R Is for Rebel (11 page)

“It probably rankles because there's a hint of truth. Isn't that always the way?”

“No.”

Abigail reached for her water glass, but held it up near her face without actually taking a drink. She lowered her voice a bit so only he could hear. “And stop looking at me like I'm the only person in the room.”

“How else should I look at you?”

“See?” She took a sip of water and put the glass back on the table, taking care not to let her slightly trembling hand knock into any of the myriad other glasses. “All of this badinage is second nature to you. I can barely concentrate with six conversations going on simultaneously, yet you sit there and it's like you are in a soundproof box.”

He gave her a deadly smile. “I have very highly developed powers of concentration. I tend to become immersed.”

“Really?” she prompted.

“Hence the so-called meteoric rise through the luxury goods market,” he continued more casually. “My first boss thought I was trying to usurp him, which I suppose in the end I did, but it wasn't what I set out to do. I have an insatiable appetite for information.” He shrugged. “I probably should have been a detective.” He looked away for a moment as if he were really considering it as a possible career change. “But I would miss all the wine and women,” Eliot added as he raised his glass in a tiny salute, holding her eyes as the stunning 1995 white Burgundy slid down his throat.

As dinner drew to a close, Abigail was starting to fret about the logistics of hiving off with Eliot without making too much of a spectacle of herself. That was quickly overtaken by her more pressing concern about what she and Eliot might actually get up to in a luxurious Parisian hotel room. Her heart set to hammering in a most disconcerting fashion. The matter of the bill was settled—Eliot had quietly given his credit card to the maître d' before they'd even been seated—and the party started to break up. The Cranbrooks were staying with Jack Parnell at his house near the Bois de Boulogne. The three of them were headed out to Normandy the following morning for a few days of sightseeing, then Eliot's parents were continuing on to Geneva to meet up with Eliot the following weekend.

Jack gave the duchess his personal card, handing it to her while making a subtle, genteel bow that lent the whole exchange an odd mix of Japanese formality and boyish tenderness.

“Stop staring, Abigail!” Eliot whispered hotly in her ear.

“I'm not!” But her gaze never left her mother and Jack. “They're adorable and I've never had the opportunity to see my mother being courted. She's got a lot of humanity to catch up on. Trust me, I'm not exaggerating.”

“Anyone fancy an after-dinner drink?” Eliot offered in a louder voice. Abigail's heart sank a little at the idea that he was postponing being alone with her, until she realized he had lobbed the invitation to the noisy bar knowing full well that the older four were never going to accept, and thus all parted ways in a perfectly natural fashion.

Abigail walked her mother to the elevator bank while Eliot escorted his parents and uncle out to the street to get a cab.

“Thanks for the introductions, Eliot,” Jack Parnell said with a grateful wink as he got into the cab.

Will Cranbrook shook his son's hand and said he was looking forward to spending time together the following weekend in Geneva. Eliot agreed.

Penny Cranbrook was hanging back a few steps, and Eliot knew she had something to say once the two men were safely out of earshot. Eliot turned to face her with his best what-me-worry? smile. “Yes?”

“She's very young, Eliot. Have a care.”

He hugged his mother with deep affection. “I think I may already have more than a care, but I'll try. And she's not
that
young. I think she can take care of herself.”

His mother smiled and put her hand on his cheek. “I'm not worried about Abigail Heyworth. Looking after
you
is my job, remember?”

“No it isn't. You're retired,
remember
?”

“Oh, Eliot.”

“I'll be fine, Mom. You're good to go.” He helped her into the taxi, then shut the door.

He reentered the hotel with the feeling that he had been waiting not just weeks or months, but years to be truly alone with Abigail Heyworth. Her mother must have just entered the elevator and Abigail had turned back toward the main lobby to join him, but he closed the distance and grabbed her small frame up and lifted her clear off the ground, swinging her in a quick circle. He kissed a tender part of her neck that stole the laughter from her.

He set her back down and stared into her eyes, his hands still circling her waist.

“Well, that settles that,” she said with a short laugh.

“What's that?”

“Whether there would be any strange alone-with-Eliot awkwardness once everyone left.” Her smile was mocking, but her silvery gray eyes held a hint of anxiety.

“Do you want that drink after all?” he asked, pulling her waist closer to his. “Just to take the edge off.”

She gasped and smiled at the pressure of his hips against hers. “I seem to have lost the desire to take the edge off. I think I might like the edge on.”

“Atta girl.” He kept one hand on her hip and reached around to jab the elevator button with his other. “Up, up, and away we go.”

There were a few seconds of silence as the elevator returned from a higher floor. Abigail whispered, “Maybe I am a little nervous after all… I don't know, Eliot…”

“Oh, no, you don't! This is not a clichéd beach in the Caribbean, or a creaking bed in Iowa. This is Paris! Lights. Lovers. Sophisticates. Surrealists.
Lovers
.” The elevator dinged a cheerful prod. “Your chariot, my lady.”

