Lyon (7 page)

Lyon's gaze narrowed on their host, Monsieur Valmont, the apparent owner of these apartments. A tall, slender man with preternaturally white hair, he was handsome, Lyon supposed. But so pale that he put him in mind of a portrait his eldest brother had in his vast collection. The one that depicted Vlad the Impaler, a Romanian prince with an infamous past and an appetite for blood.

He returned his gaze to the more pleasant perspective of Juliette Rabelais. One of ten women set amid nearly three dozen men, she was the obvious trophy. She was one of those women whose every gesture put him in mind of the soft slide of a velvet drape across warm flesh—soothing, lush, and full of sexual promise. Something about her was hypnotic. Watching her was a pleasure he could quickly grow accustomed to.

As if she were blithely unaware that every man in this luxurious salon panted after her, she serenely held court on her satin throne, like an orchid set among a besotted cast of dandified thistles, pigweed, and toadflax.

“Six months for me and still nothing,” a Frenchman on the Cossack's other side commiserated. “Why I still come is
un mystère.
” He gazed into the depths of his glass, then back at the green-eyed object of his desire as though unable to prevent himself.

Lyon never understood this sort of talk from men. Like his brothers, he had a voracious appetite for the company of women, both in and out of bed. But though he had come to Paris specifically to locate his bride and had to his amazement found two candidates rather than one, he was under no illusion that Juliette Rabelais would fell his heart any more than Sibela had.

Conversation ebbed around him and her voice reached his ears. His hand tightened on his glass. Hearing an attractive, available woman speak in French was almost guaranteed to gift him with an erection. Particularly a woman with almond hair and a long white throat. Particularly one whose every deliciously accented syllable caused her lips to purse as though she were kissing the air. Particularly a woman he planned to bed.

That decision had been made for him the moment he'd scented her on the bridge. Then, when she'd spoken, he'd felt something inside himself shift. Unlock. Open.

In that instant, even as he lay atop another woman, a need to protect this one had been born within him. A need to keep her from want. A need to bury his heated, straining cock so deep inside her that she would be forever branded as his.

Here was the intense, immediate attraction he'd not found with Sibela. But of course, it wasn't love.

“If you wish to visit Valmont's back rooms, approach one of the girls for hire,” yet another Frenchman volunteered. “Negotiations for the favors of Mademoiselle Juliette are done in a different manner than for the others.”

Lyon cocked his head. “How so?”

The first Frenchman eyed him, obviously beginning to worry all this coaching might lead Lyon to usurp his own chances with her. “Such arrangements are made through M. Valmont,” he said with reluctance. “Ask about her culinary talents. You'll only waste your breath if you directly request that she visit your bed. If an agreement for her favors is made, it's understood she'll serve you at your table as well as in your boudoir.”

“It's said that she sets a table comparable to some of the finest chefs in all of Paris,” someone chimed in.

“It's likely true if these
éclairs
are anything to judge by,” said the second Frenchman as he lifted one from his plate. He consumed the pastry with a single gulp of his greedy mouth. “And have you tried the cream-filled baguettes?”

“If I ever get Mademoiselle Rabelais to myself she is more than welcome to suck the cream from my baguette,” the Cossack groused darkly into his glass.

This was met with a burst of randy, good-natured guffaws from his companions. Except for Lyon, who shifted all six and a half feet of his muscular form toward the man, sending a crystal, swan-shaped bowl on the pedestal between them tumbling to the floor in the process.

“I'm certain you must have business elsewhere that calls you away from this establishment. I suggest you attend to it.” Amber glinted dangerously, coloring his words.

The Cossack's eyes widened and his drink sloshed as he sidled away. “Pardon me—I must…yes, I…” Without finishing, he strode off, his boots tripping in his haste to put distance between himself and Lyon's annoyance.

The others drifted off on various excuses as well, wary of him now. He stared into his wine, shocked at himself. And a little embarrassed. He'd never been jealous about a woman in his life.

If he was testy, it was likely due to the frustrations of the evening and anticipation of Moonful, he reassured himself. His blood was already quickening in preparation for tomorrow night's Calling, and he was more easily roused to lechery, anger—and jealousy, apparently.

