway, old Davy wasn't much for civilization. Professing the need for elbowroom, he kept moving farther and farther into the Tennessee wilds."

"Elbowroom," Chantal murmured, pondering the term for a long, drawn-out moment. "I like it," she decided. "And you're right, that's exactly how I feel." She gave him a warm, appreciative glance. "Perhaps it is my American half who feels the need for this elbowroom."

"Perhaps. But it's the Montacroix princess who'll return home after the tour."

His words of warning had the effect of tossing cold water on what had been a vastly enjoyable day. The people of Denver had expressed appreciation of the works she'd brought to America with her, and she'd raised a great deal of money for the children, which was, of course, the important thing, she reminded herself.

"Are you angry with me?" she asked.

"Of course not."

"You seem cross."

"I was just worrying about making it through the next few days without any additional surprises," he said, not quite truthfully. "If I was short with you, I apologize. It doesn't have anything to do with us." His abrupt tone signaled that he considered the matter closed.

Well, at least he was admitting that there was an
us
, Chantal mused on the way back to yet another hotel. Although she'd been booked into the largest suites in the finest hotels in each city, they'd begun to blur together in her mind. Only those hours she spent making love with Caine in the king-size beds stood out in riveting detail.

She'd given the matter a great deal of thought, trying to discern why it was that her days, no matter how long or wearying, were brighter with Caine in them, why her heart sang at the mere sight of him and her bones melted at his touch. Why was it that the sound of his laughter, which came more easily with each passing day, possessed the power to thrill her all the way to her toes? And how was it possible to feel more intimacy sharing a box of over-salted popcorn with Caine at a baseball game than she'd ever felt sharing a bed with Greg?

The answer, when it had finally come, in a plane thirty thousand feet over Manhattan, Kansas, had been as simple as it had been frightening. She was in love with him. And although she'd vowed after her marriage that she would never again risk her heart, she knew that there was no point in fighting it. She loved Caine. And she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him.

"I'm becoming quite spoiled," she murmured once they were alone in her room. She was no longer inhibited by the fact that Drew occupied the room next to hers, while in the room across the hall two FBI men kept a watchful vigil.

"Oh?" He didn't resist as she pulled his tie from around his neck and tossed it onto a nearby chair. "In what way?"

Chantal pushed his jacket off his shoulders. "I'm discovering that I can't imagine a life without my own private bodyguard." She was gradually learning not to be disturbed by the shoulder holster and gun he wore constantly outside of the hotel rooms.

Caine shrugged out of the leather holster. He wanted to warn her that she'd better start facing reality, that their time together was rapidly coming to a close. But when she gently nudged him onto the turned down bed and began divesting him of shoes and socks, he decided that once in a while it didn't hurt to simply relax and go with the flow.

"And here we were all sure that you'd balk at the idea of a bodyguard."

For a woman who'd worried about not knowing how to please a man, Chantal had all the instincts of a first-class courtesan, Caine mused. He couldn't remember the last time a woman had massaged his feet. In fact, now that he thought of it, no one ever had.

"You should have given me more credit." Tugging his shirt free of his slacks, she proceeded to undress him with tantalizing slowness. "I know a good thing when I see it." Between each freed button, she pressed her lips against his newly bared skin. "Or taste it."

His shoulders were wide, strong, able to carry heavy burdens. His arms were subtly muscled, offering comfort and protection, as well as passion. His hands were broad, his fingers long and lean and capable of discovering flash points on her body she'd never known existed.

Once she'd freed him of his shirt, her clever fingers moved to the waistband of his navy slacks.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Her smile as she slid the slacks down his legs was positively beguiling. "Why, I'm seducing you, Caine," she murmured, tossing the slacks carelessly onto the chair. They slid to the floor; neither Chantal nor Caine noticed. She ran a ruby-tinted fingernail up the inside of his thigh. "Is it working?"

"You tell me." His arousal, straining against his white cotton briefs, was impossible to ignore. Chantal brushed tantalizing fingers over him, pleased by his resultant tremor.

Stepping away from the bed, she pulled her dress over her head, letting it fall into an emerald silk puddle at her feet. Her lacy ivory bra was next, followed in turn by a pair of lace-banded, thigh-high silk stockings and her shoes. She hitched her thumbs into the top of her outrageously skimpy underpants and slid them slowly down over her hips, never taking her seductive gaze from Caine's face.

The rising passion in her eyes tore at his self-control; needs pounded inside him. "You realize that in the old days you could have been burned at the stake for being a witch," he said, his voice unnaturally husky.

"Don't be silly." Her smile was lascivious as she knelt beside him on the mattress and brushed her lips against his. "They never burned witches in Denver."

Her hands as they traced the contours of his body caused his blood to swim. When she pulled away the briefs in order to lightly brush that part of him aching for her touch, Caine had to grit his teeth. "Sure of that, are you?"

"My tour book mentioned nothing of such practices."

Bending over him, she rained a trail of wet kisses down his chest to his taut, hard stomach, and when her lips grazed his hipbone, Chantal heard Caine's desperate voice call out to her. But she was too fascinated with her quest, too intent on exploring this heady sense of feminine power she'd discovered, to reply.

Her hands fluttered over him like delicate birds, never still as they explored, relishing the hard, lean lines that were so different from her own soft, swelling curves. Her lips pressed lingeringly, warming his flesh, heating his blood, even as she caused her own fires to burn higher.

"Lord, Chantal," Caine muttered as her tongue stroked the straining sinews of his thighs. He reached for her, but she evaded his grasp.

"Too soon," she said as her avid mouth tasted his warm, moist flesh.

Passion flowed over them as she continued to torment and tease. It was an exercise in both devastating pain and dazzling pleasure. Caine wanted Chantal to keep touching him forever; he never wanted her lips to stop skimming over his aching, throbbing body. He wanted to take her now, quickly, before he completely lost his mind. The heat was unbearable; it was exhilarating. Every ragged breath he took was an agony of effort.

Seizing her shoulders, Caine pressed her back against the mattress and surged into her with an intense blaze of passion. Chantal shuddered when he first filled her, then, wrapping her legs around him, she lifted her hips, meeting him thrust for thrust.

Reality dimmed, sanity shattered. When she cried out his name, Caine's body shuddered with release, and he knew that he would remember this moment always.