Abigail let herself be led into the elevator, feeling her anxiety rising. Too much thinking. It was just Eliot, after all. But it was Eliot! She needed to think—As the doors slid shut, Eliot pushed her hard into the corner of the empty elevator, caging her in his arms, one knee between her thighs, and began kissing her with such delicious pressure: desire, tenderness, fire, caution, invitation. The skin on the back of her arms was prickling with anticipation. His hands were everywhere, along her hips, at the underside of her breast, dipping to the back of one knee, her wrists.

“What floor are you on?” she mumbled between nips at his earlobe. He pressed the button for his floor and she belatedly realized that the elevator had not even been moving when they'd been kissing.

She had assumed… she was certain she had felt it moving… then he was kissing her again and she was responding in ways she didn't even recognize. Her tongue began to battle his. The sound of his aroused moan in response made her feel powerful, joyful. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to kiss him and laugh.

“What is so funny?” he asked, holding her cheeks in the palms of his hands. Her face was a glowing, glorious thing to behold. Her eyes were shimmering with anticipatory delight; her lips were plump and moist from kissing; her skin was flushed, hot to the touch of his thumb's light caress.

“I want to laugh from sheer joy. It's not funny in that way, I suppose”—she shook her head a bit to gather her thoughts—“but I just felt this joy sort of bubbling up and out.” She reached her hands up to his face then, just wanting to feel the strength of his jaw, the texture of his slight beard. Her head was tilted to one side slightly, examining Eliot like a specimen, which to her mind, he sort of was. Male.

Eliot let his thumb trail across that plump lower lip then turned when the elevator doors dinged and opened at his floor. Her hands fell away from his face and he guided her out into the hall. He kept at least one hand on her the whole time, grabbed his room key out of his pocket, opened the door, hit the light switch, and always one firm hand was at her hip or her lower back or her ribs or her forearm.

Abigail slipped away from Eliot enough to get her bearings in the room. Warm chocolate brown velvets, earthy Provençal linens, luxurious pale gray silk curtains that pooled in a sumptuous pile at the floor in front of the three sets of French doors that led out to a small balcony. She half-walked, half-floated across the room, drawn to the brilliant lights outside the windows, sparkling like little gems reflecting in the crisp night. She opened one of the doors and stepped out onto the narrow balcony. The cold air was a welcome change from the recycled air that always made Abigail feel trapped in some sort of science experiment.

Controlled environments. Fixed results. An absence of the natural order.

She could hear Eliot's movements behind her in the room, the clink of his keys being laid down on the cool marble of one of the consoles, his jacket being laid across the back of one of the overstuffed armchairs, the slightest sound of creaking leather from his shoes as he crossed the room toward her. Abby's eyes were closed and the city sounds and smells mingled seamlessly with the intangible but very real feeling of Eliot approaching her from behind. She started smiling a few seconds before his hands actually touched her, sensing his nearness, his scent, his power, all around her. She leaned back into his strong chest and stomach, rubbing the back of her head into him, still holding on to the black wrought iron balcony railing to steady herself, turning her cheek into the warmth of him.

He leaned in to inhale her hair then kissed the top of her head.

“I have something for you, Abigail.”

She opened her eyes and saw a small package in his hands in front of her. It was about the size of a slice of bread, wrapped in simple, unadorned brown paper and a bit of tape.

“Surprisingly luxurious wrapping,” she joked and looked at him with a smile over one shoulder.

“I was in Milan when I found it, you ungrateful witch, and did not have the benefit of my assistant's more practiced wrapping techniques.” He kissed her hair again. “It's what's on the inside that matters, anyway. Or so I've been told.”

Abigail stayed in the comfortable circle of his arms and let go of the balcony railing to take the small package from his hand. She let her fingers stroke the lines of his outstretched palm and felt the response ride through him behind her.

She shook her hair to one side and focused on carefully unwrapping the small gift. Once she'd removed the wrapping, she handed Eliot the piece of brown paper to hold while she opened the white box. Nestled inside were a pair of tiny antique gold charms: a fish and a bicycle, hanging together on a length of thin black leather. She turned in his arms and looked up at his smiling, strong, absurdly handsome face.

His hair was catching a bit of the light wind and he looked like an expectant child, eager. “Do you like them?”

“They're fabulous, Eliot. How could I not? Where did you ever find them… such an incongruous pair,” she said with a sly smile from under her eyelashes.

His hands were wandering down her back and around her hips. “I was in Milan for those infuriating negotiations and decided to take a walk for a bit after lunch on Thursday and came upon this crazy old bat of a jeweler who had thousands upon thousands of charms… taxis and typewriters and storks and beer steins and whistles and stars…” He nuzzled her neck with his lips near her ear as he enumerated the vast array of silly charms, then pulled away again to face her. “And then it just sort of came to me, as it were, when I spotted the bicycle… it works by the way, the pedals actually turn the wheels, so it's not so totally useless after all”—he winked—“and the fish was just waiting in a nearby velvet tray in the midst of a hundred other charms, and its little diamond eye winked at me in the sun, just like yours. Diamond girl.”

