Cheryl Holt (37 page)

“Look no further.”

Without warning, she climbed onto his lap, her thighs spread, her knees braced on either side of him. She bent down to kiss him on the mouth, but at the last second, he lurched away so that she brushed his cheek instead.

It was a ridiculous moment. She was practically begging to be ravished, but he couldn’t oblige her. His heart was too weary to risk another catastrophe. He had to keep her at bay, had to get her off his lap and out the door before he relented and did something stupid.

“Where is your husband?” He gazed at a spot behind her so that he didn’t have to stare into her beautiful eyes. “I don’t imagine he’ll be too thrilled to hear that you’re over here prostituting yourself.”

“Oh, didn’t anyone tell you?”

Don’t ask!
he admonished. He wouldn’t care about her! Yet he found himself questioning, “Tell me what?”

“I never married Reginald.” She nibbled his ear, his neck. “That day you were in Hailsham, he was lying.”

“You’re not married?”

“No.”

His spirits soared at the news, but he tamped down his joy. If she was free, if she was single, what was it to him? As he’d long ago accepted, they weren’t destined to end up together. So why pine for what could never be?

“I had been curious,” he mused, determined not to react. “Thank you for letting me know. Now this
interview
is concluded. As you leave, you may send in the next candidate.”

“We’re not finished,” she declared. “We’ve scarcely begun.”

He watched, horrified, as she slid the strap of her nightgown off her shoulder, and he gulped with dismay. He’d never been able to resist her, and if she removed her clothes, he was in big trouble.

She tugged at the fabric, exposing her bosom, her tantalizing, lush breasts so near, so enticing. He struggled to disregard the temptation, but he failed. He was overwhelmed by her heat, by her smell, and he sucked at the extended tip.

Instantly, he was soothed, his anxiety and distress fading away, and he allowed himself to revel for a bit. She gave him the other, and he indulged again, as she moaned with pleasure, as she lowered her loins to connect with his. The contact was electrifying, and his phallus swelled to an enormous size, vividly reminding him
that it had been an eternity since he’d had any carnal relief.

It would be so simple to grab her and ease himself into her tight sheath, but he did nothing, remaining as still as a marble statue, his hands firmly locked at his sides.

“It won’t do you any good,” he insisted.

“What won’t?”

“I will never give you this job, no matter how keen you are to have it.”

“Your mind is saying no, but your body is telling me a different story.” She reached down and stroked him, and at encountering his rigid cock, she chuckled. “Why don’t we see how averse you are to dallying?”

“I’m not averse,” he claimed. “I’m perfectly willing to accept whatever is offered. From any female—besides yourself.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Very.”

“Let’s find out, shall we?”

Before he could prevent her, she was blazing a trail down his chest, pausing at his nipple to nip and bite. She slipped off his lap, knelt on the floor, and plucked at the drawstring of his pants. He observed, dispassionate, detached, as she toyed with the material, as she displayed him for her inspection. Then she leaned down, her glorious hair draped across his thighs, and she commenced at the base of his shaft, working upward until she was at the oozing crown.

She grinned. “Fitch informs me that you haven’t had a woman in ages.”

“Fitch should mind his own business.” He was tense, strained, desperate for her to proceed.

“As far as he knows, you haven’t had sex since I left.”

“Then obviously, he doesn’t know much.”

“I wonder how long you can last?”

She glided over the end and sucked him inside. He’d tutored her well, and she performed the naughty exploit as if she were an experienced courtesan. Briefly, he wallowed in ecstasy, but she quickly spurred him to the edge.

He stared down at her, loving her, hating her, elated to have her prostrate before him. He was so ready to spill himself, to seize the moment, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

He didn’t understand why she’d come or what she wanted. Didn’t she comprehend that her very presence was torture? He couldn’t tolerate having her with him, having her taunt and tease with memories of what might have been.

Pulling away, he set her aside and stomped across the room, fussing with his trousers, tying the string.

His back to her, his emotions in turmoil, he could hear her rising to her feet, could hear her approaching, and he pleaded, “Go home, Emily. Please.”

