The Golden Valkyrie (11 page)

He frowned. “I’m not about to do that to you again,” he said curtly, but she noticed he didn’t deny it. “I intend to devote the entire evening to you. If you don’t want to join Alex, we’ll do something else. What would you like to do?”

He spoke as if there were all the choices in the world on this tiny island.

“Well, I’m having a hard time choosing between Pavarotti’s concert and Baryshnikov’s
Nutcracker,
” she drawled wryly. “So I think I’ll settle for a good book and an early night. Alex supplied me with a surfeit of the former, and I hardly think I’ll be disturbed once you get back to your work, so I’ll certainly get the latter.”

“I told you—” he began impatiently.

“Yes, I know,” she said soothingly. “But you should have learned by now that we peasants aren’t accustomed to noblesse oblige.” She smiled at him gently. “I want you to work, Lance.”

“You’re sure?” he asked, his face troubled.

“I’m sure,” she said serenely. “I’ll see what I can throw together for a meal before you disappear for the evening.”

He was silent for a moment. “I don’t suppose you’d want to come in and keep me company?” he suggested tentatively. “The couch is fairly comfortable, and the lighting is better than anywhere else in the cottage, if you’re planning to read.”

Her startled gaze flew to his face. “You don’t mind people around when you’re working?”

His shrug was oddly awkward. “I don’t know,” he said simply. “I’ve never let anyone into my studio before. I just think that I’d like to have you there with me. It may take some getting used to for both of us.” His arm tightened on her waist. “Will you come, Honey?”

Her throat was suddenly so tight, she was having trouble swallowing, and she looked hurriedly away so that he couldn’t see the mistiness in her eyes. “Yes, I’ll come,” she said softly.

FIVE

W
HO COULD IMAGINE
that watching a man in the esthetic pursuit of painting a picture could be such a sensual experience? Honey wondered dreamily. The soft, almost inaudible whish of the brush on the canvas, the quiet sounds as Lance shifted his stance or moved to reach for another tube—even the acerbic smell of turpentine and paint was ambiguously stimulating. Honey grimaced ruefully. She must really be far gone to find the smell of turpentine an aphrodisiac. Why not be honest and admit that it was the man himself whom she found so fascinating?

Her gaze ran lingeringly over the intentness of Lance’s face as his eyes narrowed in concentration on the canvas sitting on the easel in front of him. She couldn’t see the painting itself from where she was curled on the cream naugahyde couch across the room, but she could see Lance very well indeed.

He was rather like a painting himself, she thought. He was wearing the same faded jeans he had this afternoon, but he had donned an old blue chambray work shirt when he had gotten back to the cottage. Its sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, baring his tanned muscular forearms, and he’d left it carelessly unbuttoned almost to the waist. Honey could see the play of the sleek muscles of his shoulders as he moved, and the light blue of the shirt turned his eyes to deep sapphire.

Suddenly those sapphire eyes darted to where she sat with her book lying ignored on her lap, and a brilliant smile lit the bronze darkness of his face. “Okay?” he asked gently. “You’re not bored?”

“I’m fine. This thriller Alex lent me is really absorbing,” she lied shamelessly. She hadn’t read a page in the hours that she’d been in the studio this evening. She’d been too enthralled with the infinitely more exciting mystery that was embodied in the form of Lance Rubinoff. “Would you like some more coffee?”

“Not now,” he said absently, his attention once more on the canvas in front of him. “You’d better use that afghan. It’s getting cooler, and your legs will get cold in those shorts.”

Honey’s lips quirked wryly as she remembered the lascivious glance she’d received from him when she’d appeared in these white shorts earlier in the evening. At the moment she could have had fence posts for legs, for all he cared. She obediently pulled the beige-and-rose crocheted afghan over her legs and gazed contentedly around her.

The studio, though much larger than her bedroom, was even more starkly furnished. Other than the couch she was resting on, there was only a large, paint-spattered work table jammed against the wall; it was cluttered with an assortment of paint and brushes. The easel was in the center of the room. There were canvases everywhere, some leaning against the wall beneath the bank of windows overlooking the beach, and others stacked carelessly in the corners. When Lance had opened the closet door to take down the afghan from the shelf, she had even seen several other completed canvases pushed randomly against the wall in a corner. She’d been tempted to protest Lance’s deliberate offhandedness with those valuable paintings, but she wasn’t about to disturb the felicity between them.

