Grapes of Wrath (Billionaires' Secrets Book 2) (22 page)

Their dance became more intense as he pulled her closer, whipped her out and then drew her back in. A drummer had joined the guitarist on stage and the hypnotic, pounding rhythm of palms on bongos pulsed through her until her feet took on a life of their own.

She found herself moving faster, deeper, throwing herself into the dance. She drew air deep into her lungs as she whirled through the air, and came back to rest against his hard body. Somehow everything was effortless, flowing, and she found herself losing track of which part of the room they were in.

The drumming grew louder, then faded away, the clinking of glasses blended with the rhythmic strumming of the guitar, until the whole atmosphere seemed to throb, to breathe, in and out, round and round.

Sam laughed aloud with sheer delight. When the music stopped with a flourish, she fell into her partner’s arms. “That was fantastic.”

“You’re an incredible dancer.”

“I’m a very rusty dancer, but you’re onto something with that breathing.”

“In and out, that’s all it takes.”

“It’s funny how we forget the little things that are most important.”

He made another hand signal to the guitarist, who launched into a slow song with cascades of rippling notes. Sam let her body sway instinctively to the seductive sound.

The club’s interior was warm and she could feel her skin— glowing, to put it delicately, but she wasn’t embarrassed.

Her partner’s reassuring gaze rested on her eyes, not probing or poking about the rest of her the way so many men did.

Without even thinking, she inhaled deeply and blew it out, and enjoyed the smile that stretched across his handsome face.

I don’t know his name.

How odd. To be dancing with someone and have no idea who he was. She knew he owned the bar, so he had an identity, but without a name he wasn’t quite...real.

Should she ask?

She blinked, strangely reluctant. A name seemed so formal, like a passport or driver’s license that gave you official status. She didn’t want to tell him that she was Samantha Hardcastle. Her name and picture might not ring any bells down here in New Orleans, but in New York they’d been plastered over the papers for months.

The Merry Widow,
with her much older husband’s billions now at her disposal. Like she’d
won
or something.

Bile rose in her gut. She didn’t want this man to know anything about that. To form preconceptions about her as a golddigging tramp who married a rich man for his money.

“Hey, you okay?” His hand slid around her back.

She realized her breathing had grown shallow again. She swallowed. “Sure, I’m fine. Sorry!” She drew in a deep and deliberate breath for his benefit, and they both chuckled as she blew it out.

The guitarist, joined by a saxophonist, as well as the drummer, launched into a swinging, bluesy number. His eyes were closed and his head bobbed in time with the music as if he were captivated by its spell.

Sam let that spell guide her feet as they danced without touching, their bodies swaying to the rhythm. Sensual and muscular in his movements, her partner moved with effortless ease.

Maybe it was the sips of champagne, but Sam felt strangely weightless, like all her cares and worries had drifted up to the ornate tin ceiling and hovered there, leaving her free and light.

“Were you a professional dancer?” His breath warmed her neck as he leaned in.

She colored slightly. “I competed a few times. Does my dancing look too artificial?”

He shook his head, his smile reassuring. “Not artificial, just polished, like the rest of you.”

She resisted the urge to glance down. She couldn’t deny being polished. As Tarrant’s wife, it had been her job. Her hours in between social lunches and dinners were filled with appointments to get her nails done or her hair trimmed.

She was so used to being buffed to a high shine that she had no idea what she’d look like without the carefully highlighted hair and couture dresses. If she stripped all the expensive enhancements away, would there be anyone there at all?

Right now it didn’t matter. Her partner’s expression shone with quiet appreciation. That honey-brown gaze didn’t seem to accuse her or to find anything lacking.

She couldn’t help but notice the way his hips moved. How they linked to strong thighs just visible beneath the smooth surface of his dark pants, to his flat belly.

A young, athletic body in the peak of health. A beautiful thing.

How old was he? Early thirties probably. Her age, though most of the time she felt about ninety.

He picked up her left hand and examined it. It felt very naked without the big engagement and wedding ring Tarrant had given her with such fanfare only four years ago.

The engagement ring had a diamond too big to wear outside without an armed guard. The wedding ring had been buried with his coffin. Tarrant had wanted her to place it on his hand like Jackie Kennedy did when her famous husband died. He always enjoyed a dramatic flourish.

“You’re smiling.” His deep voice stirred something in her chest.

“Happy memories.” How odd to have that as a happy memory. She was getting pretty strange in her old age.

“Now you’re not smiling.” He tugged her hand and pulled her closer. “I think you need to step outside your memories and into the present.”

He slid his arm around her waist. Her breasts crushed gently against his chest and a warm surge of pleasure rippled through her.

“I love this song,” he murmured. His low timbre vibrated in her ear, sending a shiver along her spine. “It makes me think of a lazy day out on the bayou. Sun shining on the water, cranes watching from the trees, the
putt-putt
of a shrimp boat in the distance.”

The image formed in her mind, a peaceful scene, at odds with their rather urbane surroundings. “Do you go there much?”

“As often as I can.”

She couldn’t see his face because he’d pulled her too close. His arms wrapped around her waist and she found that hers had slipped around his neck. A quick glance confirmed that other couples danced the same way, wrapped up in each other, to the gentle strumming of the guitar and the low caress of the saxophone.

He lowered his cheek to hers and she felt the slight stubble on his chin. A delicious masculine sensation she’d almost forgotten.

Almost, but not quite. The familiar strains of desire echoed through her like the notes of the music. It stirred in the palms of her hands where they pressed against his broad shoulder blades, in her nipples as they bumped his hard chest, in her tongue, which wondered what his mouth would taste like.

