Risking the World (23 page)

"I wish I had."

"Are you telling me everything?  You seem tense."

"Shall we simply say I had a bad day at the office, and leave it at that?"  He looked away and she let the topic drop.  "Now, what are you up to?"

"I'm making pies for Thanksgiving."

"May I assist?"

"You cook?"

"No, but I can follow instructions."

Really?  The David she knew was way more comfortable giving orders.

"Try me."

Honestly, she didn't want to.  Before he came she'd been enjoying herself so much, but this was his kitchen after all.  She threw him an apron, and before long the sight of him lurking around in Maggie's ill-fitting apron entertained her.  They didn't talk much, or need to.  While she checked on the pumpkin pie in the oven, he located a cooling rack without being asked. Together they inhabited the wonderful smells filling the kitchen.

"Next we bake the pecan," she told him.

"Excellent.  Pecan pie is my favorite."

She crimped the edges of the crust while he watched.  "Okay, now I get it.  Two pies seemed a bit much for four people."

He chuckled.  "Maggie.  She knew Thanksgiving required pumpkin pie, but also that I would never be satisfied without pecan."

"Then let's put your favorite in the oven.  It's getting late."

"And who began this project at such an advanced hour?" he teased.

He held the oven door open so she could slide the pie in, his earlier scowl replaced with a smile.  He was impossible to fathom.  She stopped trying and stood up with a feeling of accomplishment – until she saw the mess in front of her.

His
mind might be unreadable, but he could read hers and he jumped into the task of loading up the dishwasher, filling the sink with hot, soapy suds, and tossing her a dishtowel.  Side-by-side they methodically worked their way through an endless stack of dirty bowls and gadgets.  Their hands touched when he passed her a sifter or a rolling pin, and each contact became a caress reminding her how those hands kneaded her ass and squeezed her nipples the night she begged him to come inside her.  Excited and humiliated, she reminded herself she meant nothing to him, even as she yearned to discover what another night in the bed of an expert lover might reveal.

***

The pies were out of the oven and David watched Claire write a note to Maggie.  Their work in the kitchen tonight was complete, but he was loath to bring their time together to a close, so he put away bowls and assorted cooking tools, timing his tasks to end just as she taped her note to the icebox.

"Thank you for permitting me to help.  We cooperate well together, do you not agree?"

"Thanks for helping me," she answered, a more elusive reply than he might have wished.

He tried again.  "You appear to know your way about the kitchen."

She left the kitchen and he followed her.  "I always did Thanksgiving dinner with my Aunt Carrie."  She paused at the stairs and turned to him.  "She's alone this year."

"Unfortunate so many sacrifices must be made.  At the very least, you'll not spend the Thanksgiving holiday on your own."

"When Elizabeth mentioned Thanksgiving dinner, I couldn't imagine sparing the time.  But no matter what tomorrow brings, I'm glad I spent this evening baking pies."

"And I am glad we spent it together."

She gave him a half-smile, turned, and mounted the stairs to her rooms.  He was close behind.  When she arrived she touched her hand to the doorknob of the Duchess suite.

"Wait."  He sought a way to make his intentions clear without forcing the issue.  "You've managed to get flour on your nose."

"Did I?"

He bent near her and put his hand over hers on the doorknob.  "Not really."  He kissed her and used his body to gently back her inside the dark room.

She let his lips linger on hers before she whispered, "I don't think this a good idea."

"It is an excellent idea."

"I'm not your type, and I don't want to get hurt."

He had never known her type to exist before they met and, having found her now, could not imagine ever hurting her.  "Turn your mind off, and allow me to love you."

He fingered her lips until she parted them and his tongue slipped inside her mouth, where sweetness from the pecan pie filling she tasted earlier brought him a delicious erection.  He kissed her lips until they were swollen, and kissed them again until her breaths became tiny gasps and she pulled his shirttail from his pants.  Struggling under the exquisite torture of her hands flitting over his nipples, desperate to hold out long enough to give her satisfaction, he removed her hands from his chest and kissed her palms before slipping her sweater over her head and freeing her lovely breasts.  Standing skin to skin now felt so right and he rubbed his chest against her nipples while she swayed in time.  She tickled his neck with her breaths and twirled his hair in her fingers, while he loosened the barrette that imprisoned her hair and ran his hands through its silken waves.

