Heart Choice (3 page)

Mitchella pushed her glass aside and leaned back on the firm-but-giving bench back. She nodded. She'd done a good job with The Woad Garden. A smile hovered on her lips. This chamber was a dark hunter green with gleaming oak trim and shutters. With the brown leather benches in the booths and a touch of brass in the accessories, it was supposed to appeal more to the masculine patrons, but she'd ensured that a woman would feel comfortable, too.

A bit of pleasure warmed her. She'd done a good job here, and
every place
she'd consulted. Why was it so difficult getting commissions? She tapped her fingers on the table and noticed her nail tint had faded. Feeling like she wanted something a little more elegant than the jade that matched her onesuit, she concentrated. After a moment her nails became a delicate, shimmering pink.

She was still admiring her hands when Weat, the owner's younger son, poked his head into the room. When he saw her, he grinned. It was so good to see someone brighten at the sight of her that Mitchella relaxed and sent him a genuine smile. His stare fixed on her breasts, as often happened with boys that age, and his glance glazed a bit, then he hurried to her. “There's a man here to see you about business.” Weat darted a glance around the room. “You can use this room for a while, if you'd like.” He grimaced. “We aren't busy tonight.”

Mitchella rose and shook off her gloom. A little humming in her bones let her know her future called. She
knew
it was only a matter of time before The Four Leaf Clover exploded into success. Perhaps this was the moment!

She beamed at Weat. “Thank you very much, GentleSir.”

Weat flushed. “I'll send him back.”

A moment later a man's large outline filled the shadowy doorway.

As he walked into the mellow light, her insides tensed. He should have looked out of place in the elegant club, but he didn't.

She studied him, aware of contradictions. He moved with supple grace and carried himself with inherent arrogance—an arrogance that shouted “nobleman.” Yet he displayed more than a few rough edges.

His clothes, though of good quality, looked frayed at the shirt cuffs. And the shirt cuffs showed no embroidery denoting a noble name. She relaxed. Though she cultivated a good, professional manner for Nobles and interacted well with NobleLadies, she didn't like NobleLords.

But this man wore working trous with narrow legs instead of excess, costly fabric caught and cuffed at the ankles. Scuffed and scratched celtaroon boots—and it took heavy duty to scar celtaroon—molded his narrow feet and muscular calves. The celtaroon itself had faded from its original orange and blue pattern to beige and gray, a process that took years.

His jaw showed dark stubble, and his body looked far harder than anyone would expect a pampered nobleman's to be. She could only figure that the aura of complete power was due to his competence in the untamed wilds of Celta.

He sizzled her nerve endings. She was a tall woman, built on voluptuous lines, but he was taller still, with shoulders that could block her view. Dark and dangerous, with only a hint of refinement and an undercurrent of sensuality. Her senses thrummed to life in pulses that sent a flush under her skin and stirred her. She smiled, pleased at the hum of attraction; it had been a while since she'd had a lover.

She glanced at his wrists again. He didn't wear marriage cuffs.

Mitchella swept a wisp of tumbled hair behind her ear, glad she was wearing the jade silkeen onesuit that contrasted well with her flame-colored hair. She shifted her shoulders a bit so more tendrils fell over the curves of her breasts, and she smiled, adding a bit of her Flair—charisma—to enhance herself.

Two

The intriguingly sexy man raised his brows as she
stepped from behind a wing-backed chair. His eyes widened as they lingered on her body.

Her onesuit was cut less full than fashion demanded, shaping her breasts, waist, and hips. She'd paid an outrageous sum for it, but now it was all worthwhile.

“Can I help you?” She didn't have to lower her voice to huskiness, her attraction to him made it come out that way.

“I'm afraid so.” His voice was deeper than she'd imagined, richer, with cultivated tones. “I need some good decorating skill and many new furnishings.”

She liked the way he said “I need.” She could imagine him saying it in more intimate circumstances with the rich, mellow note in his voice turning rough and demanding, and she felt a quiver.

Then her mind took over. Good skill and many furnishings: sounded like a nice, expensive job. She refrained from rubbing her hands together, but her smile expanded.

He turned and cocked his head, then again met her eyes. “I'm told you're the best.” It rumbled out of him, quietly, and all Mitchella could think of was tangled bedsheets.

She wet her lips. His cobalt gaze fastened on her mouth.

She hadn't meant to tease him, her throat felt uncomfortably dry, and the effect he was having on her body began to unnerve her. She had to take care, she couldn't afford to lose a lucrative commission.

“I'm grateful for the praise.” She struggled to sound calm. His virility kept her off balance. “May I ask who recommended me?”

He smiled, a curve of well-shaped lips in a strong jaw. Her heart pounded harder. “You may.” He took a step forward.

Now she could smell him, and the scent of tough masculinity was highlighted by the clean fragrance of sage. Sage conjured up a traveling man, an explorer. And she knew it was true of this man with every beat of her heart. She inhaled and exhaled audibly.

He leaned closer.

“Rrrrowww!” demanded a dainty cat, gliding into view.

“My Fam.” He shook his head in amazed amusement.

Everything in Mitchella tightened in wariness. She recognized Drina. Only powerful noblemen had Fams, and she didn't care for noblemen. Her friend Danith's husband, T'Ash, had once teleported her across the city with an angry thought. Mitchella had never forgotten the sheer terror of the experience. She and T'Ash still treated each other guardedly, though he'd apologized and she'd accepted it.

