The Heart's Victory (14 page)

She lifted her glass warily, watching him as she sipped. The champagne was ice cold and thrilling on her tongue.

“Only one glass tonight, Fox,” Lance murmured. “I don't want your mind clouded.”

Her heart hammering, Foxy turned away. “This is a lovely room.” She hastily cleared her throat and moistened her lips. “I've never seen so many antiques in one place.”

“Are you fond of antiques?”

“I don't know,” she answered as she moved around the room. “I've never had any. You must like them.” The last word was only a whisper as she turned around and found him directly behind her. There was something eerie about the soundless way he moved. She would have taken a quick step in retreat, but his hand circled her neck.

“It appears there's only one way to get you to hold still.” With the merest pressure of his fingers, he brought her to her toes and firmly covered her mouth. Foxy felt the room dip and sway. His tongue teased the tip of hers before it traced her lips. “Would you like to discuss my Hepplewhite collection?” he asked. From her limp fingers, he took the half-filled glass of champagne.

Foxy opened her eyes. “No.” Even the short word was difficult to form as her gaze strayed to his mouth. In an instant he was kissing her again, and the passion built, shuddering through her. She was clinging to him without having been aware of moving at all. The towel slipped unnoticed to the floor. With a low sound of pleasure, Lance buried his mouth against the curve of her throat while his hands ran over her heated skin. She felt the pain of desire and pressed closer to him. “Lance,” she murmured as the blood drummed in her head. “I want you. Love me. Love me now.” The words were lost under his mouth as it returned urgently to hers. “The light,” she said breathlessly as he lowered her to the bed.

His eyes were dark and compelling. “I want to see you.”

His body fitted itself to hers. He did not love gently. She had not expected gentleness, she had not expected patience. She had expected quick heat and urgent demands, and she was not disappointed. His hands moved roughly over her, exploring before they possessed. From her lips, his mouth trailed down along her throat, hungry always hungry, as it journeyed to her breast. Foxy moaned with trembling pleasure as he flicked his tongue over her nipple. The ache of desire spread from her stomach. His hands were bruising, arousing as they wandered down her rib cage, lingering at her waist and hips as his mouth continued to ravish her breast.

She began to move under him, a woman's instinct making her motions sensual and inviting. Lean and firm, his hands massaged the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, and her muscles went lax, her joints fluid. She learned that he made love as he had raced—with intensity and absorption. There was a ruthless, steady dominance in him, a power that demanded much more than submission. Surrender would have been too tame a response. More, she discovered her own power. He needed her. She could feel it in the urgency of his hands, taste it in the hunger of his mouth. She heard it as he spoke her name. They were tangled together, flesh against flesh, mouth against mouth while it seemed the only reality was dark, moist kisses and heated skin. The faint scent of wood smoke added something ageless and primitive.

As her body tingled under his hands she began to make her own explorations. She discovered the hard, rippling muscles that his leanness had disguised. As she moved her hands to his hips Lance groaned against her mouth and took the kiss deeper. His hands grew wild, desperate, and she tumbled with him into a world ruled by sensation. The pleasure was acute, so sharp it brought with it a hint of pain. There seemed to be no part of her that he did not wish to know, to enjoy, to conquer. She locked her arms tightly around his neck, burying her mouth against his throat. His taste filled her until champagne seemed a poor substitute. Here was something dark and male she had yet to learn, and she traced the tip of her tongue over his skin, exploring, discovering. Passion was building beyond anything she had imagined possible. Both emotionally and physically, her response was absolute. She was his.

Her breath was clogging in her lungs, passing through her lips as moans and sighs. Desire reached a turbulent peak when she whispered his name. “Lance.” His mouth took hers with fresh desperation, cutting off her words. He shifted on top of her, urging her legs apart with the movement.

The pleasure she had thought already at its summit, increased. Passion came in hot, irresistible waves, overpowering her with its tumultuous journey until all need, all sensation focused into one.

The dawn approached slowly. She was still wrapped tightly in his arms when the hiss of rain lulled her to sleep.