He looked up, toward the woman across the room. Her eyes darted away. She'd been watching him again. Could she handle what he would become tomorrow? Would she, willingly?

With a curl of her delicate wrist, the tip of her painted Chinese fan traced her collarbone, then drifted lower toward the ripe curve of a porcelain breast. More than one male eye followed its downward path.

She was dressed to tempt, in a shimmering gown the color of her hair with silver edging along a neckline that barely concealed her nipples. A frown creased his brow. No doubt even those were on display to the man seated beside her, if the direction of his eyes were any indication. He and every other man in the room studied the shift of her breasts as she turned, evading his overly familiar hand.

He realized he'd begun staring at her in a manner he feared was as besotted as his previous companions and his fist tightened on the fragile stem of his glass. That she'd had other men before him mattered not a whit. Considering the inauspicious circumstances of their prior meeting, he could only hope she would be as generous toward him.

His gaze slid over her bodice and traveled boldly lower. In another venue, he'd have been more circumspect, but everyone here knew her body was on exhibition. He studied the drape of her skirts, looking forward to discovering the shape of her below them, for a woman's derriere held her greatest attraction for him.

Never mind a blushing cheek or pretty lips. Give him a nicely rounded ass and he was more than content with that asset alone.

Mademoiselle Rabelais chose that moment to rise to her feet and see to one of her duties as hostess. Leaving the men on the dais to their own conversation, she went to survey the food displayed on the side table.

Lyon saw his chance and took it.

J
uliette stiffened, noting the golden giant's approach with her peripheral vision. Visiting the sideboard to determine if anything was amiss or needed replenishment offered an occasional respite from admirers.

However, coming this way had been an intentional maneuver, intended to draw him out. In the opening gambit of flirtation, it was her opinion that it was always wise to let men come to her rather than the opposite.

As she straightened a tray, she felt the warmth of him at her back and a charge of excitement zinged through her. Was he the man she'd watched under the bridge? If so, would he recognize her?

Hesitantly, she turned, fearing he would prove to be odious or boring. Or a complete stranger.

“
Mademoiselle,
” he greeted. “We meet again.”

He didn't bow, but she didn't notice.

Time seemed to slow and the clink of crystal and rap of conversation to cease as cool green tangled with warm amber. Silently, curiously they weighed one another.

Though she'd only seen them once and for brief seconds in twilight, she'd have known those eyes anywhere. They were the eyes of the very man who'd supplied her first orgasm. Without touching her. Outside on the bridge. As she'd stood in the midst of hundreds of other people.

He'd recognized her. So it followed that he must also be aware that she'd seen him half-naked, fornicating with another woman. Even though he was the one who should be embarrassed, she was the one who blushed.

At close quarters, he was even more potently beautiful. A ruggedly masculine angel, all brawn and confidence and a full head taller than she with massive shoulders that blocked the rest of the room from view. His gaze was intelligent and warm and the curve of his mouth invited her—and likely every woman he chanced to meet, she cautioned herself—to join him in some secret carnal amusement.

With those muscles and big hands…and that appendage of his…he had likely pleased legions of females. Did he know what his body had done to hers? Would he dare attempt it again here and now? Her eyes dilated and she tingled with a dangerous desire to press against him and beg him to do exactly that.

The splash and gurgle of the fountain jolted her back to her surroundings. Flustered, she put a hand to her cheek—she'd taken too much of the tincture tonight.

How was she to speak to a man who had sexual knowledge of her, yet to whom she had never been introduced? Bon soir, monsieur. Merci beaucoup
for giving me my first orgasm a few hours ago. And by the by, how did you do it without laying a finger on me?

It sounded insane, even to her own ears. She would avoid all mention of that subject, she decided, at least for the present. After all, Valmont's agenda dictated that she discuss other matters first. And his spies would be listening.

“
Pardonnez moi? Je ne comprends pas,
” she asked in pretended confusion.

“
Nous nous rencontrons encore,
” Lyon repeated, this time in French.

Not such a buffoon as Valmont seemed to believe, after all. Had he underestimated this one?

Cocking her head, she touched the tip of her painted fan to her chin, considering him.

