One With the Shadows (16 page)

He seemed to come to himself. “Yes. Yes, of course.” But his eyes never left her. And they had a look in them she was not used to seeing. It was the same look the young men who wanted private readings once had displayed—as if she was a chocolate torte. But that was before the scar. How could he look at her like that now? She turned her face full on him, so he could see her scar clearly. He didn’t even flinch. The moment stretched. Finally he tore his gaze away and threw open one of the closets. He pulled out a wrapper and flung it over a stool.

“Don’t stay to dress. This will suffice. We have important matters to discuss.”

He was gone, the door slamming behind him. Important matters? She pushed herself out of the bath and was surprised to find herself shaking as she dripped. Well, she could hardly be blamed. It was not every day one saw a statue of male perfection come to life and enter one’s dressing room while one was bathing.

Ten

He was still there. Kate peered out from the cracked door of her dressing room. She heard his restless pacing, and felt the energy humming along her spine at a rate even more unnerving than usual. He heard her too and turned, confronting her as though he was a Christian in the Colosseum and she an entire pack of lions. She took a breath. She had taken as long as she could to dry herself and put on the cerulean blue silk wrapper he’d chosen. But one couldn’t stay locked in one’s dressing room all day.

All her anger at him had disappeared. She should try to find it somehow. It might help the way she felt. And how was that? Unnerved by his presence. And why? She managed to hold her head up as she emerged. Because she wanted him, just like every other woman in the world. And she hated that. “You make very free with a lady’s boudoir.” No doubt he had experience with boudoirs.

He looked her up and down. She might be consumed by that gaze. Could she be mistaking what it meant? She must be. She turned her head, just slightly, to conceal her scar but still observe him. She didn’t want to let him out of her sight for several reasons.

His gaze rested on her feet. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to put on slippers.

“I … I walked too far today.” An admission as lame as she was at the moment.

He glanced around and began to roll up his sleeves. “Sit on the bed,” he ordered. His voice was hoarse and he cleared his throat. He took the green jar from her dressing table.

She should protest. She never took orders. But she didn’t. Perhaps she was distracted by his forearms. They were strong-looking, with a light sprinkling of dark hair. She limped over to the huge bedstead and hoisted herself up on it. “You wanted to … to discuss my plans?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” As though he had forgotten.

“You can have the stone the instant I get my draft.”

He was unstoppering the jar and … kneeling in front of her. She blinked, taken aback.

“That … that will be fine.” He looked up at her, registered her shock, and … smiled at her. No man should have a smile like that. Was he laughing at her reaction to him? That would match his arrogance. But the smile didn’t say that. She wasn’t quite sure what it said, she who was normally so good at reading people. Maybe … reassurance? Hardly. Maybe. But mixed with … she didn’t know. Wonder?

Without another word he took up a glob of cream and rubbed his hands with it.

And then he began to rub her foot with both hands. She shut her eyes against the tremor of feeling that went directly from her foot to her loins. He massaged the cooling cream deeply, daubing extra on the blisters that were forming on the ball of her foot and her heel.

“Better?” That rumble was quintessentially masculine. Her core turned liquid.

She opened her eyes. The muscles moved in his shoulders under his shirt and in his forearms. The kneeling position made his thighs bulge. “Uh … Yes,” she murmured.

He turned his attention to her other foot.

What was she doing here? She was allowing a man in her boudoir to rub her naked feet with his bare hands. And the man was Gian Vincenzo Urbano. The man who had whatever woman he wanted. The man who knew exactly what effect he had on them. And he was having that effect on her. He couldn’t want her. He must just want to use her because there was no one else to hand. She shouldn’t allow that.

The feel of his strong hands massaging her feet was making it difficult to think.

Then out of the muddle came a clear voice in her head.
Why not? Two can play that game. If you want him, you can have him, right here, right now. He’s made that clear. So take what he offers, no matter why he offers it. You’ll not get another chance to be bedded by a statue come to life. Or any man at all for that matter.

He’ll discard me after he’s had his way.

