What Price Love? (18 page)

Within minutes she would see what Rus was so urgently seeking. Folding her arms, she stared unseeing at the desk and prayed she'd be able to understand, to deduce from the information in the register what sort of scheme was afoot, what sort of threat Rus was facing.

Her mind rolled back over recent events, over her quest to view the register—over her clashes with Dillon, culminating in their interlude last night.

Her fall from grace, albeit in a worthy cause.

Her lips twitched; her mind blankly refused to allow her to pretend, to delude herself that she'd given herself to Dillon Caxton in order to secure a sight of the elusive register and thus to save her twin.

Her only regret was that Dillon thought she had.

Just an instant of memory and she could feel again the thrill, taste the excitement of their wild and reckless ride. Of the storm they'd created, unleashed, then gloried in. Of the sensual sharing, the pleasures and delight.

She glanced at the door, in the distance heard some other door close.

Drawing in a deep breath, she slowly let it out. Lying, deceit, even misleading by omission had never come easily to her; only the fact that Rus was involved had allowed her to so blatantly deceive their father, let alone countenance involving Eugenia and Adelaide in her scheme. She was too confident, too sure of her own self to feel the need to hide any part of her; she'd always asked the world to come to terms with her as she was and had defiantly faced what ever storms had ensued.

Footsteps, long masculine strides, drew steadily nearer.

She stared at the door. Letting Dillon—the man she knew him to be—guess the truth of her feelings, guess why she'd so wantonly given herself to him, wouldn't be wise. Instinct told her so, in terms absolute and unequivocal; rational intelligence concurred. If he knew…she wasn't sure what he might do. She wasn't even sure what she would want him to do.

The door knob turned. Unfolding her arms, she straightened. She would examine the register, work out what Rus was involved in, discover some way to find him and pull him free of the mess, then Eugenia, Rus, Adelaide, and she would leave Newmarket. And that would be that.

There could be no future for her and Dillon Caxton; aside from all else, he didn't know who she really was, and in the present circumstances, that was a secret she would do well to keep from him.

The door opened; he entered, carrying a large tome.

Eyes immediately drawn to it, she felt her nerves tighten, felt expectation well.

He shut the door, then came to the desk. “It's heavy—let me set it down.”

She shifted to the side. He slid the register—a ledger more than six inches thick, more than a foot long, and nearly half again as wide—onto the desk; it settled with a solid
thump
.

Hand on the cover, he glanced at her as she moved closer. “Any particular entry?”

She shook her head. “I just need to see what information is listed.”

He raised the cover, opening the book to a page filled with entries; with a wave, he gestured to it, then stepped back.

Pris stared at the fine writing crowded on the page. She glanced at the lamp; Dillon was already thumbing the wheel, increasing the light. Shifting to stand directly in front of the ledger, placing her hands on the desk, she leaned over it and studied the wide pages.

Columns marched across the double width, some narrow, the last on the right-hand page taking up half that page's width. Each entry was at least a few inches deep, neatly ruled to separate it from its neighbors.

The first column gave the horse's name, the second listed the date and place of foaling, the third gave the dam and her lineage, taking up many more lines. Next came the sire and his lineage, again in considerable detail.

From there, the minutiae dramatically increased. The last two columns took up nearly the entire right-hand page, one a physical description complete to the most minute color splash, the last a listing of “points.” Pris knew enough about horses to understand what she was reading, but how could such details be illegally used? If Rus saw such entries, what would they tell him?

She read on, searching for some hint of the clue she was convinced must be there.

From alongside the desk, Dillon studied her face. Saw concentration claim her, watched her eyes track the small, precise lettering of his clerks.

What was she searching for? Would he know when she found it?

Would she?

That last question hung in his mind. Reaching the end of one entry, she paused, then, frown deepening, the worry clouding her lovely eyes darkening, she tracked back across the page, and started on the next.

