Rough Surrender (5 page)

“Faith!”

“Oh goodness! I’m simply taking a room by myself. I assure you I won’t be inviting half the eligible bachelors up there once you’re gone.”

Holding back a grin wasn’t easy. Faith had a backbone indeed. Determined little woman, wasn’t she? Though, hell dammit, in a few days she’d be haring around the skies trying to kill herself. Flying around the pyramids? What nonsense.

“Oh.” Mrs. Willoughby sounded miffed. “I will see you tomorrow then.”

It was time to exercise that control he’d just reaffirmed. “Very well. Mawson will drive you back. Pick me up here, Mawson. Same place.”

The man nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Leonhardt tallied his plan. Take Faith to the reception desk, say a quick goodbye and be back out here to wait for Mawson in say, ten minutes. He tightened his mouth. Yes. Easily done. Except, from the way his cock swelled against his pants, his body had other ideas. Tonight his body would be somewhat disappointed.

The enchanted expression Faith showed as they walked under the four-story high Moorish arch and into the reception area stirred as much delight in Leonhardt. With the brilliant chandelier lighting her in exquisite detail, he took the time to truly study his little aviator.

The tiny crease on her brow as she frowned at his inspection, her water-clear gray eyes and the curt way her bottom wiggled as she strode toward the concierge’s desk... Ah, all so wondrous. Her figure beneath the French couture dress curved in all the right places. For a second, he dared to imagine what she’d looked like sans dress, sans corset–just pure naked woman. Even better, naked with chains wrapped around her and a few stripes on that backside.

Damn. Tamp down that thought
.

Even if he didn’t touch her again, Faith would liven up the next two weeks. He hadn’t looked forward to simply talking to a woman for a long time. With the frivolous Great Week of Aviation happening, he’d been given seven days off to enjoy himself. Though enjoyment and flying seemed diametrically opposite in meaning. Maybe she could explain it without him ever leaving the ground. Better yet would be if she stayed on earth too. He sure as hell wasn’t happy with her going up there to break her neck.

* * * *

He was watching her, again. Faith sighed as she reached the desk where the dark-suited concierge waited. After sending her female senses soaring back there at his workshop, Leonhardt had treated her like some sort of Ming dynasty vase. Not a single finger had he laid on her, and goodness, places on her,
in her
, were throbbing that she’d never known could throb.

Something needed doing. What, she wasn’t sure, but she was pretty certain Mr. Leonhardt Meisner would know, and that was the problem. She hadn’t come to Cairo to dally with a man, no matter that her stepfather, Henri, wanted her married. Jeremy wasn’t husband material, though she was certain Henri had sent him a telegraph advising of her marital status. A proposal was entirely possible.

She glanced sideways. Leonhardt had arrived and placed himself a full arm’s length away–avoiding her, definitely. Did he think she had the plague? She looked up...and up. Why ever were men made so dashed tall? She wrenched away. Gawking at him would surely encourage more of his inappropriate behavior and she didn’t want that. Did she?

While Leonhardt explained the situation to the prim concierge, she turned over that thought. What if the old wives’ tale was true? What if there was only one man in the world who could reach her heart? Should she walk away because society’s rules said she should? From her childhood on a cattle station in Australia’s wildest country, she’d learned to ride straight over the top of rules.

“Good,” said Leonhardt. He turned those mahogany eyes on her. The room shrank. Nothing at all registered in her vision except this man before her. “Good night, Miss Evard.”

No!

That little bow of his head and he made as if to walk away.

“Wait.”

“Excuse me?”

Faith swallowed. This was like throwing a hunk of meat to a jaguar, but she’d certainly gained his attention.

“Please, Mr. Meisner. Your car won’t be back for...” She shrugged. “...forty minutes?”

“Fifty, perhaps.” The baritone rumble of his voice seemed to release a small earthquake in her veins.

“Ah. I see. Then, please, stay and share a cup of tea with me.” Tea was always proper. She appealed to the concierge. “There must be somewhere?”

“Yes, madam.” He nodded. The precise, combed lines of his gray hair didn’t move an inch. “The valet will show you to your room, and just outside, there is a terrace for our guests to partake of small refreshments. The gardens, and the desert beyond, are lovely in the moonlight.”

“There.” She smiled at Mr. Meisner. “You must come up. Please.”

The searching look he gave her sent tendrils of a fearful sort of joy seething through her. Had she disturbed some plan of his? Well. It would serve him right for...for being so frightfully forthright. Now, it was her turn.

Their small circular table and the cushion-padded wrought-iron chairs were in an outer section of the semicircular terrace. The night had ticked to nine o’clock. Only one other couple shared the third-story balcony with them and they were far over on the other side. The gardens may have been riveting but she couldn’t tear her gaze away from the man opposite. He was almost too large for the chair and his hand dwarfed the teacup. And his baldness–it seemed to strip away the frippery of society and leave pure man. Pure devastating maleness.

No hint in his demeanor as to the ardent kiss in his workshop. None. Very well, she too could be cool and collected.
Damn him
.

When he didn’t begin the conversation and seemed more inclined to stare out over her shoulder at the desert, Faith decided to venture some words.

“So, Mr. Meisner–”

His attention shifted to her and, for the sliver of a second, she paused, her throat drying to dust, urging her to swallow, but she refused to show weakness. Somehow she doubted he’d miss noticing such things.

“Yes?” Suavely, he rearranged his shirt cuffs before lifting his cup and sipping. His Adam’s apple moved slowly and languidly. Her fingers could be there, if she but stretched out, and touched...

She sniffed.
Where had that idea come from?

“Hmm. I was wondering if you’d heard any news of the aviation week? Is all going well?” Affecting a sureness that had deserted her, Faith raised her cup and tried not to let it clink on her teeth.

