Tempt the Devil (6 page)

Somewhere in those extraordinary seconds, he'd left the world far behind. He'd flown to a heaven of a thousand suns. He'd heard angels sing hallelujahs of unearthly praise.

No, perhaps not angels. There was too much of the Devil in her seduction. But the sin was glorious. He'd gladly face hellfire itself if she'd do it again.

When she looked up at him, a slow, victorious smile curved a mouth red and swollen from what she'd just done. She licked her lips as if savoring the last trace of his seed. A fierce need to have her take him again settled low in Erith's gut. An even fiercer need to possess her with his body.

She was his. From her tawny hair to her clever, hot mouth to her pale, elegant toes. He wasn't letting her go tonight. Or any time soon, damn it.

She shook her hair behind her shoulders in a movement that wordlessly conveyed her triumph.

Yes, she'd won the encounter.

So had he. She was still here.

The room was silent apart from the rattle of his breath. Outside a horse neighed as a carriage passed. Strange to think the real world continued on its way yet his life had totally changed.

New knowledge swam in the topaz eyes that studied him. As if having tasted him so completely, she'd claimed his soul.

For God's sake, Erith, stop this
.
Souls have no place in this transaction. And even if they have, you lost yours years ago.

“All right, you've impressed me,” he drawled, although it nearly killed him to pretend nonchalance. Good Lord, it nearly killed him to find energy to speak.

“I've convinced you to allow me my sway?” With a grace that made his heart stutter, she crossed her legs and settled at the base of the mattress. She was brazen. Or would have been if her easy nakedness hadn't seemed so natural.

With a muttered curse, he lunged off the bed and picked up his shirt. “Here, put this on,” he snapped, flinging it at her.

She caught the shirt then stared at him as if he were mad. He probably was. He'd certainly never started a liaison like this. He had a sudden nostalgia for sweet, uncomplicated Gretchen. Except he'd been bored with Gretchen long before he finished with her.

“Will you put on the bloody shirt?” His voice was strangled.

Her mouth quirked, drawing his attention to the mole near its corner. He resisted the urge to tell her to put that mouth on him again. Unbelievably, in spite of that titanic climax, his arousal stirred anew.

“You seem on edge, my lord.”

She pulled the shirt over her head. His tempestuous state should calm now that she concealed her remarkable body. But something about the thoughtless grace with which she tugged the mass of hair away from the collar and shook it free to tumble down her back jolted him with electric awareness.

The movement wasn't designed to seduce. Yet seduced he was. Just as the flowery scent of her skin seduced him and the sound of her voice—even arguing, damn it—seduced him.

Her wide, sensual mouth glistened with moisture. With a
complete lack of self-consciousness, she raised her hand and wiped it across her lips.

That mouth had clasped him tighter than a new glove. He burned to discover how it felt to penetrate her body. Would her grip on him be as tight? Tighter? He swallowed to relieve the sudden constriction in his throat as he imagined thrusting into her.

“I don't want the game to end yet, if that's what you mean.” His voice sounded rusty. He snatched up his trousers and tugged them carelessly over his long legs and hardening prick.

She looked troubled, and when she spoke, her tone was somber. The faintly teasing edge had gone. “My good sense tells me it's better to part, my lord.”

His heart gave a great thud of denial. No. He couldn't let her go. Not now. Not after a glimpse of the pleasure she could give him. After what she'd just done, how could he endure the prospect of losing her?

His instincts homed in on something he'd already guessed. He kept his voice steady even as his heart broke into a panicked race that he might be wrong. “What will the world say if I toss you into the street after one night? The reputation of irresistible Olivia Raines will suffer a blow, perhaps a fatal one.”

The voluptuous mouth flattened. “Perhaps the world will consider you inadequate.”

“I'm renowned as a great lover, Miss Raines. I suspect gossip will favor me.”

A frown creased her brow. “I don't care about gossip.”

“Liar. Every male in the ton is at your feet and you love it.”

She didn't bother denying his assertion. Her complete lack of coyness was one of many things he admired. “My charms don't bewitch you.”

“Take me in your mouth again and you'll see how bewitched I am.”

She gave a choked giggle. It made her seem suddenly younger, more real. She sat in radiant dishevelment, like an Arabian boy in front of a carpet stall. Except no Arabian street urchin had that luxuriant mass of tawny hair or those remarkable topaz eyes. No Arabian boy wore an expensive man's shirt, crumpled and open at the neck.

The hard points of her nipples pressed impudently against the fine white linen. He had to stop himself from leaning down and tasting her there even as hot blood began to pound in his ears.

He and Olivia played a subtle game of push and pull for sovereignty. He'd fallen prey to her dominion once tonight. Next time he planned to be the leader.

Surprisingly, a streak of color marked her slanted cheekbones. “What I did was a farewell gesture, Lord Erith.”

He couldn't remember the last time a woman had walked away from him. Perhaps never. No wonder Olivia accused him of conceit.

He floundered for something to make her stay. Anything. Money wasn't the answer. A strange revelation when it came to a whore.