She’d felt a twinge of pain even as she’d prowled around the room gazing at the canvases he treated so carelessly. Each one was more brilliant than the last, and by the time she’d put the final canvas aside and made her way slowly to the couch, she was utterly drunk on the power and passion that leaped out of those paintings.

It was a real tragedy to keep these paintings hidden away where no one could enjoy them. There must be some way to convince Lance to exhibit his work, but at the moment she was unable to see it. She wasn’t about to give up, however. For now it was enough to be here and watch the play of expressions on that strong, mobile face and let the crackling vitality that surrounded him like a visible aura flow into her. She scooted further down on the couch, resting her head on the cushion, and pulled the afghan up about her shoulders. She dropped the paperback on the floor. Lance probably wouldn’t glance her way again for hours, so she needn’t keep up the pretense of being interested in anything but the red-haired man across the room.

She was being carried, held in warm, strong arms, and her face was pressing against that lovely rough cushion that she recognized at once. She rubbed her cheek contentedly against him. “Lance?” she murmured sleepily.

“Shh,” he whispered softly. “Go back to sleep, baby. I’m just taking you to bed. It’s very late.”

“Did you finish your painting?” she asked drowsily, snuggling closer to his vibrant warmth.

“Almost. I still have a bit of background to do.”

She was gently deposited on a cushioned softness, and then the mattress sagged beside her as Lance sat down and calmly began to unbutton her orchid sun-top. “You shouldn’t do that,” she said sleepily, not opening her eyes. It was a token murmur rather than a protest. She felt it was somehow natural and fitting for Lance to be undressing her with those wonderfully gentle hands.

“You’ll be more comfortable,” he said, and his explanation seemed entirely logical. She heard his deep chuckle. “You needn’t worry, Honey. I’m not about to try to seduce you tonight. I’m so exhausted that I can barely move.” He had stripped off her top and was undoing the front clasp of her bra. “I just want to cuddle up to you and go to sleep. Okay?”

“Okay,” she murmured. She could think of nothing more desirable than those warm secure arms holding her and closing out the darkness of the night.

The rest of her clothing was stripped from her, and he was gone for a few minutes. Then he was back on the bed, drawing the denim coverlet over both of them. He pulled her close and settled her head in the curve of his shoulder, her long white-gold hair splaying in a silky curtain over his chest. His warm naked skin felt hard and rough against her own soft curves as his arms held her close with the sexless affection of a little boy with his favorite teddy bear.

“Lord, this is nice,” he said, already half asleep. “Isn’t it great to be together like this, sweetheart?”

She nodded with equal contentment. Her arms tightened lovingly about him and she went peacefully to sleep.

The gentle tugging at her nipple sent a tiny thrill of heat through her, and she moved restlessly, trying to hide once more behind the veil of sleep, which had been pierced by sensation. Then the tugging increased in tempo and a warm strong hand enclosed her breast and began a kneading motion that completely ripped the veil aside.

She opened her eyes to the gray predawn hours of the morning and was unsurprised to see Lance’s fiery red head at her breast. His tanned hand curled around its full whiteness appeared gypsy-dark in contrast.

“I thought you were exhausted,” she said drowsily, her hand reaching down to stroke his hair.

He lifted his head with an impish grin. “I said I was tired, not dead, sweetheart. Even if I was, I’d probably have risen like Lazarus from the tomb at the sight that met my eyes when I opened them just now.” His head bent, and his warm tongue gently stroked the nipple he’d already roused to button hardness. “It was dark in here when I undressed you, or I wouldn’t have been able to nap even the little I did. My God, you’re magnificent, love.”

“Thank you,” she said shyly, feeling the color mount to her cheeks.

“You’re welcome,” he said with equal politeness. There was a distinct twinkle in his blue eyes as he looked up again. “I love that grave-little-girl air you have sometimes. It’s such a contrast to all this lush pulchritude that it blows my mind.”