“I'm afraid I don't recall a prior meeting. We've been here a year now and so many come to our Thursday gatherings. But naturally I'm pleased you've chosen to return to us.” Knowing M. Valmont was undoubtedly observing them, she remembered to flash a flirtatious grin.

“You were on the bridge tonight,” he announced without warning.

Stunned for a second, she emitted a guilty, “
Oui.
” Quickly, she rearranged her expression, widening her eyes and raising her brows in an attempt to appear guileless. “You were there? It was quite a tangle and I'm afraid I didn't notice you. Still, I'm pleased you've come, as I said. I hope we can tempt you. With a truffle perhaps?”

Setting a hand on his sleeve she turned his attention to the buffet.
Lord! His forearm was as thick as her calf!

“Or a canapé? Or if you have a sweet tooth, a custard and raspberry tart? I prepared everything myself earlier today with the assistance of the cookstaff.” Gesturing, she indicated the sideboards groaning with platters of refreshments she'd concocted. “I confess I'm a bit of an experimenter in the kitchen and never know if I've created a masterpiece or a disaster. You must sample a variety and tell me how successful I've been. You're a large man. I imagine your appetites for many things must be equally sizeable.”

The corners of his lips tilted upward.
Were those dimples?

“I assure you they are,” he said.

She blinked in surprise, before realizing he hadn't read her thoughts but was only making a reply.

Feu d'enfer!
She'd never seen a more angelic, devilish man. The dichotomy was lethal. No wonder the other girls had vied so diligently for him. Agnes, who was far more beautiful than she, was glowering at her even now for having snagged his attention.

Dragging her eyes from his seductive smile, she gave herself a mental scolding as she selected one of the silver trays etched with flourishes and an ornate V shaped monogram. Valmont had stationed her here for the sole purpose of interrogating this man. The quicker she accomplished that, the sooner she could retire to her room and leave him to Agnes and the other man-hungry sharks who enjoyed swimming in these waters far more than she.

As she lifted the tray by its olivewood handles and turned toward him, her breasts rested on its edge as though they, too, were on offer. Cut far too low for decency, her gown and others like it were an important part of her arsenal. While men were distracted by their survey of her bosom, she was quick to take their measure.

“Do try some, Monsieur Satyr,” she said, gazing up at him through her lashes.

But as he lifted a delicacy at random from the salver, his eyes remained on hers, not taking the visual bait. It confounded her, shaking her confidence. Wasn't he attracted to her? Of course he was. For some reason, men had been all of her life. And why else would he have sought her out?

“You know who I am,” he said.

“Your name was made known to me by another gentleman earlier tonight.” She favored him with an engaging smile sure to please the ever-vigilant Valmont.

As Lyon bit into the truffle, surprised interest lit his eyes and he held the
hors d'oeuvre
away to examine the remainder of it before he finished it off. “You made this?”

Intense satisfaction rose in her. Pleasing a man with the sharing of her culinary efforts was as close as she ever allowed herself to come to pleasing him with the sharing of her body. Bridge encounters notwithstanding.

“
Oui.
With the assistance of the kitchen staff, as I mentioned.” She leaned closer and confided, “The secret ingredient is a pinch of Chile pepper. The spicy with the sweet. I was fortunate to find some dried espelettes in
Les Halles
last week. And I thought—why not try them in the truffles?”

Lyon picked up another truffle and downed it as well, closing his eyes in ecstasy. “Delicious!” he proclaimed.

He didn't try to impress her with a volley of effusive compliments as most men did. She returned the tray to the sideboard and needlessly adjusted the already-perfect display there in order to hide how much his relish had delighted her. “I can copy the recipe for your wife if you wish.”

“Alas, I'm unwed.”

“Your chef then,” she said, pleased that she would at least be able to confirm his marital status when she next spoke to Valmont.

“Actually, with our auction looming, I could very well use your advice…”

She missed the rest of his reply when a boisterous trio arrived to sample the offerings at the opposite end of the buffet. It was Fleur, with two besotted gentlemen in tow. The girl shot Juliette a mischievous grin. Hoping to eavesdrop no doubt. The minx.