Then he slid her slacks and panties off.  The perfume of her sex intoxicated him.  He filled her with two fingers, and thrilled when she spread her long legs into a stance that gave him free access.  Despite the darkness he saw pleasure wreathed her face, reflecting the craving he felt, and their gazes locked as they managed for a moment to feast on one another.  When he backed away to loosen his belt and drop his pants, she radiated the heat of desire.

Their bodies crushed together and she wrapped his waist with her legs.  He slammed inside her, and her back smacked against the wall to his rhythm while she screamed her release with his name as they came, together, in a frenzied passion distinct from any coupling he had known before.

He carried her to the bed, where they mated again with even greater force, proving once more how different tonight's lovemaking was from the solace each sought the night of Sandra's death, and showing they shared a primal need for one another – one he knew had become basic to his life, and he hoped, to hers.

When did she become his obsession?  He should've known it was happening since she was rarely far from his thoughts.  When she was in the thrall of passion he knew her desire for him was the equal of his.  But good sex alone would not satisfy a woman like Claire Ashe for the long-term. Perhaps she was the more honest of the two when she admitted her fear of being hurt.  What would he do if she left him behind after the Tivaz TB crisis passed?  And if she stayed, was he willing to admit to himself, and to her, that he wanted her not simply as a lover, but that he wanted a family with her.

***

She woke to the sound of the shower and stretched under the blankets, shockingly sore from last night's primitive behavior.  Yet the memories were gratifying, and when he came from the bath with a towel snugging his waist and leaned over for an extended kiss, her body sang at his touch.  He was the first to break away.

"I've an early meeting.  Otherwise, nothing short of fire could drag me from your bed.  Don't forget drinks at seven, my lovely. And after that . . ."

He winked at her and she loved the flirt, even if it was no more than an idle show from a practiced lover.  Why not enjoy the fleeting thrill of being bedded by a Tiger?  Soon enough she'd deal with the pain, and when that time came she'd survive losing David Ruskin just as she had survived her earlier losses.

Meanwhile, newfound energy made her eager to get to the lab and tackle the prep work for Don's arrival.  Once there she told everyone they were to put aside what they were working on today, change hats, and for one day become a member of the theoretical team.  Their remit – to come up with as many new ideas as possible to present to Don when he arrived tomorrow to take command.

So enthusiastic was her team's response that she barely managed to get to Sherborne House by six, where she found Maggie setting the grand dining room table with the spectacular china she'd chosen the night David came home from Morocco.  Touched that Maggie chose these beautiful antique dishes for her American Thanksgiving, she carefully lifted one of the plates.

"This here's the Crest china," Maggie said.

Crest china?  She turned it over to check the maker.

"You won't find what you're looking for, luv.  It's one of a kind."

"I can see it's very special."

"Certainly is.  Goes way, way back.  The Crest shows off the Sherborne coat of arms.  Only comes out for family holidays."

She couldn't have known, yet how audacious he must have thought her to use it that night.  "Don't use it, Maggie, it's too valuable.  There are plenty of other dishes to choose from."

Maggie tsked.  "Davvy especially asked for it."

He did?

"And Miss Elizabeth sent over a box of decorations for the table.  Said you'd know what to do with them.  And there's a little something from her I hung up in your dressing room."

Given the hour, she should go upstairs and change right away, but she couldn't resist sneaking a peek inside the box on the sideboard. There she found a cornucopia filled with gourds and small pumpkins, decorative leaves, votive candles, and four small vases with miniature mums.  But the real jackpot was pint-sized Pilgrims and Indians.  The Pilgrims were complete down to buckles on tiny boots and belts made from zipper heads.  The Indians wore small headdresses cut from boa feathers.  How like Elizabeth to want to spruce up the table with little touches like these hand-made decorations, and she experimented with several table displays until she found the perfect one.

Then she raced upstairs and fell in love with Elizabeth's other gift.  The burnt orange brocade dress complimented her hair, and she clutched it in front of the cheval mirror.  The sleeves ended just below the elbow to hide her bruised arm.  Elizabeth had thought of everything, even a deep center cut that would reveal cleavage when she moved.  She hoped David would notice, and girlish anticipation sent butterflies to her stomach.