Chapter 10

Foxy felt content. A dull red mist behind her lids told her the sun was falling on her face. With a small sigh, she allowed sleep to drift slowly away. She remembered the ease of Saturday mornings when she had been a young girl. Then she would lie in bed, dozing blissfully, knowing there was nothing but pleasure in the day ahead. There would be no worries, no time schedules, no responsibilities. School and Monday morning were centuries away. Foxy drifted on the edge of consciousness with the sensation of being both protected and free—a combination of feeling that had not been hers for a decade. She inched closer to it and clung.

There was a weight around her waist that added to her sense of security. Beside her was warmth. She snuggled yet closer to it. Lazily her lids fluttered open, and she looked directly into Lance's eyes. The past was whisked away as the present took over, but the sensation she woke with remained. Neither she nor Lance spoke. She saw by the clearness of his gaze that he had been awake for some time. There was no hint of sleep in his eyes. They were as sharp and focused as hers were soft and heavy. His hair was tousled around his head, reminding her that it had been her fingers that had disturbed it short hours before. They continued to watch each other as their mouths moved closer to linger in a whisper of a kiss. The thought that they were naked and tangled together seeped through Foxy's drowsy contentment. The arm around her waist was firm in its possession.

“You looked like a child as you slept,” he murmured as his mouth journeyed over her face. “Very young and untouched.”

Foxy did not want to tell him that her thoughts had been childlike as well. As his fingers traced her spine she began to feel more and more as a woman. “How long have you been awake?”

His hand roamed with absentminded intimacy over her hip and thigh. Reminded that his touch the night before had not been absentminded, she felt her drowsiness swiftly abating. “Awhile,” he said as he tightened his arm to bring her yet closer. “I considered waking you.” His eyes roamed to her sleep-flushed cheeks, to the rich confusion of her hair against the pillowcase, to the full softness of her untinted mouth. “I rather enjoyed watching you sleep. There aren't many women who can manage to be both soothing and exciting the first thing in the morning.”

Foxy arched her brows deliberately. “You know a great deal about women first thing in the morning?”

He grinned, then nuzzled the white curve of her neck. “I'm an early riser.”

“A likely story,” Foxy murmured, feeling her contentment mixing with a more demanding sensation. “I suppose you're hungry.” She felt the tip of his tongue flick over her skin.

“Oh yes, I have quite an appetite this morning.” He caught her bottom lip between his teeth. Desire quickened in Foxy's stomach. “You have the most appealing taste,” he told her as he teased her lips apart. “I'm finding it habit forming. Your skin's amazingly soft,” he went on as his hand moved to cup her breast. “Especially for someone who appears to be mostly bone and nerve.” He ran his thumb over its peak and watched her eyes cloud. “I don't think I'm going to get enough of you anytime soon.”

He was leading her quickly into passion with quiet words and experienced hands. His touch was no longer that of a stranger and was all the more arousing for its familiarity. She knew now what waited for her when all the doors were opened. She learned and enjoyed and shared. The morning grew late.

It was past noon when Foxy moved down the staircase toward the main floor. She moved slowly, telling herself that the day would last forever if she didn't hurry it. She wanted to explore the house, but firmly turned toward the kitchen. The other rooms would wait until Lance was with her. She had only taken two steps down the hall when the doorbell rang. Glancing up the stairs, Foxy concluded that Lance could hardly be finished showering and decided to answer the bell herself.

There were two women standing on the sheltered white porch. One look told Foxy that they were not door-to-door salespeople. The first was young, around Foxy's age, with warm brunette hair and a rosy complexion. She had a youthful beauty and frank, curious brown eyes. Her clothes were casual but expensive: a tweed suit with a fitted jacket and flared skirt softened by a silk blouse. Supreme confidence was in her every move.

The second woman was more mature but no less striking. Her hair was white and short, brushed back from a delicately pale face. She had few lines or wrinkles, and her not inconsiderable beauty depended more on her superb bone structure and cameo coloring than on the prodigal application of makeup. Her ice-blue suit matched her eyes; its simplicity cunningly announced its price. It occurred to Foxy in the instant they studied each other that her face was quite lovely but expressionless—like a painting of a lovely landscape executed without imagination.