His hand resumed that slow, arousing kneading motion, and Honey felt a tingling in the pit of her stomach that was rapidly escalating into an aching need. “I don’t think this is very wise,” she said breathlessly as his teeth nibbled with erotic delicacy at the taut nipple.

“I do,” he replied thickly. “I think it’s the wisest thing I’ve done since I met you. I had to be crazy not to do it before. We both know we’ve been wanting it since the moment we met. Isn’t that true, Honey?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose it is,” she said quietly. It was all so clear now that she’d accepted that simple truth. She had never wanted anyone in her life before this red-haired Scaramouche had appeared on her horizon, but she knew now that she must have realized even that first evening that they would eventually reach this point of no return.

He drew a long, deep breath and gave her a smile of such loving sweetness that she felt her throat tighten with emotion. “You won’t regret it, love. I’ll pleasure you, I promise.”

“I know you will,” she said tenderly. Everything that he was and did pleasured her. She knew now that he always would. “I hope I can please you, too.”

“Good Lord, how could you help it?” His other hand reached up to cup her other breast. “Just looking at you is enough to make me lose control.” One thumb raked the proud, hard peak that crested the voluptuous fullness of her breast, and a shiver of pure desire shot through her. His hand moved down to the softness of her belly and traced a delicate pattern on its silken smoothness. “You’re like a lovely blank canvas just waiting for the first brushstroke to bring you to life.” His lips moved swiftly down her midriff, dropping a trail of light kisses along the way. His teeth bit teasingly at the softness of her belly, and she inhaled sharply. “I want to paint you with the scarlet of passion.” He gently parted her thighs. “I want to shade you with the gold of fulfillment.” His hands were probing at the warm center of her being, and she made a sound that was half gasp at the incredible sensations that he was producing. He looked up and smiled with tender satisfaction. “And when you sleep in my arms afterward, I want you to be glowing with the dark rose of contentment.” His hand moved with deft erotic expertise, shooting a jolt of hot, tingling pleasure to the heart of her. “Will you let me paint you with all the colors of loving, Honey?”

“Oh yes,” she gasped. She felt as if she were already stroked with flames. “Yes, Lance, please.”

He moved over her, parting her thighs and coming swiftly between them. Leaning down, he kissed her with a hot, lingering sweetness. “I don’t think I can wait any longer, sweetheart,” he muttered roughly, his chest moving raggedly. “It seems I’ve been waiting forever for you already.”

“Then don’t wait any longer,” she whispered, her lips parting as she drew his mouth back to hers. His tongue entered into the moist sweetness, and he made a sound in the back of his throat as her tongue responded with a wild sensuality that she’d never felt before.

His hips thrust quickly forward, and her sudden cry was lost beneath his lips. He raised his head, his body stiffening in surprise. His face was a mask of shock as he looked down at her. “Honey?” he asked dazedly.

“It doesn’t matter,” she muttered feverishly, her hands clutching fiercely at his shoulders. The sensation was indescribable, she felt both gloriously, tantalizingly full and achingly incomplete. “Please don’t stop.”

“Oh, Lord, I don’t think I can,” he said thickly, his hips starting a rhythmic thrusting that sent an explosive heat rocketing through her. She writhed in an agony of molten need as he lifted her hips in his hands, drawing her closer to him with each movement.

The rainbow spectrum of hues that he’d promised her was all there as he moved with her, encouraging her with words of need and praise that he gasped in her ear in a litany of passionate longing. But he hadn’t told her of the incredible sunburst of sensation that would result with the fusion of those colors.

When they were lying clutching each other dazedly in the exhaustion that was the aftermath of that multi-hued storm, she tucked her head into the hollow of his shoulder. Her hand resting below his heart drawing comfort from the strong, rapid beat that was gradually slowing. “You left out quite a bit, you know,” she said dreamily. “You never mentioned the deep crimson of giving and this lovely lavender-mauve weariness.”

His lips brushed her temple tenderly. “I discovered quite a few new shades myself,” he said huskily, his hand stroking her hair gently. “Some of them I never even dreamed existed. You’re quite an artist yourself, Honey Winston.” His hand paused a moment in its stroking, and his voice was oddly troubled. “You shocked the hell out of me, you know.”