Sorcerer: A Loveswept Contemporary Classic Romance (16 page)

She swallowed and spoke into the cavernous silence. “It’s Marsha’s,” she offered.

“It’s not Marsha’s body,” he replied. His intense gaze stroked over her, burning her wherever it touched. “What possessed you to wear it?”

Possessed.
That was the word, all right. He possessed her thoughts for longer than she could remember, owning her emotions, stealing into her dreams. This afternoon she’d admitted to herself that she loved him, but the damage had been done long before that. He’d been in her mind from the moment she’d met him, and in her heart for nearly as long. God knows she wanted him out of both—
and she’d tried! But she was obsessed beyond reason with the dark, enigmatic scientist. And the bastard didn’t give a damn about her.

“Call Rogers,” she demanded. “I want to leave.”

“Jill, we need to talk—”

“I don’t want to talk with you!” She turned away, mortified that she was beginning to cry. She had to get out of there—fast. Even a block of wood like Ian would eventually figure out why she had worn the dress. And then she’d die, she’d just die. “If you won’t call Rogers, I’ll take a cab. There’s got to be a phone in here some—”

Her words ended abruptly as Ian caught her wrist from behind and spun her roughly around to face him. He stared at her for one heart-stopping second. Then his mouth came down on hers. Hard.

It was a ravaging kiss, demanding and receiving the full measure of her passion. Resistance wasn’t even a remote option. His lips consumed her, laving hot caresses on her cheeks and throat, devouring her in ways that left her aching and breathless, and eager for more. When he finally lifted his head, she sagged against him, clinging to him as she fought for breath. She nuzzled the open throat of his sweater, drinking in the musky smell of his skin. “Doctor,” she said shakily, “you present a very persuasive argument for staying.”

His deep chuckle was almost as sexy as his kisses. “My pleasure, Ms. Polanski,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “Why in blazes didn’t you take off that coat sooner?”

“Printouts.”

“What printouts?”

She sighed, reluctantly lifting her head to meet his questioning gaze. “The ones you were carrying when you came downstairs. You made it clear that this was a business arrangement—period.”

“Yes, I suppose I did,” he agreed, smiling grimly. “I was so busy convincing myself that I wasn’t interested in you that I convinced you too.” He shifted her slightly, nestling her head in the curve of his throat. “Sometimes I behave like a bloody idiot.”

Against his neck her mouth pulled into a smile. “Only sometimes?” Then, turning serious, she asked quietly, “You’re not doing this out of … pity, are you?”

His arms tightened protectively around her. “If you think this is pity, I must be more out of practice than I—”

His comment was cut short by the sharp, insistent wail of his beeper. “Lord, not now!”

“Do you have to answer it?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” he said, grimacing at the number displayed on the pager. “It’s my custom-parts manufacturer in Germany. He needs some measurements … Jill, I’ve got to take this upstairs. It shouldn’t—it won’t take long. We need to talk—”

“I know,” she said softly. “I’ll be here when you get back. I promise.”

After Ian left, she returned to the living room and sat demurely on the couch to wait—but she
bounced up a second later. She couldn’t sit still, not after what had happened, not with all the colors in the world boiling inside her. She placed her fingers against her lips, still tender from the ardent pressure of his kisses. She felt as if she could fly.
Okay, so we’re different. He’s filthy rich, and I’m a farm girl from Nebraska. But differences can sometimes make a relationship stronger. Anything’s possible as long as we have love in common.
…

“My boy’s quite taken with you.”

Jill looked up. Partridge had entered the living room and was observing her intently.
A lioness and her cub
, Jill thought, loving him all the more for the affection he shared with this plain, good woman. “Well, I’m sort of taken with him too,” she confessed.

Partridge nodded succinctly. She gave the rest of the room a quick glance, and immediately focused on Ian’s discarded glass. She walked to the wet bar and rinsed it out with an efficiency that defined English nannies everywhere. “That’s good. It’s about time my boy started seeing a nice, well-brought-up young gel instead of flash bits like that creature he married.”

Well-brought-up, Jill thought with a sad smile.
Partridge, if you only knew
 …

“Now, don’t you think I’m telling tales behind her back,” she continued as she traveled around the room, plumping pillows and straightening ornaments. “I’ve said the same to Samantha many a time.
I knew from the first she was no good for my boy, that she was only after his money and his title.”