“Sorry, but I no longer have a home to which I can go. I must stay with you.”

“Your personal problems aren’t any of my affair,” he unkindly stated. Once prior, he’d tried to rescue her, and it had been an unmitigated disaster. He wasn’t a knight in shining armor and wouldn’t pretend to be.

“Isn’t that a fine how-do-you-do?” She sounded aggravated, as if
he
was the villain, as if
she
was the aggrieved party. “You’ve ruined me, and I demand you give me shelter.”

“You
demand
?”

He whipped around, only to discover that, without his realizing it, she’d removed her negligee, so she was sinfully, blissfully naked. He was intimately familiar with every magnificent inch of her anatomy, could recall every leisurely exploration he’d undertaken.

How were they to have a rational argument when she was naked?

“Put something on!” he ordered, refusing to gape, refusing to drool, refusing to dream. “Immediately.”

“No, I like prancing about in the nude. It suits me.”

“It doesn’t suit me,” he lied.

“You’ve become such a Puritan.”

She advanced on him, each stride bringing her closer, closer, until she pressed herself to him, her fabulous figure flattened to his all the way down. His phallus swelled even further, pushing him to a perilous precipice.

“Why are you doing this?” he inquired.

“Don’t you know?”

“I haven’t a clue.”

“I love you,” she asserted.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. I’ve always loved you.”

“You’re mad,” he scoffed. “Absolutely delusional. What sane woman would presume herself in love with the likes of me? Haven’t you heard? I’m a murderer.”

She ignored the shocking remark and rose up on tiptoe to kiss him. “You love me, too, Michael,” she said. “Show me how much.”

He was reeling, his senses igniting with an overload of happiness, which frightened him. Yanking away, he folded his arms around his torso so that his foolish hands
couldn’t reach out to her. “What will it take to make you go? Money? A house? What? Tell me, and it’s yours.”

“You thick lummox”—she had a hearty laugh—“I’m not after the things you can buy me.”

“What, then?”

“I want
you
.”

“Well,
I
don’t want you. As opposed to what you seem to imagine about me, I can’t blithely fornicate with you, then send you on your merry way.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . because . . .”

“Because you care about me?” she finished when he couldn’t.

“I
cared
about you. In the past. I even loved you, but you left me. You couldn’t be bothered to learn the facts. Like everyone else, you thought the worst of me. You didn’t give me a chance to explain. You never paused to consider that I might not have hurt you. You merely assumed that I would.”

“I was wrong for not trusting you,” she murmured. “Can you forgive me?”

Her gentle apology stopped him in his tracks. What should be his response? If she was sorry, how was he to keep his distance? “You’re forgiven. Now leave me be. I can’t bear this torment.”

“Oh, Michael. . ..” She sighed. “Why
do
you suppose I’m here?”

“I told you: I don’t know.”

“Hazard a guess.”

“You must want something from me.”

“Yes.”

“What?” he queried.

“I have a confession to make.”

“Which is . . . ?”

“I don’t wish to be your mistress.”

“And I’m not about to let you,” he concurred, “so we’re agreed on that.”

“Actually, I want to marry you. Will you have me?”

He gasped. “You want to what?”

“You heard me,” she replied, and she repeated, “Will you have me?”

“Me? Have you? No.”

“Why not?”

“Last I checked,” he pointed out, “the man does the asking—”

“If I waited for you to get around to it,” she interrupted, “I’d be a hundred years old.”

“—and I don’t ever intend to wed. So if that’s what you came to discover, you have your answer, and we can end this charade.”

“You don’t intend to wed? Why?”

He assessed her, trying to decide if she was being cruel or obtuse. She wasn’t either, so he couldn’t fathom why she’d pretend not to know. “Are you aware of what occurred after you went home?”

“Yes, I’ve been apprised of every sordid detail. In the process of eloping, Alex raced through Hailsham to fetch my sister, and he spilled all.”

“Then, you understand that insanity runs in my family.”

“I am beginning to believe it runs in mine, too.” As if there were a foul odor in the air, she waved away his declaration. “You didn’t kill Pamela.”