“Hello.” Foxy shifted her smile from one woman to the other. “May I help you?”

“Perhaps you'd be good enough to let us in.” Foxy heard the distinct Boston cadence in the older woman's voice before she breezed into the hallway. More curious than annoyed, Foxy stepped aside to allow the younger woman to cross the threshold. Standing in the center of the hall, the matron stripped off her white kid gloves and surveyed Foxy's straight-leg jeans and loose chenille sweater. The air was suddenly redolent with French perfume. “And where,” she demanded imperiously, “is my son?”

I should have known,
Foxy thought as the cool blue eyes examined her.
But how totally unlike her he is. There's not even a shade of resemblance.
“Lance is upstairs, Mrs. Matthews,” Foxy explained and tried a fresh smile. “I'm—”

“Well, fetch him then,” she interrupted with an imperious movement of her hand. “And tell him I'm here.”

It was not the rudeness as much as the tone of contempt that fanned Foxy's temper. Careful to guard her tongue, she spoke precisely. “I'm afraid he's in the shower at the moment. Would you care to wait?” She employed the tone of a receptionist in a dentist's office. From the corner of her eye, she caught the look of amusement in the younger woman's face.

“Come, Melissa.” Mrs. Matthews flapped her gloves against her palm in annoyance. “We'll wait in the living room.”

“Yes, Aunt Catherine.” Her tone was agreeable but she flashed Foxy a look of mischief over her shoulder as she obeyed.

Taking a long breath, Foxy followed. She took care not to search the room like a newcomer, deciding that Catherine Matthews need not know she had seen little more than the bedroom of Lance's house. Her eyes fluttered over a baby grand piano, a Persian carpet, and a Tiffany lamp before moving back to the queenly figure that had settled into a ladder-back chair. “Perhaps you'd like something while you wait,” Foxy offered. Hoping her tone was more polite than her thoughts, she tried the smile again. She was aware of the fact that an introduction was in order, but Catherine's air of scorn persuaded her to hold back her identity. “Some tea perhaps,” she suggested. “Or some coffee.”

“No.” Catherine set her leather envelope bag on the table beside her. “Is Lancelot in the habit of having strange young women entertain his guests?”

“I wouldn't know,” Foxy returned equably. Her backbone stiffened in automatic defense. “We haven't spent a great deal of time discussing strange young women.”

“I'm quite certain that conversation is not why my son enjoys your companionship.” Placing both hands on the ends of the chair's arms, she tapped a manicured finger against the polished wood. “Lancelot rarely chooses to dally with a young lady because of the prodigiousness of her vocabulary. His taste generally eludes me, but I must say, this time I'm astounded.” With an arch of her brow, she gave Foxy a calculated look. “Where
did
he find you?”

“Selling matchbooks in Indianapolis,” Foxy tossed out before she could prevent herself. “He's going to rehabilitate me.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” Lance stated as he walked into the room. Foxy was instantly grateful to see that he was dressed much as herself: jeans, T-shirt, and bare feet. He gave Foxy a brief kiss as he moved past her to greet his mother. Bending down, he brushed the offered cheek with his lips. “Hello, Mother, you're looking well. Cousin Melissa.” He smiled and kissed her cheek in turn. “I see you're lovelier than the last time.”

“It's good to see you, Lance.” Smiling, Melissa made a flirtatious sweep with her lashes. “Things are never dull when you're around.”

“The highest of compliments,” he replied, then turned back to his mother. “I imagine Mrs. Trilby told you I was coming in.”

“Yes.” She crossed surprisingly slender, youthful-looking legs. “I find it quite annoying to hear of my son's whereabouts from a servant.”

“Don't be too annoyed with Mrs. Trilby,” Lance countered carelessly. “She probably thought you knew. I intended to call you at the end of the week.”

Catherine bristled at his deliberate misunderstanding of her meaning. When she spoke, however, her voice was cool and expressionless. Watching her, Foxy recalled Lance saying how the Bardetts were always civilized.
In their own fashion,
Foxy mused, thinking of her initial encounter. “I suppose I should be grateful that you intended to call me at all since you appear to be involved with your”—her eyes drifted to fasten briefly on Foxy—“guest.” She lifted her brow, arching it into a smooth, high forehead. “Perhaps you would send her along so that we might have a private conversation. Since Trilby isn't here, she might make a pot of tea.”