“Title? You mean his doctorates?”

“Lord, no, lass. His
hereditary
title. The barony.”

“Barony?” Jill repeated hollowly. “Ian’s a
baron
?”

“The Baron of Carlisle, one of the most revered families in all Britain. He’s eighty-ninth in line to the throne,” she added with a pride that indicated she considered him far superior to the other eighty-eight. She turned and pointed to a picture on the wall, a beautifully framed lithograph from the last century that fit right in with Samantha’s royally appointed decorations. “That’s his castle.”

Jill moved toward the picture like a man walking in front of a firing squad. She studied the impressive structure, trying not to let her growing despair show on her face.
Rich was bad enough, but he’s got a damn castle.
…

Partridge prattled on, cheerfully relating stories of Ian’s privileged youth on the castle grounds. Jill nodded politely, but her frozen smile went no farther than her lips. No doubt good-hearted Partridge thought she was adding to Ian’s stature in Jill’s eyes. She had no idea she was helping to dig his grave.

Jill could tell the difference between fantasy and reality. She knew that outside of storybooks and simulator programs, true love rarely conquered all. Her knowledge of royalty was limited to what she’d read in the headlines of the supermarket tabloids, but she was quite certain that a wealthy, titled nobleman wasn’t likely to enter into a serious relationship with
a woman who’d spent the first ten years of her life fleeing from creditors and angry wives through half the states in the Union. A woman whose capricious mother’s list of lovers read like the Miami phone book.

A woman who didn’t even know the name of her own father.

“I still think you should let Rogers drive you home, miss,” Partridge said as she peered through the front-door pane at the waiting taxi. “Or at least wait until the doctor comes back downstairs.”

“I can’t wait. I’ve got … work,” Jill said, almost wincing at the lameness of the excuse. Calling Instant Cab had been a cowardly thing to do, but she had to get away from here. She knew she’d promised Ian, but that was before …

“Please give the doctor my apologies, and thank him for inviting me to dinner. It was very kind of him.”

Partridge’s eyes narrowed with canny concern. “I don’t believe he did it to be kind.”

Jill turned away from the woman’s scrutiny.
Trust me, Partridge, if you knew the truth, you wouldn’t want me anywhere near “your boy.”
In Ian’s arms she’d felt like Cinderella at the ball, but it was time to get back
to reality. And as she looked down, she saw that neither of her very unglasslike shoes were missing.
Dreams
, she told herself as she gave her raincoat belt a ruthless tug.
Stupid, empty dreams.
She started for the door. “Partridge, please tell the doctor that I … that I’ll see him at the simulator tomorrow afternoon.”

She hurried to the taxi without a backward glance, eager to get as far away from Ian’s house—and Ian—as she could. He’d be hurt by her sudden departure, but he’d get over it. She wasn’t nearly so confident about herself. She needed to be alone, to think about her future—a practical future that didn’t include stern, soft-hearted, irresistibly sexy scientists who lured women into loving them without telling them they were royalty in disguise.

She slipped into the enveloping darkness of the cab. The back of her legs rubbed against the slick leather seats worn smooth by a thousand unknown occupants. She glanced over at the shimmering wonderland of Ian’s house, realizing that she, too, was slipping back into the anonymity of her safe, ordinary life. A life without passion, without love,
without Ian
 …

“Miss? Señorita! I asked where you want to go.”

Jill raised her head and met the worried stare of her mustachioed, sharp-eyed Cuban driver. She’d been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard the man’s repeated questions—so lost that she hadn’t even closed the cab door behind her.
Great, at this
rate I’ll be sitting here all night.
“I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t listening.”

“Pretty lady like you shouldn’t frown so much,” he commented sagely.

Jill opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a familiar baritone. “I agree.”

No, it can’t be.
But as Ian sandwiched his tall form into the limited space of the cab’s backseat, she realized that it was. “Ian! You can’t—Look, I told Partridge—”

“You told Partridge to tell me you were leaving. You just didn’t know she’d use the intercom to do it. Now, stop all this foolishness and come back in the house.”

And back to your reason-numbing kisses? I don’t think so.
“I’m going home.”

