Double Dare (9 page)

"Actually, I only did the courier job as a favor to someone."

"Does that mean I can't call on you if I need some documents delivered?" The flirty look in her eyes was doing bad things to him.

"You can call on me any time."

She gave a decadent chuckle. Twines of copper fell from her ears, echoing the colors of her hair, lips and eyes. He wanted to commission a portrait of her, looking just that way.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you smile like a wolf?"

He wasn't sure he felt comfortable being likened to a wolf. "No, is it a bad thing?"

"Oh no, not so long as we're playing out the adult version of the fairy tale."

"Now that sounds good."

"Here you go." Joseph deposited an ice bucket and two glasses on the table. Zac folded several notes into his hand and winked, putting up his hand to indicate he didn't want any change.

"I hope you don't mind," he said, as Joseph left, "they had Retsina and it's not often you find it in London. I can order you something else."

"Greek wine, yes?"

He smiled, nodding. "Yes, I'm half Greek."

"I'd love to try it." She watched with curiosity as he lifted the bottle out of the bucket. "Is that where you get your dark looks?"

"My father's side is Greek, my Mother is English."

"Are you bilingual?"

"Yes, although I start in with the Greek when I get angry or emotional, without even noticing." From past experience he'd found it was best to warn people of that little foible in advance.

"I'll keep that in mind." A teasing look passed over her expression. "Did you grow up here or there?"

"Here mostly, I went to school in London but we spent a lot of time in Athens too. My older sister is married and lives there."

"Tell me about her."

Something about her made him feel comfortable, relaxed, so he talked. That wasn't what he was expecting at all, nor to be talking about his own family, his sister Nanette, and her family life. He'd intended to learn more about Abby this evening. He wanted to find out what made the intriguing Ms. Abigail Douglas tick.

"And does the English blood account for your blue eyes?"

"Indeed, yes. Do you know much of Greek culture?" he asked, drawing her away from the reference to his mother's side.

"One island-hopping holiday with my parents, when I was fourteen." She gave a gentle laugh, as if embarrassed by the idea of being a tourist.

He looked at her, imagining her as she might have been then.

"What?" she asked, in response to his scrutiny.

"I am trying to picture you as a girl at fourteen. It's hard because you are such a woman."

Pleasured by his remark, she looked at him with a beckoning glance, every part of her oozing lush femininity. He wanted to take her into his arms, make love to her long and slow.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Did you enjoy the islands?"

She picked up the glass of yellow-green wine and sipped it, her eyes closing appreciatively as she swallowed. She was so responsive and sensual. "Yes, but not fully." She looked at him. "My parents always wanted to rush from one sight to another. It was all just a list of places. I like to explore, to take on an adventure if there's one to be had."

He smiled. "So I've noticed." He took a swig of his wine, nursing its sharp zesty flavor in his mouth, enjoying the after taste of pine.

"Are we still talking about the Greek Islands, or something else?" She looked so inviting, her eyes filled with secret messages about what they had done the night before, what they would do again. He almost forgot he wanted to talk at all.

He took her hand, meshing her fingers with his. "I'm sorry, I did slip into thinking about having sex, but you do that to me."

She chuckled. "The experience is mutual." She mouthed a kiss at him.

Now he was getting hard.

"This Retsina is good." She took another sip, her glance heavy with allure over the rim of the glass. "Actually, speaking of sex, I had my first, well...sensual awakening, I suppose you'd call it," she glanced at him from under her lashes, "in Zante."

Well and truly hard as rock
. "Go on…"

"I was alone near the harbor one evening, watching the fishing boats come in. I felt something. Her free hand reached to the back of her shoulder. "Here."

He listened intently as he imagined it.

"At first I thought it was an insect, but then some innate reaction in my body told me what it was. It was something sensual, sexual."

She was like a drug, he decided in that moment. If the building had been on fire, he couldn't have stepped away. So much for caution. He rode his fingers against hers, wanting it to be their bodies meshing that way.

"I turned around and there was a boy standing behind me, a dark-eyed gypsy. He'd kissed my shoulder." Her fingers trailed across the back of her shoulder again. "I felt both fear and the thrill that comes from...inside." She locked her fingers with his, and they merged for a moment, totally in tune. "It touched me deeply and I can still remember how I could barely breathe." Their fingers rode up between each other, their eyes speaking without words.

She laughed, breaking the moment. "That's all that happened, but it was a special moment, moving."

"It's the poor youth I feel sorry for." He drew her fingers to his lips to kiss them.

"I expect he's kissed a thousand shoulders by now."

"And never found one quite so perfect...the virginal Abigail, how blessed he was."

She looked up from her wine and caught the message he was sending her. He wanted to be inside her. Soon.

"I like the idea of your sexual awakening in Greece, but I'm jealous of the youth that first stirred the woman in you."

Her lips were slightly parted, her cheeks glowing. "If we were somewhere more private, I'd show you that you are the one awakening me now." Her pupils were dilated, her eyes darkly suggestive.

Raw lust surged up inside him. He wanted her on her back. He rested his arm along the banquette behind her shoulders and kissed her mouth, his tongue skimming her lips, tasting her.
You're supposed to be talking to her, learning about her. Focus, dammit
.