Foxy, knowing she would explode if she stayed, turned with the intention of locking herself into the bedroom until she could be trusted again.

“Foxy.” Lance spoke her name mildly, but she recognized the underlying tone of command. Eyes flaming, she turned back. Lance casually crossed the room and slipped his arm over her shoulders. “I don't believe you've been introduced.”

“Introductions,” his mother cut in, “are hardly necessary or appropriate.”

Lance inclined his head. “If you've finished insulting her, Mother, I'd like you to meet my wife.”

There was total silence. Catherine Matthews did not gasp in alarm or surprise but merely stared at Foxy as if she were a strange piece of artwork in a gallery. “Your wife?” she repeated. Her voice remained calm, her face devoid of emotion. Folding her hands in her lap, she turned her eyes to her son. “When did this happen?”

“Yesterday. Foxy and I were married in the morning in New York. We drove up directly afterward for”—the grin flickered in his eyes as he kept them on his mother—“an informal honeymoon.”

He's enjoying this,
Foxy realized as she heard the amusement lace his voice. She knew, too, by the ice in Catherine's that she was not.

“One hopes Foxy is not her given name.”

“Cynthia,” Foxy put in distinctly as she grew weary of being referred to as an absent participant.

“Cynthia,” Catherine murmured thoughtfully. She did not offer her hand or cheek for a token embrace or kiss; instead she carefully studied Foxy's face for the first time, obviously considering what could be done to salvage the situation.
I'm the situation,
Foxy realized with a quick flash of humor. “And your maiden name?” Catherine demanded with an inclination of her head.

“Fox,” she told her with a mimicking nod.

“Fox,” Catherine repeated, tapping her finger on the arm of the chair again. “Fox. The name is vaguely familiar.”

“The race driver Lance sponsors,” Melissa supplied helpfully. She stared at Foxy with undisguised fascination. “I suppose you're his sister or something, aren't you?”

“Yes, I'm his sister.” The bold curiosity in her voice made Foxy smile. “Hello.”

Mischief streaked swiftly over Melissa's face. Like Lance, Foxy noted, she was enjoying the encounter. “Hello.”

“You met her on a—a . . . ” Catherine's fingers waved as she searched for the proper term. “A race-car track?” The first hint of fury whispered through the words. Foxy stiffened again at the expression of contempt that was turned on her.

“I could do with some coffee, Fox, would you mind?” At Lance's calm request, she tossed her head back to flame at him. “Melissa will give you a hand,” he continued, nearly cutting off her explosion. “Won't you, Melissa?” He addressed his cousin, but never took his eyes from his wife.

“Of course.” Melissa rose obediently and crossed the room. Trapped, Foxy fought down the surge of temper. She turned, leaving Lance and his mother without another word. “Did you really meet Lance on a racetrack?” Melissa asked as the kitchen door swung behind them. There was no guile in the question, simply curiosity.

“Yes.” Struggling with fury, Foxy managed to keep her tone level. “Ten years ago.”

“Ten years? You had to have been a child.” Melissa settled down at the table while Foxy scooped out coffee. Sunlight poured through the windows, making the drizzling rain of the day before only a memory. “Now, ten years later, he marries you.” Elbows on the table, Melissa made a cradle out of her hands and set her chin on it. “It's terribly romantic.”

As she felt her anger taper off Foxy blew out a long breath. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

“I wouldn't worry too much about Aunt Catherine,” Melissa advised, studying Foxy's profile. “She wouldn't have approved of anyone she hadn't handpicked.”

“That's comforting,” Foxy replied. Wanting to keep busy, she began to brew a pot of tea as well.

“There'll also be a large contingent of women between twenty and forty who'll want to murder you,” Melissa added as she crossed her silk-covered legs. “There hasn't been a shortage of hopefuls for the title of Mrs. Lancelot Matthews.”

“Marvelous.” Foxy turned to Melissa and leaned back against the counter. “Just marvelous.”