What of it? You’ll have at least one night you would never have had otherwise.

She’d had a dozen men before the last acted as if he might offer her carte blanche and an escape into another life. That had induced Matthew to make certain it could never happen and resulted in her scar. Dalliance with them had been mildly pleasurable. The act itself was merely a moment of grunting and sweating. She had never looked forward to it. But now she thought she might want to feel Gian Urbano grunting and sweating between her thighs. Even the thought of it made her shudder.

He looked up at her again. She turned her head slightly, lest the sight of her scar spoil everything. He rose and took her face between his hands and turned her head. He rubbed his hand over the white spiderweb that laced her cheek. “Nothing I haven’t seen before, Kate. It’s been a long time since I even noticed it.”

She felt the blood rush to her face. He looked so sincere. Oh, he was a devil, this one, a master in the art of making a woman feel she was the only one in the world, cherished, treasured.

It didn’t matter. She wanted to bed him, devil or no. For the next hour, she would pretend he meant what he said. She’d manage her heart tomorrow.

*   *   *

The way she turned her head away nearly broke Gian’s heart. She had been so hurt. No wonder she put on the carapace and pretended that she didn’t care about anyone or anything.

Conflicting emotions churned inside his belly and made his head spin. If she did cling to him after he made love to her, demanding, had he the heart to spurn her? If she didn’t, if she didn’t care for him at all, and just wanted the use of his body like every other woman he had known, could he bear it?

Gian lifted her chin, expecting her to close her eyes. Her dark hair fell in a mass of waves down her back. But her blue eyes stared up at him, examining, expectant, but not of love. She didn’t expect him to love her. Just make love to her. He could smell the musk of her need.

So he would, whether his cock would obey his commands or no. It was doing just fine right now. The damned thing was straining at his breeches. The mere feel of her small feet in his hands had sent a charge down his spine and fueled a full erection. But there was no guarantee it would stay the course. That sent a flutter of fear through him. But fear was a luxury he could not afford if he was to give her what she wanted. And right now, that was paramount. He put down his pride, and the part that was ashamed to let her see his failure. He was going to see this through to her end, whether he reached his own or not.

In some way that thought was freeing. He bent to brush her lips with his. Hers were open slightly. He felt her shiver. He pretended he thought she was cold, and took her full in his arms. Her knees opened and he stood between them. He opened his eyes and found her still looking full in his face. And then he bent again and kissed her, thoroughly, his tongue opening her lips and questing inside her mouth, then retreating in invitation. She took him up on his offer and thrust her own tongue inside his mouth to caress his tongue in turn. This was a bold miss, this one. She reached to hold his head, wanting more. So he gave her more. He crushed her breasts against his chest. His cock was throbbing now. She scooted to the edge of the bed to wrap her thighs around his hips. The silk of the wrapper that matched her eyes split apart. She must feel his cock. It pressed against her woman’s parts, damp against his breeches. How long since he had wanted a woman like he wanted her now? Since long before the wars, he realized. Years? Decades? Centuries? He couldn’t remember.

He pulled away. “This wrapper has more than served its purpose,” he murmured.

She shook her head and clutched at the neckline, askew now, so that it revealed almost all of her ripe breasts. “You first.”

“Very well.” If those were her terms, he’d take them. He’d take almost any terms just now. He leaned against the high bedstead and pulled off his boots. Thank God for the strength of a vampire. He didn’t struggle awkwardly with them as a human male would have. She watched him, knees drawn up under her wrapper again, and her lips pink and swelling with their kisses. He pulled at his cravat and tossed it aside and drew his shirt over his head. Her sharp intake of breath did not escape him.

Bells sounded in cascading ripples across the night as the city’s churches marked nine o’clock. Good. They had the whole night ahead of them. He wondered how many times he could drive her over the edge to orgasm. And then there was the day. He imagined alternately dozing and making love to her inside the shuttered room, in the heat of Tuscan May. He fumbled at the buttons on his breeches. Leisurely pace was for later. Now, he wanted to make love to her. And “now” was the operative word.