His restlessness increased; stirring, he walked to the bookcase and stared at that instead. And forced himself to some semblance of patience.

Last night, he'd decided there was only one way forward, one clear and obvious path. He had unequivocal plans for Pris Dalling, but before he could implement them, he needed to free her, and himself, from the tangled knot her involvement with a racing scam it was his duty to eradicate had created. While she remained caught up in what ever it was, regardless of how innocently, his loyalties were compromised, and that he couldn't afford.

That was what he told himself, how he rationalized his actions. How he tried to excuse the compulsion that gnawed at him, that had had him offering to show her the register in flagrant violation of his until-then-absolute rule.

All lies. Or if not an outright lie, than less than half the truth.

Behind him, he heard her turn a page. Glancing around, he watched her smooth the page, then lean over to read, her profile limned by the golden lamplight.

He drifted nearer, drawn to where he could see her expression. The look on her face, unguarded, spoke clearly of anxiety, of escalating concern.

Of confusion and ultimately fear.

The sight struck like a lance through his shields, impelled him to draw closer.

The truth was…in his heart, in his soul, in his bones, rescuing her came first.
That
was his number one priority; he had to eliminate all that threatened her.

Not for one instant had he forgotten there was danger—real danger—involved. Danger from a man who had shot at her, danger as
evidenced by Collier's demise. What ever was going on, whoever was involved, they weren't above stooping to murder, and she, with her as-yet-unexplained interest, had stepped into the arena.

He was prepared to do what ever proved necessary to remove her from the field, to sequester her safely away. Then he'd deal with whoever the villains were, and then he'd deal with her.

He'd make a deal with her, what ever it took.

Her attention remained on the ledger's page. He drew nearer, then, halting behind her, a little to the side, unable to help himself he slid one hand around her waist. Distracted, she glanced briefly back and up at him, then looked again at the page.

The feel of her, warm and supple beneath the figured silk, soothed, a reassuring sensual balm quieting the aroused and now-prowling beast. He settled his hand, fingers splayed, across her waist. When she made no demur, he edged closer, shifting so he stood directly behind her, effectively caging her between him and the desk.

Her exposed nape beckoned. He bent his head, inhaled, filled his lungs and his brain with the intoxicating scent of her. Seduced, he set his lips to the beguiling curve, traced the exquisitely fine skin.

She shuddered, caught her breath. For one instant raised her head, evocatively responsive, then he lifted his lips from her skin, and she sighed and returned to her task.

His other hand rose to join the first, bracketing her waist, holding her before him while, breath bated, he waited for the sudden pounding in his blood to subside.

Distracted, Pris gave a low chuckle, content to have him near; she found the sensation of his strength engulfing her comforting, not threatening. Focusing on the neat script, she tried to concentrate. Absentmindedly responding to his comfort, she shifted her hips against him, side to side…

His hands tightened, gripped.

Blinking to full awareness, she felt the hard ridge of his erection riding against her bottom. Her senses leapt; excitement sizzled down her veins. She paused, then resumed her slow swaying.

Fascinated that she could arouse him so easily.

Wondering what he would do.

He pressed closer yet; his hands rose, sculpting her body, rising to cradle her breasts. She straightened, allowing the caress, encour
aging it.

Tilting her head back against his shoulder, she savored the feel of his hands on her silk-screened flesh. Marveled that she could have so acutely missed and craved something she'd known for less than a day.

His head dipped beside hers; his lips cruised the junction of throat and shoulder, warm, deliberately arousing. His hands closed, gently kneaded; his fingers stroked, caressed, found, and played.

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

The words stirred the curls by her ear; the warmth of his breath caressed like a flame.

“I don't know.” Her words were as low, but more breathless. “I can't…interpret it.”

His lips cruised her throat, found the sensitive spot at the corner of her jaw. “If you tell me why you're searching, I could probably help.”

The urge to tell him was strong, but…“I need to know more before I'll know if I can tell you.”