What did the witch want? His soul? She was welcome to it. It had never done him any good. Although surely such a canny jade wouldn't want anything as useless.

Not money. Not luxury. Not, blast her, sexual pleasure.

A shame. He could give her all three without a blink.

Ah, she was a complicated wench, his Olivia.

Well, he was the Earl of Erith, and he always held the whip hand. But she didn't have to know that. Instinct still told him her pride, and only her pride, would lead to her downfall. Her fall into his waiting arms, in any case.

His plan was sly. Manipulative.
Marvelous.
He almost laughed aloud in jubilation.

“Lord Erith?” Her tone was suspicious. “What are you up to?”

“I notice you like to ape the males of the ton.”

“I sometimes find men's clothes convenient. How far I ‘ape' my friends is open to argument.”

“So you're up for a gentleman's wager?” He kept his voice casual and his expression merely interested. Thank God he'd always been a killer card player. If she knew just how desperate he was to keep her, she'd run a hundred miles.

Her eyes sharpened on his face and he almost heard her mind buzzing with questions. “Occasionally.” A spark lit the topaz depths. “I work too hard to throw my money away.”

He ignored the insult implicit in the
hard work
description. “Could I interest you in a small bet?”

She still sounded mistrustful. “I can't imagine I have anything you want.”

He arched a disbelieving eyebrow and gave a scornful grunt. “You can't be that naive.”

She snapped back, “What could you give me if I win?”

“You'd like my surrender,” he said brusquely.

At last their jockeying for the upper hand emerged into the open. Olivia Raines liked to be in charge. Well, so did he. And he always won.

She didn't retreat. He knew she wouldn't. He was right. Pride was the key to her character. “You'd like mine.”

He smiled with triumph. “Let's wager on who gives in first.”

As she sucked in a lungful of air, he tried to ignore how her breasts slid against the fragile barrier of his shirt. Only the strongest exercise of willpower kept him from tumbling her back against the sheets. If he took her while he was so needy, victory would be irrefutably and eternally hers.

“Why should I care?” She did a fine job of pretending indifference. But a light in the tiger eyes indicated he'd caught her interest.

“Because if you conquer the world famous rake, the Earl of Erith, your reputation as Europe's greatest courtesan is assured.”

She gave another smothered laugh. God, he was in a bad
way if the mere sound of her laughter made him edgy with arousal. “You don't hide your light under a bushel.”

“Lights are for shining.”

“Lord Erith, you mistake my level of involvement.”

“If you leave now, the world will think I was too much man for you to master. What a pathetic debacle for the notorious, the superb, the all-conquering Olivia Raines I heard so much about when I arrived in London.”

She still sounded like she didn't care, but he caught a glint of curiosity in her lustrous eyes as she looked up at him where he stood near the bed. “So what do you suggest instead, my lord?”

“Give me a month. If I can't bring you to pleasure in that time, I publicly go on my knees to you and proclaim you as the only woman who ever got the better of me.”

She tilted one smooth eyebrow. “Got the better of you?”

“We can argue terms later. If you win, you can leave and keep any spoils that would have been yours if you'd stayed until July.”

“And if
you
win?”

“You admit your defeat to me and stay as my willing lover until I leave for Vienna.”

She smiled. A real smile like the one she'd given him in the library last night. Its warmth heated him like a stream of fire. “You don't believe there's the remotest chance you'll lose, do you?”

“Just as you're sure of your bastion, my lady. What point wagering on a sure thing?” He took a deep breath. His gut clenched as he recognized, for all his cunning, he might not have swayed her. “Do we have an agreement? Or does your courage fail?”

She laughed shortly. “You think I'm so easy to manipulate?”

“Are you?” he asked with a genuine interest he could no longer hide.

She took a deep breath and spoke with complete steadiness. “Absolutely. Lord Erith, you have a wager.”

I
n resigned silence, Olivia waited for Lord Erith to push her down and thrust into her. She hadn't missed his rising excitement.

But he didn't alter his relaxed stance near the bed. Instead, he stared at her as if he read her every thought.

Of course, he couldn't. No man could.

She hadn't sated him with her mouth. Although she'd employed every ounce of skill. Usually, she felt contempt at a lover's quaking surrender to her adroit lips. Her reaction when Lord Erith finally yielded himself to orgasm had been more ambiguous. One thing she recognized—he was the most virile man she'd taken into her bed. He'd come with a volcanic heat she'd never experienced.

Now a Devil's wager yoked them together for a month.

Curse him, he'd given her no choice. Or no choice her pride permitted. As little more than a girl, she'd set herself to dominate the despised sex that had destroyed her life. Every lover had fallen under her power.

Lord Erith would be her final protector. She was damned if he'd distinguish himself not just as her last lover but also as the only man to best her. She wouldn't countenance failure after so many years of brilliant success.

She'd been forced into this life but had created a work of art from degradation. Her pride insisted she left the demimonde as queen and not as beggar.

