Rexanne Becnel (34 page)

Perhaps later then…Perhaps later…

If he wanted her later, she would not be able to resist. If he wanted her she would melt into his arms and into his bed, no matter what the consequences were. Heart and brain—and body—were sadly at odds, and she knew now that logic would lose this time.

As they approached the entrance to the ballroom she was warm all over, filled with an exquisite awareness of herself—both her body and the needs that Dillon had aroused in her. If she gave in…She took a deep breath, conscious of her nipples pressing hard against her bodice.

If she gave in it would be madness. Yet she was already quite mad with longing for him.

Would it really change anything if she surrendered?

T
HE BALLROOM AT THE
Denver Palace was a magnificent space indeed. The ceilings soared the height of two floors, held up by twenty-four square Ionic columns. The ceiling was a series of rectangular coffers, the recesses painted a pale sky blue. On two walls huge windows stretched high, draped with sheers and swagged with elegant green damask. The third wall was faced with tall French doors that led out to a rooftop terrace.

Lush plants grew in pots all around the room, as if it were a huge solarium—well tended, comfortable, yet on this scale, quite grand as well. With the French doors thrown open and the cool evening breeze stirring the delicate curtains, the room felt more like a wonderful outdoor garden than a room in a fancy hotel.

Lacie paused at the entrance and looked around in awe. Once more Dillon Lockwood had surprised her, for she had expected a very formal room, designed to add to his prestige by intimidating those invited inside. But this room…

She let her eyes sweep the space once more, empty save for a group of musicians seated at the far end between two enormous palm trees. This room was designed to comfort and please. This room was for people to enjoy themselves in.

“Like it?”

Lacie looked up at Dillon’s quiet inquiry. His hand moved to cover hers, but she quickly extricated her hand from his arm and took a step farther into the room.

“It’s quite beautiful,” she admitted despite the fierce pounding of her heart. It would be far easier to speak to him about this room than to discuss what was really on her mind.

“There’s nothing else quite like it in Denver.”

“Where did you get all the wonderful plants?” she asked as she moved slowly past a group of tall and fragrant flowers.

“Mexico. Japan. These are from Cuba. This is a Bird of Paradise. See the flower?” He moved a large leaf back to reveal a strangely shaped flower of orange and purple. “It came from South America.”

Lacie sent Dillon a puzzled glance. Was there anything about this man that made sense? “Why a solarium?” she asked with genuine curiosity.

He stared down at her for a moment, then looked across the room. “My mother loved flowers.”

Lacie was stunned once more. Yet she remembered the little cabin he had taken her to and the remnants of a garden that had lingered still in several sturdy plants. Even after all the years, several roses had grown wild along one side of the porch. Yet such sentimentality was not a trait she would have ascribed to Dillon.

“My mother grew flowers too.”

Most mothers did, she thought as he took her arm once more and identified several other rare species. Yet that one tiny fragment, that insignificant fact from their earlier lives, had formed a fragile connection between them. It was tenuous at best, and temporary, she told herself. If they were to stray onto any other topic they would most likely revert to accusations and criticisms, to insults and taunts. Still, for the moment at least, they walked on common ground. She glanced sidelong at him but lowered her lashes when he turned his perceptive gaze on her. If only it could go on like this forever!

Too quickly, however, the other guests began to arrive, and as conversation turned from flowers to business, the fragile connection broke. She tried to tell herself it was for the best. After all, this evening was her last chance to convince the other board members not to go along with Dillon’s aggressive expansion plans. If it weren’t for that she wouldn’t even be here. Yet even as she circulated among the crowd, meeting the board members’ wives and trying to strike the proper balance between social chatter and business talk, her eyes constantly searched out Dillon.

He was always easy to see due to his height. And he always seemed to be surrounded by people—ladies as well as gentlemen. Yet she knew she would be able to find him even in a room of giants, for the magnetism, the pull between them was impossible to resist. As the North Pole drew the compass arrow, so did he attract her in the most powerful and irresistible manner.