One of her admirers was Monsieur Arlette, a particular friend of Valmont's. He no doubt planned to do the same. She stiffened as his gimlet eyes swept her. She would have to guard her words.

Beside her, Lyon took a sip of wine, seemingly oblivious to the intrigue swirling around them. She sensed he was about to quiz her further about subjects she'd rather avoid within Arlette's hearing. Valmont sought revelations and gossip from this man and she'd better set about obtaining them.

“Shall I replenish your wine?” she asked, hoping to segue into a discussion of his vineyard.

“No.” His fingers covered the top of the glass. “Thank you.”

She fluttered her fan in the direction the marble absinthe fountain in the center of the room. “Would you prefer
La Fée Verte
—The Green Fairy—then?” Daringly, she tucked a hand in the crook of his elbow, urging him into action. Anything to get him away from Fleur, whom she suspected was about to do something scandalous. And anything to hie him away from Arlette's big ears as well.

Lyon glanced toward the fountain, with its chilled water trickling merrily from its spigots into the shallow trough that encircled it. The Cossack had set a glass partly filled with absinthe below one of the spigots and now stood waiting as water diluted the liquor, rendering its strong taste more palatable.

Setting his drink on the buffet behind her, Lyon took her other arm and drew her close. “I would prefer to discuss what happened at the bridge earlier tonight.”

Heat singed her cheeks and she shook her head. “Not here,” she whispered.

His expression filled with the understanding that they were being observed. “Where then?”

Fleur let out a small shriek, drawing their eyes. To Juliette's dismay, the girl had allowed one of her beaus to lower the front of her bodice to expose a breast. He was now in the process of buttering its nipple with a silver knife dipped in pâté Juliette had made earlier that very day. Fleur braced both hands behind her, amid the platters on the buffet, and her head fell back, displaying a slender throat.

Juliette's eyes widened with reluctant fascination. This kind of flagrantly erotic activity was usually reserved for the rooms in the back, so she didn't often witness such things.

The knife swirled back and forth, hypnotizing her. What must it be like to have that cold silver burnishing one's nipple in such a manner? she wondered. She could almost feel its brand. Her hand lifted toward her own breast before she registered what she was doing and caught herself.

She looked up at Lyon. He'd been watching her observe the sexual byplay. Her fingers were now gripping his arm hard enough to leave marks. She withdrew them, letting her hands fall to her sides.

Lyon's eyes twinkled. “A friend of yours?” His face was an open and undeceitful one, she realized. Unlike hers. She wanted to warn him to run far from here before Valmont did him harm. Or she did.

“
Oui.
She's…Her name is Fleur,” she told him somberly.

She glanced toward the threesome again and gasped. Now Arlette was setting a dollop of olive garnish upon Fleur's nipple, where it clung to the tacky
pâté
. At least the girl's coquettishness was having one good result. Arlette had forgotten to eavesdrop.

Fleur glanced her way and gave her a saucy wink. Juliette shook her head, silently scolding her. But she only grinned again and cradled Arlette's head as he bent closer. Juliette held her breath. He was going to nibble from her as though she were some sort of human…

“
Hors d'oeuvre
?”

Her eyes jerked to Lyon. He'd lifted a small dish of canapés and was proffering them to her.

“It's only fair that you sample your own wares,” he teased knowingly.

Embarrassed at being caught acting the voyeur once again, she opened her lips, automatically taking his offer. She even chewed several times before noting her mistake.

She darted a look across the room, meeting Valmont's condemning expression. Lyon's gaze followed hers and he frowned, instinctively moving closer to her as though to protect her from the other man's displeasure.

A distressed sound left her, then she then began to cough. Lyon tossed the dish on the table with little care for the other china and crystal serving platters. Several somethings fell to the floor, but she was too distraught to determine what.

A large, male hand branded her back, warming her even through layers of clothing. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she croaked, grabbing a napkin from the sideboard. She pressed it to her mouth, spat the canapé into it, then discarded the napkin on a platter of soiled china and cutlery.

All the girls were forbidden to eat in Valmont's presence. He found the sight of a woman masticating to be highly disgusting. Fleur or the others might be forgiven their missteps, but she'd pay for her
gaffe
at some later time when he was in a mood for retribution.