“Fine,” he replied curtly with a tight, not altogether pleasant smile. He yanked the car door shut behind him. “I’ll come with you.”

“Like hell you will—” Jill began, but Ian interrupted her.

“Would you rather talk about this tomorrow? In front of Felix, Sadie, and the rest of the department?”

She wouldn’t, and he knew it. She remembered how the staff had whispered and giggled when they’d seen the video of her and Ian’s cyberkiss—imagine what they’d say if they had a real relationship to gossip about. “It’s all right,” she told the understandably perplexed driver. “But the gentleman will be taking this cab back.”

The gentleman merely smiled.

Jill gave the driver her address, and the taxi started down the driveway. She shoved herself into the farthest corner of the seat, wanting to put as much distance between herself and Ian as possible. It wasn’t easy. The taxi’s backseat wasn’t large to begin with, and Ian took up most of it. No matter how she turned, she couldn’t avoid touching Ian’s knee with her own. The contact was electric.
Damn him. Why did he have to follow me in the first place?

And why did I let him?

The cab had turned off the well-lit driveway and onto the empty country road. Darkness filled the car like ink in a well, yet Jill could feel Ian’s intense eyes watching her, piercing her. She shifted nervously in the seat, a move that unfortunately brought more of her leg into contact with Ian’s. Beneath the form-fitting jeans she felt the hard muscles of his calves, the coiled energy of a panther waiting to strike.
God.
“I’m sorry I left without telling you,” she said truthfully. “I … I remembered I had work to finish.”

Ian gave a snort of disbelief. “That’s what Partridge told me. I didn’t buy it then, and I don’t buy it now. You weren’t just leaving—you were running away.”

“I wasn’t running away,” she stated. But, of course, she had been. Retreat was preferable to telling him the truth about herself. Then and now. “Listen, I don’t owe you an explanation. I don’t owe you a damn th—”

Her sentence stopped abruptly as she swiped her
arm for emphasis, and inadvertently knocked over her purse. The contents spilled onto the seat between them.
Perfect
, she thought as she hurried to stuff the items back into her handbag.
At least things can’t get any worse.

But they did. Ian reached over to help her, closing his fist around several of the scattered objects. The darkness obscured their identity, but there was no mistaking the telltale crunch of foil.

“What the—?”

“Marsha,” she explained weakly, grabbing the condom out of his hand and stuffing it into her purse. “I wasn’t … I mean, I didn’t … let’s just pretend this whole evening never happened.”

“I can’t do that, Ms. Polanski. Nor,” he added with lethal softness, “would I want to.”

Neither do I
, she thought helplessly,
but I have to.
A relationship with Ian could only break her heart. He was right—she
had
been running away. But instead of escaping from him, she was closer to him than ever. The small backseat was filled with him—his body, his smell, his heat—she was suffocating from it. She’d never been so aware of a man’s sexuality before. Or of her own. She swallowed, trying desperately to rein back her careening emotions. “I think it would be better for everyone if we didn’t see each other anymore.”

“That’s not an answer.” He grasped her wrist, pulling her closer with a cruel and gentle strength. “Why, Jillie? What did I do to drive you away?”

The bewilderment in his voice split her heart.
“Oh, Ian, it’s not like that. It’s—” She stopped as the cab passed a streetlight, and she caught sight of their driver’s curious stare in the rearview mirror. Honestly, just once couldn’t they have a discussion without an audience? She dropped her voice to whisper. “I left because—”

“Why are you whispering?”

Jill inched closer. “I’m whispering because—”

“Are you feeling all right?” asked the infinitely practical doctor. “Have you got laryngitis?”

“I don’t—argh!” Exasperated, Jill leaned against him and whispered directly into his ear. “I haven’t got laryngitis. I just don’t want to share our personal business with a nosy cabdriver. Can you hear me now?”

After a meaningful pause he answered, “Yes.”

It wasn’t what he said, but the way he said it—as if he were fighting for breath to speak even that short word. Jill realized how close they were, and how her torso was pressed full against the solid wall of his chest. Layers of clothing separated them, but they might have been naked by the way her breasts molded to his hard planes of muscle, aching with a delicious sensitivity.
They might have been naked
 …