Sometimes when she chanced a look at him she would find his eyes already upon her, and she would quickly look elsewhere. One time she met his stare more boldly, unable to tear her eyes away. His expression was unexpected. He seemed almost surprised, or perhaps puzzled. But then he grinned ever so slightly at her, as if he knew her very thoughts, and she looked away, uncertain what his expression had meant.

“It’ll be a hardship, perhaps,” Mr. Ferguson was saying as she struggled to drive Dillon out of her thoughts and get back to business. “But in the long run we could all benefit enormously.”

“Yes, but there’s no certainty he’ll meet with success,” she countered, feeling the man slipping over to Dillon’s side.

“If Dillon Lockwood is behind it, you can be certain. Why, that young fellow has so much energy—so many good ideas—that it’s almost unfair to the competition. If you’ll just tighten your belt a little, Miz Kimbell, when those dividends
do
start comin’ in, I think you’ll change your mind about your brother-in-law.”

Another one lost, Lacie thought glumly as she watched the man polish off his whiskey. If she did no better than this, she wouldn’t have a chance tomorrow. She turned to look for another likely candidate for her campaign against the expansion, but it was Dillon’s smiling face she encountered instead.

She drew back at once, hardly ready to cross swords with him again.

“May I lead you out for the first dance?” He extended his hand expectantly, the very picture of correct manners and proper etiquette. But within his eyes a heated light glimmered. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing, she told herself, civilized and charming but a rogue nonetheless. Still, it was that dangerous quality about him that exerted the most powerful pull on her.

She shook her head, for it would be madness to put herself willingly within his arms. However, Dillon seemed to have read her mind. With a wicked smile he came nearer and, paying absolutely no mind to her rebuff, took her hand into his own.

He nodded to the musicians to begin a waltz, and then led her unresisting, into the middle of the dance floor. She did not pull away when he turned to face her, putting one hand on her waist. As the music began, filling the soft summer air with the sweet strains of “The Emperor’s Waltz,” she only followed his lead, moving easily with him as he led her in a slow elegant circle of the room.

It did not take long for the other guests to join in the dancing, but Lacie was hardly aware of them at all. Her mind was occupied solely with Dillon. Indeed, her every sense was flooded with awareness of him. He filled her vision and warmed her wherever they touched. He smelled of soap and skin and, faintly, of brandy. And though he said nothing, he spoke clearly to her nonetheless. Her stomach tightened in sweet torturous awareness of what he was silently saying to her.

As they whirled around the room, her skirts swinging wide as he expertly guided her in the dance, Lacie slowly began to relax in his arms. He was an excellent dancer and the perfect partner, although that did not really surprise her. After all, from the very first there had been a strong physical connection between them. They danced well together just as they made love well….

Lacie quickly looked away, stumbling a bit as she did. But Dillon’s embrace prevented her from falling, and as the closing notes of the song faded away, he gave her a quizzical look.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

A drink was not what she wanted, but Lacie was too undone by her own wanton thoughts to do other than nod her head. Dillon flagged down a circulating waiter and in a matter of seconds handed her a tall crystal glass of champagne. Without thinking, she finished the glass, then when the bubbles filled her nose, started coughing.

“Do you want another?” he asked, amusement in his voice.

“N-no.” She shook her head hard. Why must she always be such a fool in his presence? She turned as if to depart, looking desperately for an excuse to leave his company. But just then the musicians began a new melody, and before she could protest, Dillon pulled her once more into his arms.

This time his embrace was not so polite. His arm circled her waist, drawing her nearer than was socially correct. Instead of looking around and meeting her eyes only occasionally, as any other gentleman would, he kept his head lowered and his dark eyes direct upon her. With each pass around the beautiful room, he seemed to pull her ever so slightly closer until, during one elegant whirl, her breasts brushed against his chest.