“Damn these buttons.” He gave up and ripped the flap of his breeches open. The remaining buttons on each side popped and clattered under the bed.

He stood before her, naked. His cock thrust out straight and bobbing slightly in anticipation. Some seducer. He wanted to thrust it between her delectable thighs and bury it to its hilt while it was still up to the task. That wasn’t right, of course. Not what he intended at all. The opportunistic thing was just confusing him with its insistence.

He stood, hesitating. Her eyes were round. A small smile played over her lips as her gaze roved over his body. She raised her brows in a gesture of helplessness as she chuckled a little, and slid off the bed. She put out a hand. It trembled slightly. She wanted to touch him.

He took a breath. Very well. He was here to please her. He stilled himself. She ran her hands over his chest, her thumbs rubbing his nipples. Venus and Bacchus himself! The sensation made them clench and peak. Her hands moved over his shoulders, caressing the place between the muscles in his upper arm, then back up, over his shoulder blades and around to his belly, over the ridges there and down, down to his hips. His cock still bobbed between them. She hadn’t touched it, though it was screaming to be touched. She stepped around behind him, the silk of her wrapper shushing against his thighs. She cupped his buttocks, slid one finger along between them, gently, then pressed herself against him and ran her hands back around his chest. Her breasts pressed against his back through the wrapper. He could feel their peaks. Now both her hands ran down his belly and through the hair at his groin and then, gently, lightly, over the length of his cock. He couldn’t help the moan that escaped him. More. He wanted more of that.

“Your cock is beautiful,” she murmured.

“Where … where did a girl like you learn that word?” It was shocking on her lips.

“The streets. It’s an Anglo-Saxon word. I know them all. Do you want to hear them?”

He smiled. “Not unless you want to say them.” She had known coarseness in her life, and yet she transformed that coarseness into some new substance that wasn’t coarse at all through the alchemy of her strength and her resilience.

But she was cupping his stones, lifting them, though they were tight and high with need already. The sound he made this time was a growl, not a moan. Enough!

He turned into her and swept her up in his arms. He laid her on the bed and climbed up after her, breathing hard. He laid himself along her length. His cock throbbed against her thigh. There was time enough for mouth and tongue yet tonight. But first … “If you’ve no objection, I’d like to make use of this erection before it fails me.”

“Fails you?” Her brows drew together.

Not what he’d wanted to admit, but he wasn’t thinking clearly. “Your reading of the cards, remember? About that you were right. Impotence.”

“A temporary condition, if I recall.” She smiled in reassurance. “It seems to have passed.” She had the strength of character to reassure him even when she was uncertain herself.

“All this dawdling might tempt fate.” He was surprised to find he could hardly get the words out around the lump in his throat.

“By all means, then.” She spread her knees. That made Gian stop and think, through the haze of lust that throbbed up from his groin. She had done this before all right, and she expected him to just thrust himself inside her and start pumping.

He did not want to give in to that expectation, no matter his need. He gritted his teeth and gently pulled at the tie that held her wrapper. The blue silk slid aside. She was as beautiful as he had known she would be. She had full breasts with rosy nipples, their peaks just now erect and sensitive. Her waist was slender. He had guessed as much. The full hips had been concealed by her dresses though. They were a delightful surprise. She was voluptuous without being coarse in the least. In fact, the fine texture of her skin cried out to be touched. He cupped a breast and bent his mouth to her nipple. She gasped in surprise, and then, as he dedicated himself to his task, she arched and moaned. That was better. That was what she deserved. He gave the other breast the same treatment. She was writhing under his mouth now.

“How … how do you do that?” she gasped.

He propped himself on his elbows. “Do what?”

“Cause all that … sensation?” She arched again, encouraging him.

Had the men who had bedded her been
that
paltry or inept? “Has no one ever done that to you before?”

She shook her head. Her hair was a dark fan on the midnight blue and gold brocade of the duvet cover. “But I … I’m not a virgin. Does that matter?”