A Fam, a cat raised by GreatLady Danith D'Ash, and Drina's own sense of complete superiority added up to only one thing: This man was a noble of the highest class. Mitchella's smile turned merely courteous as she moved behind a large wooden antique buffet partitioning the room, putting a barrier between them.

“Drina,” Mitchella said flatly. She inclined her head to the cat. “Greetyou.”

Drina sat like a small, elegant white and beige accessory to the room. Her tail curled over dark brown paws. “Prrrp,” she mewed politely.

The NobleLord glanced down at Drina. “She made an unexpected stop, otherwise she would have arrived with me.”

Drina stood, stretched, and with waving tail, began to explore the room.

Mitchella bit her lip. His gaze heated, and he strode forward, with masculine grace that almost equaled the Fam's. But now Mitchella's mind was firmly in control of her body. She slammed a door on her desires. Being sterile, there could never be anything more than a brief liaison between her and a nobleman. He would want to continue the Family line.

She cut the small aura of charisma and let her eyes cool.

“And you are?” she asked.

His eyes narrowed, and he eyed the buffet between them. His nostrils flared, and he smiled, still attracted.

Too bad.

“Blackthorn,” he said in a husky voice. “Straif Blackthorn.”

Worse than she'd thought. A FirstFamily GrandLord. Nothing could ever come of a relationship with this man. Never ever.

“I'd heard you were back.” All she knew was he'd come and gone from Druida several times in the past years. She didn't pay much attention to noble activities.

She recalled his GrandHouse Residence. Her eyes widened. Oh, how she'd love to get her hands on that house. Passion for her craft surged within her. “Are you going to restore T'Blackthorn Residence?”

The Italianate house of many arches made her fingers itch to return it to its former beauty. She must have the general plans and history of the Residence in her files.

He lifted a brow at her, perhaps from the change of attitude from the sensual to the practical, then moved up to the buffet and leaned against it—into her personal space. He didn't stop his own provocative signals of male interest and intent.

Damn! She hoped she hadn't issued a challenge. Straif Blackthorn—she stiffened, remembering old school lessons, the Blackthorns were trackers, explorers, and hunters.

He sent her a heated glance from half-closed eyes, and she felt the tingle from her toes to her head that sparked small shocks throughout her middle. She refused to react and kept a pleasant smile on her face.

He blinked, and the sexual look was gone, replaced by one of measuring consideration.

She could only hope that he'd hire her as a decorator and leave the rest alone, so she kept her expression professional as she reached into a pocket for her business cards that showed room models. Not taking her eyes from him, she withdrew a card and handed it to him.

It was pink. Far too feminine for him. “Wait,” she said, “I gave you the wrong card.”

He ignored her and let it sit on his palm. Mitchella suppressed another quiver at the contrast between the pink “marbled” card and his calloused, tanned palm.

He stared at the card, then back at her, a slow smile moving over his face. “It takes a certain kind of woman to carry off pink.” His glance flicked down her again, “and a green silkeen onesuit. I think you're just what I'm looking for.”

She tired of playing games. “I'm only interested in restoring your home, GrandLord.”

Now he raised sandy brows. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

He watched the rise and fall of her bosom with appreciation. “Drina recommends you,” he said.

Drina hummed in her throat. The cat stood at an open shutter, admiring her reflection in the window.

T'Blackthorn looked over his shoulder at his Familiar and smiled with sincere amusement that made Mitchella catch her breath. “Drina says she is a Cat with excellent taste.”

Mitchella managed a smile. “She certainly thinks so.”

His thumb rubbed the indentation on the card, triggering the projection of a model room holo about one and a half by two meters. The pink marble walls contained darker streaks for visual interest, and all the furniture was a glossy deep burgundwood. The bedsponge lay on a stand, with diaphanous curtains layered around it and attached to the ceiling. The curtains swirled with the slightest hints of sparkling rainbow-pastel glitter, as if a fairy galaxy had been caught in their folds.

As he gazed at the room model, the sensual tension spinning between them quieted to something deeper and more serious.

T'Blackthorn touched the image, and it disappeared. He curled his fingers over the business card, his face taut and his eyes yearning. “I've spent years in the wilds. I've missed the furbelows of very female women, of Ladies, and forgotten how—soft—your sex can be.”

“You've stayed with the Hollys.” She'd heard that much.

He raised an eyebrow. “My uncle and cuzes, and other relatives, a Household mostly of men. My aunt, D'Holly, is a very dynamic woman.”

“And feminine.” Mitchella had met D'Holly once.

“T'Holly Residence is decorated with weapons in patterns on the walls—circles and diamonds of knives, spears, swords. All within easy reach. There are paintings of battle, tapestries of hunts,” he gestured with the hand holding her pink card, “male stuff.” He moved his shoulders impatiently. “I'll take it,” he murmured.

“Take what?”

“The room. I want one just like it in my Residence. You have the job.”

Glee blossomed inside her. She could barely keep from dancing around the room. This would make her reputation!

He smiled, and she knew she shouldn't be near this man. She should run as fast and as far as she could away from him. But an opportunity to design the interior of one of the only twenty-five FirstFamily Residences would never come again. And T'Blackthorn's! It had been a showplace once, one of the most beautiful houses in Druida. She could make it so, again.

She looked into his dark blue eyes.

“I want it.” He flicked his thumbnail on the card and the model room spun once again into life. “I'll take it. No expense spared.”

Mitchella had always dreamed of hearing those words. Now they tempted her beyond all bounds.

He collapsed the holo and tucked the card in a hidden shirtslit pocket. Then he put an arm on the buffet and leaned forward. “You have more?”