While Margaret had witnessed the incident and knew
the truth, Emily was the only person besides Alex who hadn’t doubted him. Her certainty was a balm to his battered spirit.

“How can you be so sure?”

“You have many faults, Michael, but you’re not a killer. You’re an extremely kind man, and you have no temper, so you couldn’t have lost it in a fit of anger.”

“
I
am kind?
I
have no temper?”

“No, you don’t, and your bark is much worse than your bite.” She kissed him again. “Say yes. Say you’ll be my husband.”

She was so insistent, her request sounding so genuine, as if she really wanted to marry him. Why would she? Why would she bind herself to him? Her confidence rattled him, nagged at his common sense.

What if . . .

The fascinating prospect slithered by. What if he dared? He ought to call her bluff and consent just to see how fast she’d faint.

“What would you do with me if you had me?” he inquired.

“I’d spend every minute of every day making you happy.” She was babbling on as if she’d already reflected, as if she had his entire life planned out. “I would love you, and I would furnish you with a houseful of children who would love you, too.”

“Children? What would I do with children?”

“You’d love them back.” She rested her palm on his cheek. “You’ll never be alone again, Michael. Never. I swear it.”

She painted such a pretty picture. Of himself, surrounded by people who cherished him. He’d never
thought he wanted to have children, that he was deranged like his parents but his time with Margaret had changed him, had him realizing that he’d missed an important aspect of living, that perhaps he wasn’t crazed, after all.

He could envision auburn-haired girls, who looked like Emily, dancing through the parlor, and dark-haired boys, who resembled himself and Alex, wrestling on the rug. Suddenly, he yearned for the dream to be his conclusion.

She snuggled herself to him, and he couldn’t prevent his arms from going around her. “Tell me it could be real,” he implored. “Tell me it could happen.”

“Of course it could happen.”

He’d always been on his own, had had to fend for himself. He’d been adrift on a forlorn sea, like a sailor viewing the normal townspeople on the shore. He’d ached to fit in, to be one of them, but he’d convinced himself that he didn’t merit an ordinary existence.

She was offering everything he’d ever secretly craved. Could he refuse her? Could he toss her out and walk away? To what? To his quiet house? His isolated world? Was he to putter away into old age, hiding in his drafty mansion, with Fitch his sole companion?

“I want it,” he choked out on a tortured breath, the admission wrenched from the innermost part of his being. “I want it all.”

“Then you shall have it, my dear man,” she promised.

He captured her lips in a torrid kiss, reveling in the taste of her, the feel of her. She was his heaven, she was his earth, and she’d come to him when he was at his lowest ebb. She loved him, when there was no reason she should.

Then and there, he vowed that he would spend the
remainder of his life proving to her that she’d made the right choice. He would never let her down.

He twirled her around and laid her on the couch where she’d first fallen asleep so many months earlier. He stretched out atop her, relishing how her body was pressed so intimately to his.

He was so hard for her, had desired her so desperately, for so long, and he ripped at his pants, anxious to yank them off. She smiled and stopped him.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” she queried.

“What?”

“There’s a proposal on the table, and it hasn’t been accepted.”

“And I told you that the man does the asking.”

“So . . . ?”

He was so delighted that he felt as if he might burst with gladness. “Emily Barnett, I love you with my whole heart and soul. Will you marry me?”

She flashed a wise, eloquent look. “There can’t be any other women. Only me from this moment on.”

“Only you.”

“No more drinking.”

She couldn’t expect him to abandon all his bad habits! “Maybe a brandy after supper?”

“It’s negotiable. But there’ll be no carousing, no wild parties where you’re traipsing around London and I’m worried about you and wondering where you are.”

“I’ll never be anywhere but by your side. I’ll stay so close that you’ll grow sick of me. You’ll be begging me to leave you in peace.”

She laughed at that. “You’ll be faithful to me and devoted to our children.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Then in that case, Lord Winchester, yes, I will marry you.”

“I’ll be the best husband ever.”

“I know that you will.”

He was so relieved, so thankful that she’d been stubborn enough to grab for what she wanted. If she hadn’t risked all, he’d have been alone forever.