"You have the most incredible eyes," he said. "They are almost amber, like a cat's."

She gave a mock puzzled look. "Hmm, I thought they were a dull hazel, but I'm pleased that you see them that way."

He chuckled and lifted her chin with his fingers, encouraging her to look at him again. "No, definitely amber, both rare and beautiful." He looped a trailing curl behind her ear. "What of your heritage? There has to be some Celt in there, surely?"

"The ginger tinge to my hair gave it away, huh?"

"Kind of, but more than that."

"My dad was Scottish. He died a couple of years ago." Sadness passed over her eyes then she blinked it away. "My mum is English, like yours."

"Any brothers or sisters?"

"No, just me. I've always been a bit of a loner, independent, part of being an only child I suppose. To be honest I always felt like a bit of an outsider, sometimes I still do." She frowned.

Was this a confession, he wondered? How much of a loner was she and did independence mean she looked after number one? He wanted to know and yet...he didn't. What he really wanted to do was to forget about his concern about her agenda and take her to bed instead.

"I can understand that. As a young person I had a hard time trying to decide which culture I felt part of, the Greek or the English." He hadn't meant to comment, but the thought had turned into words unheeded. He topped up their glasses. "Have you always lived in London?"

She nodded. "Yes, I'm a city girl through and through." She paused. "We share the fact that we have mixed heritage."

"Yes." He smiled, acknowledging the coincidence. "And the red in your hair has come down your father's side?"

"The hair is a pain in the proverbial. I have to wear it really long, or else very short, otherwise it grows straight out. I hate it."

"I love your hair." He ran his hand through the trailing strands, unable to resist contact again. "Last night, I wanted to stroke it while I was fucking you."

Her lips parted, her breasts shifting inside her dress as her breathing pattern altered.

His hands itched to touch her, to mold her breasts in his hands, feel her nipples. Lick them. Words melted away from his mind. Actions took over. His mouth covered hers, his hand cupping the back of her head beneath her hair.

Her hands moved to his chest then one dropped lower, squeezing his thigh, roving over his cock, enclosing it. "I want you, Zac."

"And I want you. Shall we go?" He couldn't think of anything he'd rather do than get her home to his bed. "My place?"

She nodded, murmuring a husky acknowledgement in response.

* * * *

Outside the evening was still warm, balmy, the sky darkening into a drape of dense, blue-black velvet. Zac led her to a taxi rank a few minutes walk away, but she barely noticed the time or the distance. She was aware most of all of his presence, his arm around her shoulders and the promise of passion in his eyes.

He gave the driver an address then turned to her, quickly leaning into her for a deep, lingering kiss. Her body trembled beneath his hands, desire an urgent need that unsettled her every fiber. Drawing back, he stared at her, his face in shadow, his mood inscrutable.

"Is it far?"

"No. Not in this traffic."

She chuckled, low. It was so true of London, a city that lived and breathed with the movement of people as sure as the turn of the tides. Behind him the city lights blurred into one another. A streak of orange, green, blue light, it was too bright, too peopled. She wanted more darkness, the gloom of intimacy—a private arena in which to discover him. Stroking the soft, black leather of his jeans, she felt the firm outline of his thigh beneath. She wanted to see him naked. Through his shirt, his chest was leanly muscled, strong. She inhaled his scent, a musky fragrance that hinted at passion and virility.

He slid his hand against the curve of her abdomen, otherwise as still as a bird of prey watching its target. The lights flickered on his face, revealing the intensity in his expression. With one arm around her back and his hand stroking her stomach, she was captured, but not unwillingly. She barely broke from the spell when they reached their destination.

His apartment was one of several in a beautiful converted mansion-house on the river near Kew. The opposite side of London to where she lived, it was closer to the river and overlooked it. When he led her inside and flicked lights on, she was startled to find it decorated in rich dense colors, starkly juxtaposed to one another, emphasizing the sparse furnishings of the place.

"It's a bit bare," he explained. "I've just started, it's an ongoing project...as and when I have time."

The fact that his home wasn't properly furnished yet made her smile. So like a man. The reception room held only two sets of bookshelves and a striking dining table and chairs. Stacks of newspapers and books teetered up against the bookshelves, which were empty. It was a true bachelor pad.

"Such lovely rooms," she murmured. Space was such a premium in London, this felt luxurious. She was surprised. She hadn't thought about what to expect, but for an arts entrepreneur it kind of fitted the bill. He'd add to it as the business established itself, she supposed.

"It's a Mackintosh design, isn't it?" She nodded at the tall, thrusting line of the chairs, the dramatic oval of the head rests.

"Yes, Mackintosh," he replied. "Do you like it?" His voice was so deep and resonant, every word touched her inside.

"Oh yes, I love his work. The Arts and Crafts movement is fascinating." Her gaze was constantly drawn back up to him. He was still the most attractive thing in the room. As she looked across at his face each bone carved itself into her memory.

He nodded and smiled at her.

"Are you a collector?"

"No." He smiled. "But I know what I like when I see it...and I do my best to have it." His gaze confirmed the inference of his words as he moved closer.