The absurdity of her excitement over a man, a dress, and a dinner wasn't lost on her.  She'd never felt like this, not on her first date with Ben, and not even after her thesis defense when Don offered her a job in his lab.  It was worse than ridiculous.  But she told herself it was a natural response to the pressures of the last months and went downstairs to help Maggie. She passed the dining room table, set with the cheery tokens of Elizabeth's friendship, and touched the shiny formal plates of David's family before entering the kitchen where the nostalgic pies from her childhood were set out on the counter.

She welcomed the smells of Thanksgiving – roast turkey, squash, even Brussels sprouts – and vowed to set aside all thoughts of Tivaz TB tonight so she might celebrate the gift of this holiday.  One evening was all she asked for, a few hours when she might sample the essence of safety, friends, and hope.

Chapter 29

At Elizabeth's flat in Charles Street fur was flying. Leaving her shop so late left little time yet she dawdled in the shower's hot spray.  How long had it been since she encountered a man like Bobby Keane? While his profession made her uneasy, he was charming, unmarried, and good-looking. A night of flirtation was safe enough.  For goodness sakes, he lived in another country.  No harm could come of it.  And if he were as attentive tonight as during their room service dinner in Paris, it would be a huge boost to her ego. Men did not habitually flock to her door.

She luxuriated in thoughts of wowing Bobby as she smoothed vanilla body lotion all over, and fluffed her short hair, pleased the costly cut delivered on speed when it came to styling.  Then she slipped into the lapis blue cocktail suit, whose low-cut peplum jacket fastened with a series of tiny pearl buttons.  She adored the soft fall of silk over the matching pencil slim short skirt, and how the suit fit her proportions exactly, creating a longish line.  Still, three-inch heels would add a little extra, and in an instant she found the prize.  Those matching shoes were a real find.

She took a pashmina shawl and decided to hail a taxi for the short ride to Sherborne House.  A narrow skirt did not lend itself to a rapid walk.  Best make a proper entrance for a date with a lady killer.  Oh dear, what a poor choice of words for a man who was, in fact, a real killer.  She shrugged off her reservations once more, set the alarm system David had insisted on last year, and left her flat.

***

Bobby didn't celebrate holidays as a rule.  He had no hankering to be with Mom and Johnny any more than necessary, but he was intrigued by Elizabeth's invitation to Thanksgiving dinner at Sherborne House. Not that he believed for an instant that the idea was David's.  Elizabeth was behind this get together, and he sure looked forward to seeing her again, though spending the evening with David wasn't high on his list.  Their latest contacts had been short and professional, but not real friendly.  Maybe he was reading too much into it . . . or just feeling guilty about what he said to James about David.

He splashed his face with hotel aftershave, grabbed his suit coat, and glanced into the bar on his way out.  Marta waved, ever hopeful.  He'd run a background check on her and what you saw was what you got, an honest working girl, but as a matter of habit he cased the bar, the lobby, and the street outside for the suspicious jogger from his last trip.  Nothing doing, but it paid to be alert.  Since Sherborne House was close he walked, careful to take a route that doubled back more than once to look for tails and get a feel for David's new neighborhood.  He'd only ever been to his pal's old apartment, an uncluttered bachelor pad kind of like his own house in Virginia.  Well, maybe not exactly.  David's place had high ceilings, big windows, thick moldings and wood floors while Bobby lived in a carpeted high-rise modern condo with picture windows.  Yeah, the architecture wasn't what their places had in common; it was the fact neither felt like a home.

He 'made' the two security guards outside Sherborne House, the one he wasn't supposed to see as well as the one who checked his ID.  That guy let him through a gate set in a finely tooled wrought iron fence, and he walked up to a solid wooden door with intricate carving and etched glass. Impressive.  He knew David's father was some sort of British aristocrat, but only now did David's privileged birth hit him.  Hell, he didn't even know who his old man was.  He straightened his tie even though he felt more like loosening it, and rang the bell.  He half-expected a butler in a tux.  Instead, somebody's grandma in an apron opened the door, and took him into a giant hall where his dress shoes from some Mall store clicked on the marble floor.  The whole place screamed old money.  He took a deep breath.