“They say the winds may make flying dangerous. The organizers should have known this though. These winds are common here, and airplanes being as flimsy as they are, why increase the risk?”

“I had heard that the prince was very interested in holding the meeting here. Weather can be a problem wherever you go.” Though truth be told, he was correct. High winds would be a nightmare.

He grunted then picked up a biscuit from the small tray on the table. “You say that so glibly. Man...and woman”–he shot her a glance–“have only just figured out how to get these things in the air and yet you go about dismissing the risk. Baroness Laroche is here, isn’t she?”

“Yes! Yes, she is! My idol. She has almost qualified for the first pilot’s license ever issued for a woman!” Tea slopped from her cup into the saucer and she had to steady her hand.

“
Hmph
. I know of her. I read the newspapers. She learned to fly in a single-seater airplane while her teacher shouted instructions at her from the ground. She’s already almost died in a crash. I am an engineer. What I build or design, I know backward and forward as to why it works. None of you know why these flying things fly.” He paused and she took the time to digest the obvious dislike he had for flying. Perhaps if he knew better...if he’d
felt
the exhilaration the way she had?

“To be honest, I don’t want to see you hurt, Miss Evard.” That rock-steady voice seemed to drive through her like a steam roller, flattening her out until she was thin as paper and he could have blown her away with a single warm breath.
He doesn’t want to see me hurt?

“Tell me, why do you fly?” He popped the biscuit in his mouth and chewed and swallowed it in a few crunches.

She blinked. Easy question. Here was her element. “Because it thrills me. Because when I fly, I am truly alive. You must come up and fly sometime. Do something new in your life! I dare you, sir!” She thumped the table.

“Do you?” he said drily.

Ah, she’d struck a nerve. The piercing look he gave her shrank the very blood in her veins and turned her to ice, until he spared her and sipped more tea. Perhaps flying wasn’t such a good topic. She scrambled through her thoughts, searching for a safer one, and found nothing in the blankness.

It struck her then how controlled this man was. Not once had he fidgeted or dusted off something from the table or his jacket. He barely had a single useless mannerism. Unlike her. Unable to resist, she brushed a strand of hair from her brow and leaned forward.

He smiled, startling her. “You have beautiful eyes, Miss Evard, I noticed them earlier.”

Gosh
. She sat back a little. Why say this now? As if to toy with her? They both knew
earlier
was at the workshop, when he’d kissed her.

“Um. Thank you, sir, for the compliment.”

“My pleasure. Might I ask, if you’ve known Jeremy for long?”

She frowned and picked at an imaginary speck on the tablecloth. “When I was a child in Australia, his family lived on a cattle property near us. We were close friends until I was twelve, then he left for England. He stayed with us a few times in Paris.”

“I had wondered. He made some mention of you when he heard of your visit.”

She nodded. “I see.” That broad mouth of his had firm purposeful lips.

Oh dear, he’d seen her looking. Whatever had happened to men who barely saw if she had bothered to dress at all? Most of them ignored her, charlatan and flamboyant rebel that she was. She was used to being regarded as a lesser social being. Why in hell couldn’t Mr. Meisner do the same?

But then...in a way, she did like his attention. Below, between her legs, moistened, reminding her of how trapped he’d made her feel in the workshop. Her breaths shortened.

Slowly, Mr. Meisner put his teacup on the tablecloth, like a chess player declaring checkmate. “Jeremy did speak well of you, though, I recall. He also said you had a wild spirit even as a child.”

Why does that sound like a condemnation?
What nice hands he had. How forcefully, he’d pressed her against the wall, and held her. She blinked, flustered. Why had he missed the saucer? Deliberate? Why? Faith frowned.

“You are terribly transparent in your emotions. I like that in a woman.” He shifted on the chair.

Mouth open, she struggled for a witty return then picked up her cup for something solid to hang onto. Oh, he’d poked her off course yet again. The man excelled at being unpredictable.

With a last inscrutable glance in her direction, Mr. Meisner leaned forward. “I must be leaving.”

She clenched her teacup even tighter, denting her finger on the delicate handle.
No. Not yet
.

There was no polite way. Either she said this, or she let him walk away. Clearly he’d decided the rules of society were there to be obeyed.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “No.”

“Excuse me?”

She sniffed, opened her eyes then looked up. “No. I don’t wish you to leave.”

His eyes changed from
lukewarm
to
hot
.

The iron of the seat met her back. Oh yes, definitely she was the keeper at the zoo and she’d just offered her own leg, medium-rare, to the lion.

“Exactly what are you saying, Faith?”

Heavens, does he want me to put it down in writing? On a dotted line?

He didn’t move at all. Nothing. No eyebrow moved, no crease appeared on his ever so majestic face.

The china clinked then rattled as she tried to settle her cup in the middle of the saucer. Did she have the gumption to do this?

“Please stay.”

Still nothing.

“Come to my room.”

He leaned in. The chair squeaked. “You have no idea what you are playing with here.”

How did he do this? How? Flying her Bleriot was less nerve wracking. “I don’t?”

“No. You don’t. I have...different...tastes.”

Different?
She didn’t even know what tastes she had. Where was the fairness in that? He made her ache with some...longing she couldn’t describe, and he’d deny her because of his
tastes
? She wanted his lips on hers. That much, she knew.

“I don’t care.” She toyed with the arch of the teacup handle.

He sat back. “Unnatural tastes, some might say. You don’t understand who I am.”

The other couple had gone, as had the solitary waiter.

The chair scraped as she rose. “Come to my room, Mr. Meisner, if you dare.”

The sound of Mr. Meisner drawing in his breath galvanized her, awakening every nerve.
Oh. Yes. That had done it.

He stood, slowly, unfolding like a colossus. “Give me your key.”