She looked closer and saw that there were in fact two tiny diamond eyes on the fish charm.

“Put it on me, please. Will you?” She handed him the length of black cord, then turned and lifted her mass of black curls up and out of his way, revealing the back of her neck.

“You are turning me into a sentimental idiot, Abigail. Just the sight of the back of your neck has me in a momentary fit of pique.” He reached around her neck and let the charms hang at different lengths. “Where do you want them?” He pulled them up short like a choker and then let them fall seductively between her breasts.

“What a decision!” Her laugh was breathy at the thought of which would be more sweetly torturous: a relentless, controlling pressure snug around the base of her neck or a gentle, evocative caress along her breasts. She shivered in anticipation of either. Both.

Eliot began kissing her exposed nape while she pondered the possibilities.

“Maybe just there.” Abigail sighed through her desire. “Just knot it there… wherever… for now.”

Eliot pulled back to get a better look at his hands and the small cord, his fingers feeling a bit too thick as he tied it off with a simple, sturdy square knot.

“That should hold.” He gave it a short tug against her skin to test it, then let one hand follow the length around to her breast. Abigail gave a little whimper of pleasure. “I'm so glad you like it,” he whispered into her ear as her head nodded forward and she let her hair down.

She turned into his embrace and reached around to his back, feeling the cords of muscle that ran up the column of his spine, the turning in at his hip, letting her hands run up the front of his shirt. He bent toward her and she felt his hand slide up the soft quivering flesh of her inner thigh.

“Eliot, we're out on the balcony.”

“So? I've been insanely desperate to get up this functional black skirt for the past four hours.” But he swung them both around so her back was flush against the cold limestone exterior of the building, his body effectively concealing her from any pervy Peeping Toms in the buildings across the Avenue Montaigne.

His hand moved slowly, continuing farther up her legs, at moments light and coy, then strong and urgently pushing the skirt out of the way. “Ah! You went lingerie shopping without me!” His hand reached the top of her thigh-highs.

“I thought you'd appreciate them,” she said softly.

“You were right.” He reached up higher to her underwear, where her thigh met the side of her hip. With one delightfully menacing finger, he followed the silky lace fabric from the front, around the outside of her hip, then down the crack of her bum, and, finally, briefly stroking between her legs from behind. Then he used the same finger to slowly tug at the elastic waist of her thong and shoved the interfering fabric down around her thighs.

She tried to continue her own travels across his hard abdomen, but she was quickly overcome by the delicate motion of Eliot's fingers once he began stroking her, slowly finding her, circling her hot center then taking long, leisurely passes along the slick length of her.

“Jesus, Abigail. You're so turned on.”

She looked up at him. “Uh, duh! Dinner was torture.”

His other hand kept her firmly pinned to the wall, the centuries-old strength of which gave Abigail much-needed support. She was slowly melting at his touch… her legs started trembling and her hands were trying desperately to grasp… something… anything… one moment his thick golden-brown hair, the next his flexing, ropy shoulder muscles, fabric, skin, muscle, bone, then the length of his erection pushing against the placket of his trousers and into her palm.

And he just kept on.

His mouth was on hers, then on her cheek, her eyebrow, her neck, nipping at her skin. She felt selfish and adored and frantic. Her breath was becoming erratic and then Eliot did something devilish with the tip of his finger, curling it into a tender, needy place, while pushing the palm of his hand into her hard peak.

“Look at me,” he demanded with a hoarse command.

Her eyes flew open as her body convulsed and shuddered and broke into pieces and rose into the Parisian night, and into the winter wind, and, ultimately, into Eliot himself. She held his eyes with her unseeing, unblinking ones, her hands clenched fiercely into the fabric at his upper arms, her breath inconsistent, the back of her throat hot and dry. She wondered vaguely if she had cried out or if his name had simply burned through her.

***

Eliot stared into her eyes. They were no longer gray, but almost entirely black, her pupils dilated and stunned. She was utterly still. He moved his hand with a knowing tug, and she convulsed around his hand and flew away again, her black eyes pinned to his, her body responding to his slightest touch.

“No more, Eliot,” she whispered plaintively, licking her dry lips. “Please.”

“Only because you said
please
,” he said as his finger and hand pulled away from her, slowly, gently. He cupped her one last time to feel the warmth of her pleasure, then tenderly put her thong back in place and pulled her wrinkled skirt back down around her thighs.

“Thank you,” she mumbled as her head leaned into his shoulder, her arms too weak to grip him any longer. She felt like a rag doll.

He swept her up easily into his arms and brought her into the subdued bedroom, pushing the door to the balcony shut with his hip. Eliot had dimmed some of the lights before joining her outside, and the room exuded a welcoming, comforting glow. She was already drowsy, nuzzling into his neck, her arms slack around his shoulders. He held her with one arm as he pulled the bed linens free with his other and laid her down on the pristine, lightly lavender-scented white linen.