Succumb to Me (6 page)

The problem was, she wasn’t outraged.

She wasn’t even altogether certain that she
wasn’t tempted to agree, only for the sake of more of his dangerous
caresses.

That was her first clue that her wits had
gone a begging. She needed, somehow, to remove herself from his
proximity before something completely insane began to seem like a
totally rational solution to her problem.

“I ... I need a moment ... to collect
myself,” she said, moving to the side of the bed and standing
slowly, watching him warily.

He made no move to stop her.

“Take all the time you need.” He smiled a
little crookedly and lay down on the bed, propping on an elbow as
he watched her open the door to the sitting room and leave.

She closed the door behind her, collapsed
against it, breathing a deep sigh of thankfulness. For many
moments, she simply stared at nothing, trying to regain control of
her weak, trembling body.

As calmness overtook her, however, it
occurred to her that she had succeeded. Without any attempt on her
part to seduce him with her wiles, he had fallen for her scheme. He
honestly believed she would give in to him—trust a man to think he
need only show himself willing and a woman would swoon to
accommodate him!

Now she knew where the painting was. She
nearly giggled with relief, feeling almost drunk with all that had
happened. Treading softly, she went to the opposite door and found
to her relief that it was unlocked. She slipped inside the
mistress’ bedroom and from there out into the hall.

Chuckling inside as she pictured him awaiting
her to join him in bed—something that would never happen—she crept
back down the stairs and to the first floor, searching with a
candle until she’d found the study.

It was a masculine abode, dark wainscoting on
the walls, trophies on high, shelves lined with books and a cabinet
bar in one corner. There was no obvious hiding spot that she could
see. She headed for the cabinet behind his desk and rifled through
the deep compartments, finding nothing. Her hopes started to sink.
There were only so many places she could look before he wondered at
her continued absence.

“Looking for this?” a distinctly familiar
male voice taunted behind her, freezing the blood in her veins.

CHAPTER FIVE

Winter whirled around to find Logan leaning
casually in the door frame. He was smiling a self-satisfied smile
that made her long to slap him. A rolled canvas was tucked under
one arm.

Oh, how she hated him!

Winter straightened from her crouch, squaring
her shoulders, narrowing her eyes.

“I forgot to tell you ... I’d thought of
leaving it here, but then I began to wonder if that wouldn’t be too
easy. And I found I was loath to spoil your surprise, Winter. You
do like surprises, don’t you?”

Winter swallowed with some difficulty, trying
to control her temper. “I most emphatically do not, my lord,” she
managed to say, almost coolly.

“Always the lady, even in your men’s wear. I
suppose you have decided not to take me up on my offer to gain what
you so richly desire.”

“You’re a fool if you think I would give in
to anything that you want of me. I am not some harlot to be
bargained for,” she said, tilting her chin up at him with as
haughty a look as she could command.

He smirked, looking devastating and annoying
all at once. “Of course not. It’s for the best. I have a carriage
awaiting you outside. Go now, or you may never get your hands on
this.” He waved it in the air, tormenting her with its nearness, so
close and yet unreachable. She itched to grab it and run, just to
see what would happen.

She’d never had a chance. He’d known all
along what she was about, known from the first that it was her,
disguise or not. He’d laid a trap for her and she’d fallen into it
like a complete nitwit.

He’d merely been toying with her, teasing
with the thought that she might still have a possibility of
success.

With her back ram rod straight, she stalked
out, determined more than ever that he not see her falter, all
sorts of black thoughts crowding her mind with the tortures she’d
enjoy inflicting upon him.

“You’ll hear from me ... soon,” he called
after her, laughing.

She hoped to god she did not.

* * * *

Logan’s amusement disappeared the moment
Winter had gone. Despite his incessant teasing, he felt her absence
like an old wound ripped freshly open, raw, hurting—possibly never
to heal. Nursing a brandy, he went back to his study and unrolled
the canvas, looking on Giovanni’s creation. He smoothed his fingers
over her painted curves, imagining how soft her skin would feel,
imagined her welcoming his touch with that beguiling smile he so
rarely saw—and never for him.

He threw back the remainder of his drink,
pushing the canvas aside, tormented by what he could never have.
He’d known from the first that she still hated him. He wasn’t
altogether certain he could blame her.

He looked back on the brash young man that
he’d been and hated himself. He had been so cocky. His success had
gone completely to his head. With nothing more than his wits and
his hands, he had created his own wealth, achieved what few men in
his circumstances could. The result had been that he’d become a
much sought after matrimonial prize in a society that would have
scorned him had he been penniless.

He had enjoyed being courted, but he’d had no
interest in finding himself a wife until the moment he saw Winter
Stevens. From that moment on, he’d been determined to have her,
become obsessed with it.

Unfortunately, his cockiness had not
withstood her first cool look, her chilly dismissal of him as if he
was beneath her interest, as if he was no more than a stable hand.
His ego had been crushed, his confidence shattered.

It had taken him months to gather the nerve
to approach her, to find a moment when she wasn’t surrounded. He
had not dared approach her when others were near, because he’d
fully expected annihilation and wanted no witnesses.

But he’d had just enough liquor in him that
night to breed courage, and his first success had led to
cockiness.

He was well aware that, in his anger, he’d
said things no gentleman should ever say to a lady.

And even so he’d been stunned when she’d so
far forgotten herself as to publicly humiliate him.

He’d hated her for that—thought he hated her.
Time had worn his humiliation down to an embarrassing lesson in
gentlemanly behavior.