His hands, now restlessly, increasingly possessively, roaming her body, paused, then he asked, “What do you need to know?”

She glanced down at the ledger spread before her, at the columns marching across the page. She moistened her lips. “I need to know how the information in the register is used.”

A long pause ensued, then his hands slid across her gown, one splaying over her waist, the other smoothing down her stomach to the hollow between her thighs, fingers pressing inward, through her skirts suggestively covering her mound. In a blatantly explicit manner, he tilted her hips against him.

“Are you sure?”

The words whispered past her ear, laden with heat. With the same ruthlessly seductive power she'd encountered last night.

It was the wild and reckless man in whose arms she stood, the one man who could show her the stars and sweep her to heaven.

“Yes.”

The word slipped from her lips.

She waited, nerves quivering, for him to turn her, to kiss her, to join with her as he had last night.

Instead, his lower hand left her; he reached forward and pushed
the open ledger farther up the desk. “Leave your hands as they are, on the desk.”

He pressed closer, nudging her hips before him, pinning her against the desk. His hand returned, palm to the silk, to cup her breast. At her waist, his other hand gripped, anchoring her before him as he closed his hand, evocatively kneaded, then settled to play.

With her senses. With her wits. With her nerves.

The first flared, then stretched, greedily drinking in the sensations he expertly orchestrated—the sharp spikes of tactile stimulation, the building, welling heat. Her wits spiraled away, unneeded, unheeded; she let them go, wholly caught in the mesmerizing play, in the promise implicit in his unhurried, almost arrogant touch, in the heavy hardness of his body pressed to hers.

As for her nerves…he plucked them like a maestro, tuning her body, preparing it for his use. For his plea sure, and her delight.

He bent his head, nudged hers aside, and touched his lips to her skin. Her nerves leapt, then melted. How had he in just a moment awoken her so that his lips now seared and burned? Every lingering caress, every taunting sweep of his tongue along the tendons of her throat, the evocative graze of his teeth, sent flames of need, of that heady conflagration of lust, passion, and desire of which he was a master spreading beneath her skin, rushing down her veins, pooling low, then swelling, welling, building, a volcanic furnace of fiery need driving her, compelling her.

His hand at her waist held her upright against him; his fingers at her breast artfully played, sliding over her skin, closing about her ruched nipple, and squeezing…

She uttered a fractured gasp. Realized he'd loosened her bodice and pressed aside the fabric to bare one breast. As if it were his to caress as he wished, to possess as he wished.

There was some element, some underlying current rippling through his touch, that spoke of that view, of how he saw her, of how he wanted her…

Her wits were too far distant, too veiled by the mists of passion to see more deeply, or clearly.

Her breathing was quick, shallow; its cadence escalated, breathlessness gripping her, the vise about her lungs tightening another notch as his lips returned, hot and ardent, to cruise the vulnerable line of her throat.

Giddy, her lids falling, she tilted her head and let him have his way.

Let him stoke that inner furnace and feed the flames, until they wreathed through her body, and her brain.

Behind her, she felt him shift, reach down. Grasping the back of her skirts, he drew them up, and up, until they were bunched above her waist, her chemise trapped with them, baring her, exposing the backs of her legs and her bottom to the cool night air.

To him.

His hand touched, caressed, sculpted.

Heat flared with every touch, searing her flesh, sinking into her blood to set it pounding.

To set it rushing to the swollen folds between her thighs, so she throbbed and ached. So that by the time he'd caressed and claimed every curve, by the time the dew of desire had spread across her exposed skin, by the time he consented to touch her there, to press his fingers between her thighs and stroke, then part her folds and press deep, she was urgent and ready.

Ready to moan when, his hot mouth covering the pulse at the base of her throat, he held her before him and worked his fingers deep.

Eyes closed she rode the thrusting penetration of his fingers, evocatively pressing back, rolling her hips to caress his erection in explicit invitation.