The answer came as their lips touched, opened, and her tongue flicked over his. His sensual mouth was both soft and firm, his tongue at first tentative, then insistent, hungry.

Her fingers dug into the crisp cotton of his shirt. Her belly pressed against his firm hips, as she tilted into the powerful kiss.

Light and color crackled behind her eyelids, dazzling her, while their tongues danced together. Then, slowly, their tongues drew back, and his lips closed. She felt his warm skin part from hers, to be replaced by cool, air-conditioned air.

Still clutching his back, she opened her eyes and blinked in the dim light. Her breath came in unsteady gasps, her legs wobbled and her skin stung with arousal.

“Come with me.” He didn’t look at her and it wasn’t a question. With one arm firmly about her waist, he led her off the floor and across the room. Faces and bodies blurred around her as she tried to get her bearings.

I only had two or three sips of champagne.
The thought flickered through her mind then flew away on a low note from the saxophone. Under her flimsy dress, her body pulsed and throbbed, and if he wasn’t holding her up, she wasn’t sure she’d still be walking.

Maybe she’d be floating.

They left the crowded restaurant through a door behind the bar that led out into a dim hallway. Across the hall he opened a tall, polished wood door. “More private.”

He ushered her into a beautiful room, decorated in the same prohibition-era style as the bar, as if Woodrow Wilson might wander in and start arguing with Franklin D. Roosevelt. Antiques gleamed in the soft light from a beautiful glass light fixture. The interlacing pattern of stained glass was so harmonious and unusual that she wondered aloud, “Is that a Tiffany lamp?”

“Yes, my mother collects them.”

Her eyes widened. “Aren’t they worth hundreds of thousands of dollars?”

He shrugged and opened a wood cabinet. “What use are beautiful things if you can’t enjoy them?” He pulled out two crystal glasses and another bottle of Krug champagne.

“You do enjoy the good life, don’t you?”

“I consider myself privileged to have the opportunity to enjoy the good life. I’d be a fool to squander it.”

Sam smiled as he offered her the bubbling glass. “Do you live here?”

“No, this is more like...my office.”

“It’s lovely.” She glanced around. Was there a bedroom?

And was it good or bad if there was?

“It’s unchanged since 1933, when the original owner was shot dead by his lover.”

Sam gasped. “Why’d she shoot him?”

“He slept with his wife.”

She laughed. “I can see how a mistress would find that offensive.”

Already they’d crossed the room and entered a large, high-ceilinged chamber with a grand, four-poster bed. Rich gold draperies glowed in the light from another jewel-toned Tiffany lamp.

He lifted the arm of an old Victrola phonograph and placed it on the record. The mellow tones of a big band orchestra swelled from the brass horn.

His sensual gaze rested on her mouth. “I love your smile.”

“Thanks, I love it, too. I haven’t used it enough lately.”

His eyes fixed on hers for a second, stalling her breath. Her lips buzzed with sensation. Had she really kissed him?

He stepped toward her and placed his glass on the polished sideboard.

Her insides trembled with long-forgotten desire. Anticipation mingled with fear as she watched his mouth, watched his eyes caress her body with their soft gaze.

Was he going to kiss her again?

Her answer came as his lips closed over hers in a swift motion that stole her breath.

A Taste of Heaven 3

Louis DuLac had kissed a lot of women.

He’d run his fingers over a lot of smooth skin and stared into a lot of desire-darkened eyes.

But this was a first.

He’d never met a woman whose every glance and movement resonated with passion and intensity that threatened to make sparks in the air.

She was blond and blue-eyed, his mystery woman. She was slight, frail even, her limbs so thin his grandmother would have pinched them, clucked, and brought her some food.

Which, of course, is pretty much what he did.

“Why are you smiling?” Her mouth was pink from kissing, pursed with slight shyness.

“You’d be smiling, too, if you enjoyed this view.”

She lay naked, half hidden under the crisp sheets, her body softly illuminated in the ruby glow of a nearby lamp. Small, high breasts gave her a girlish aspect, but the far distance he glimpsed in her eyes spoke of a thousand lifetimes lived.

He almost regretted bringing her here.

Almost.

Her rosy nipple thickened between his thumb and finger. Her heart beat visibly just below her rib cage, and he saw its pace pick up as he trailed his fingers down below her belly button.

Her thighs writhed under their thin cover. Her arousal was palpable, a primal hunger crouching below the surface. He could see it in the glitter of her dark pupils, in the silver sheen of her skin. He could taste it in the hunger of her kiss and feel it in the heat pulsing through her slender limbs.

The scent of her drove him half-crazy. Some expensive French concoction, no doubt, but mingled with the fresh, clean smell of her skin and hair, it was perfect.

Louis flicked his practiced tongue over her sensitive nerve endings and, through narrowed eyes, watched her hips buck slightly.

He deepened his exploration with fingers and tongue. Her fine gold hair splayed on the pillow and her eyes slid closed as she gave herself over to sensation. He was gratified to see her draw deep, unhurried breaths while he pleasured her.

Her fingertips pushed into his hair and along his neck as he licked her until her hips shuddered. Then he stopped and pulled back.

Her eyes flicked open in—dismay? He smiled. “No hurry. We have all night.”

Or did they? He had no idea if she had somewhere to be. Someone to meet.

No wedding band. He’d checked. That didn’t mean much these days, but it reduced the chance of him ending up like the bar’s original owner.

She raised herself up on her elbows, eyes shining. “I want to kiss you.” Her voice was soft and sweet, her request so simple and innocent, it belied the fact that she’d removed her clothes with the candor of a practiced call girl.