His hatred had not outlived his anger of that
night. He still wanted her and no amount of time, it seemed, was
going to change that.

He felt a little ill when he thought of the
look in her eyes. Even if she did desire him, it would never be
enough.

He poured himself another drink and downed
it, enjoying the numbness the liquor afforded, the way it dulled
his rage.

It was stupid to have pressed her tonight—too
soon after her initial shock. He’d done nothing but frustrate
himself and alienate her further.

And that had never been his intention.

She might hate herself for responding to him,
but she had—just as she had the first time that he’d kissed her. He
knew that it was not merely his own desires that made him believe
she wanted him. He had thought, if he could only break through that
facade of coldness, he would have her.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair,
leaning back in his chair, closing his eyes. An image of the past
flashed through his mind, of opportunities lost, never to be
regained. She’d had a pure and generous heart once, untainted by
the filth of society. He had sensed it, been drawn to it.

And yet, she’d broken that image at the ball,
so long ago, proved she was no better than any of the others.

What a fool he was to believe it still lay
hidden, deep inside her, that he could find it.

Heavy with drink by now, he began to feel
himself drifting into unconsciousness, the memory of their first
meeting teasing his mind. He wondered if she had any idea of the
service she’d done him that night, of who he really was.

CHAPTER SIX

Despite her fury at being thwarted, under
other circumstances, Winter might well have been thoroughly routed.
She would almost certainly have despised him, and gone to great
lengths to snub him, but she would have had a great deal of
difficulty summoning the nerve for a second battle of wills.

However, despite her reluctance to lock horns
with Logan again, she found she simply could not wait for her doom
to come to her. His elusive reference to a surprise set her so on
edge that that she could scarcely sleep that night for worrying
what form his surprise would take.

She knew that had been his intention, damn
his hide, to torment her with doubts.

By the following night, Winter found that she
was on the verge of nervous exhaustion, waiting for the ax to fall.
Finally, she decided that enough was enough. She would not stay
cowering in her room waiting for him to do his worst. She had no
one to rescue her from her dilemma but herself.

That painting would burn tonight if it was
the last thing she did on this earth.

She knew it would never occur to him to think
she would be so foolish as to try to sneak into the townhouse once
again to retrieve the painting. She was certain he was convinced
that he’d frightened her away, cowed her into submission. It was
that arrogance on which she was counting.

Winter took no chances when she returned to
his residence. She’d dressed once again in the boy’s clothing she’d
used the first time. It had certainly not fooled Logan for a
moment. However, it was sufficient as a disguise for her gender on
the streets, she felt sure, and it was far easier to get around in
breeches than skirts and crinolines. She took great care to make
certain no one followed her, glancing continuously over her
shoulder. Once she’d reached the neighborhood, she had taken up a
position of observation and watched, shivering in the cold,
chaffing her hands for warmth, but determined that this time she
would not act too hastily and risk failure.

She had seen Logan’s carriage drive away.
Still, she waited, watching the servants as they made the rounds
through the house for a last check before bed, watching as they
dimmed lamps, extinguished candles and locked up, saw their own
rooms brighten with candle glow then go dark as they went to
bed.

She was numb with cold by the time she
decided it was time to set her plan into motion.

Shaking, panting with fear, feeling decidedly
ill, Winter finally crossed the street, thankful for the cloaking
darkness despite the fact that the darkness alone had contributed
greatly to her fear.

A board on the porch creaked as she came up
the stairs. She froze, listening and finally decided the creak had
not been as loud as it had seemed, and had probably been enhanced
by her anxiety.

Moving once more, she approached the parlor
window with silent stealth. There, she paused once more, surveying
the yard, the street, and the shadows around the shrubbery. Nothing
moved that she couldn’t immediately identify.

Crouching, she grasped the window and slowly,
carefully pushed it open, gratified to find he’d not discovered her
entry into his house the last time.

She paused to listen again once she had the
window open.

The house was as silent as a tomb. Relief
flooded her.

She almost chuckled, thinking of his
expression when he found out she’d come back and taken the painting
out from under his regal nose. How fitting that his colossal
conceit would be the cause of his failure.

She hooked a leg over the sill, sitting on it
as she eased her other leg inside. With both feet planted firmly,
she straightened, pausing to listen once more. A hand reached out
from the dark, grabbing her arm in a firm grip then twirled her
away from the window. She came up against the parlor wall with a
jarring thump. A body slammed full length into hers, trapping her
against the wall.

Winter sucked in a breath to scream and a
hand clamped over her mouth, smothering her cry. She strained her
eyes wide, but could see nothing in the inky room but shadows and
the indistinct outline of a man.

“I thought I’d made it clear last night not
to return, Winter.” His voice was soft, an amused edge to its
tone.

It was
him
. Damn him to hell! How had he caught her this
time? She’d been so careful....

“You’ll not scream?”

She nodded as much as her restriction would
allow and he released her. The sound of him moving across the room
reached her and then a flint was struck and a dim wash of light
flooded the room as he lit a candle.

“How did you know I’d come tonight?” Winter
demanded. “I saw you leave....”

“Did you?” He paused for a moment, allowing
that to sink in. “Apparently you’re laboring under the
misconception that you’re dealing with a greenhorn. I knew last
night that you would try this again. You have a stubborn streak a
mile wide. It’s one of your most admirable traits, I think,
certainly one of your more convenient characteristics. It makes you
somewhat more predictable, you see.”