At once a new rush of heat suffused her entire body. It was so strong, so overpowering, that she knew he must be acutely aware of it, and when she looked up at him, his vivid green gaze confirmed it. He knew exactly how his nearness affected her, how her nipples tightened into hard, sensitive buds, and how something hot and restless curled tightly in her belly. Yet his gaze revealed even more than that, for as she stared up into his disturbing eyes she saw his desire as well, and although she had always known he wanted the physical pleasure of her in his bed, now she understood that he felt something more. He could torture her and make her long uncontrollably for him, but she could do the same to him. She desired him in the most shameless fashion, in a way she’d never dreamed possible. But he desired her too. It was more than just the physical attraction he might feel towards any pleasant-looking female. It had to do with her as the particular woman she was. He might desire other women at different times of his life. But right now, even though it wasn’t love, he desired only her.

On the surface this was not an especially astonishing realization. But Lacie was quite overcome by her new knowledge of her place in Dillon’s life. She did not doubt it had to do with her pose as Frederick’s widow and her share of the companies that Dillon knew was his. Had she not presented him such a challenge, he would likely never have even noticed her. But she
had
become the challenge, and he
had
noticed her. It didn’t really matter anymore why his attentions were focused on her. It was enough for her to know that they emphatically were.

Lacie could hardly think as Dillon swept her along in the dance. When another followed, she agreed mutely to his silent request, then put up only the flimsiest resistance when he clasped her even closer to him. Time and again her breasts grazed the buttons of his waistcoat. More than once his hand moved possessively around her waist, holding her much closer than he should, his fingers splaying wide to follow the contours of her waist and lower ribcage. When the dance ended she was breathless and flushed, buzzing with a building excitement that she could scarcely contain inside her.

When he offered her another glass of champagne, she took it with a soft murmur of thanks. She did not demur when he kept her arm in his as he spoke briefly to one of the other guests. She only sipped at the sparkling amber drink and surreptitiously watched Dillon.

He was the most handsome man in the world, she thought as she watched his alternately passive then animated face. He was quick to smile, yet his scowl could be most intimidating. Tall, dark, and handsome—the phrase came quickly to mind. Yet there was a harshness, an arrogance to his features that did not fit with ordinary expectations for the term
handsome
.

Did other women see him as she did? she wondered. Did he fill them with the same terrible longings that she felt every time he was near? Or perhaps it was only she that did, since she loved him.

That thought, however, brought a stab of pain to her chest. To love Dillon was to court disaster, to invite heartache and tragedy. Hadn’t she already learned that the hard way?

But love was not an emotion a woman was able to control. If it were, she would not have allowed herself to love him. If she’d had a choice, she would have picked someone more reliable to love, someone steady and predictable.

Tears suddenly pricked her eyes at the absurdity of that idea. If she’d wanted a man like that she would not have discouraged Richard Beasley, or Walter Reynolds, or Angus Hawsley. No, it was plain that none of those men—nor any other—would ever do, now that Dillon had come into her life.

She looked down into her half-empty champagne glass and tried to banish the tears that fought so strenuously for release. Tears would accomplish nothing, she told herself sternly. She was in love with him, but he was not in love with her. Despite his businesslike proposal of marriage, he was not the best sort of man to marry. Yet how she wished his offer had been sincere! How she wished he wanted to marry her for nothing more than love!

“May I have this dance, Mrs. Kimbell?”

Mr. Andrews’s polite request brought Lacie’s morose thoughts up short. She felt the quick tensing in Dillon’s arm as he looked over at Mr. Andrews.

“Why…ah, why, yes. How—how kind of you to ask,” she managed to say. She felt quite odd as he escorted her onto the dance floor. But as he took her hand, then placed his fingertips politely at the side of her waist, Lacie knew it was only that there was no thrill from his touch. When she danced with him it was not an unconscious melding of her rhythm to his as it had been with Dillon. Dancing with the pale-faced Mr. Andrews was like dancing with her old dance instructor, or even with the other girls in her dance classes. It was not a warm floating fantasy, but merely ordinary mortal movement set to the cadence of a song.