If she and Erith parted after one night, she knew that the glittering facade of her legend would disintegrate. The world that avidly reported her every action might look more closely. Might see an aging woman past her glory days. A woman offering sham promises of transcendent sexual pleasure. A woman who at heart was hollow.

No, nobody would ever know that.

Except Erith.

She hid a shudder as she recalled that fraught moment when he discovered her body held no more feeling than a lump of wood. She should have guessed he'd treat that lack in her as a challenge.

Now he set himself to coax a genuine response from his frigid mistress. Ha. He didn't know who he dealt with. She'd win this bet because she was dead to pleasure. All Lord Erith's self-assurance and sexual expertise would never change that.

But if he'd uncovered so much about her in one night, what other secrets would he reveal before their infernal bargain ended?

Chill unease trickled down her spine.

Erith sent her his lazy smile, his silver eyes glinting under heavy eyelids. She was immune to men, but even she admitted the earl was attractive, especially when the shell of cynicism fell away. Right now he looked at ease and rather pleased with himself. Of course he did. He thought he'd made a bet he couldn't lose.

“An extravagant supper waits in the next room.” He stepped closer, towering over her where she sat on the end of the bed.

Physically, she found little to criticize about him. He was hard and muscular and generously endowed. And he knew his way around a woman's body. No wonder self-confidence cascaded from him.

Perry was right. Lord Erith was arrogant, if perhaps not an ass.

“Food, Olivia? Or would you rather ogle my manly charms?”

She emerged from distraction to realize he offered his hand. She shrugged, choosing to be frank. “You know you're a handsome fellow.”

He looked startled, and she almost laughed. She accepted his hand and rose with the grace she'd been trained to exhibit. When she gained her victory, as she undoubtedly would, she wanted him not only to regret losing the wager. She also wanted him to recognize that he'd never breached the fortress of her real self.

She intended to keep the Earl of Erith in a perpetual lather of desire. He challenged her, not just with the wager but with his whole being. She couldn't say why, but the reality of that challenge was as solid as the mahogany dresser against the wall.

“I'm not blind, my lord.”

“Neither am I,” he growled, releasing her and striding through to the dressing room. He appeared within seconds holding something scarlet and shiny, which he threw in her direction. “For the sake of my sanity, put that on.”

Olivia hid another smile as she shook out the garment to discover a Chinese dressing gown embroidered with fighting dragons. With a slowness she knew tormented, she pulled it on over his shirt. “You've paid a king's ransom to see me naked. It seems perverse to cover me up.”

“You know why. Stop teasing me.”

“Why?” She tied the robe loosely at her waist so it fell about her feet in a glorious shimmer. Yet again she appeared before him in men's clothing. This time the clothing was his. It added an interesting piquancy. “I enjoy teasing you.”

His narrow mouth lifted in a wry smile. “Like a cat plays with a mouse. Be warned, I'm no mouse.” He opened the door to the sitting room and waited for her to precede him. “Stop needling me and have something to eat.”

He pulled out one of the elegant Sheraton chairs for her. Then he went to the sideboard to select from the delicacies supplied by the French chef. She was used to generous lovers—she chose no protector likely to keep her on short rations. But Lord Erith had spared no cost in furnishing and staffing his bower of love.

Including the woman who warmed his bed.

Strange, then, that he showed no great urgency now to get her into that bed. He'd retreated into a charming companion instead of a desperate lover. She wasn't sure it was what she wanted. If he was desperate, she could use it against him.

He slid her plate in front of her then served himself before opening the champagne. He poured two glasses and passed her one as he sat in bare-chested glory opposite her. On a purely aesthetic level, he was an impressive specimen.

“To us.” His smile was faintly knowing as his toast drew her attention from his powerful torso.

“To victory,” she said coolly, raising her glass in reply before sipping. The champagne fizzed pleasantly against her palate, combining with the lingering salty taste of Erith's seed.

He laughed shortly and tossed back a mouthful of champagne. Then he unfolded his napkin with a flourish. “I like that you don't give in easily.”

She remembered his horrified shock when he realized her passion was false. Her lips stretched in a sardonic smile. “I suspect you'd like it better if I did give in.”

They spoke as if she had a choice. Heaven help her if he learned how totally a victim she was.

With less drama, she laid her napkin across her red-silk-covered lap and took another sip of champagne. She liked champagne. The bubbles reminded her that her life held occasional pleasures for all its loneliness and dissipation.

“Do you want to try and see?” He watched her steadily, his gray eyes unwavering. She knew her face was expressionless. At an early age, she'd taught herself to be as mysterious as the sphinx.

“I didn't deny you, Lord Erith,” she said calmly, beginning to eat. She was hungry. Surprisingly. After tonight's turbulent emotions, food should jam in her throat.

“You denied me what I want,” he said with equal calmness, biting into a lobster patty with a snap of his strong white teeth.

He was an incredibly physical man. She imagined most women found him alluring. Even she couldn't ignore a certain excitement in the air when she was with him. And she'd never considered any man exciting. Frightening. Annoying. Boring.
Boorish.

It was a sad reflection. But she could do nothing to change the way she was. Just as Lord Erith could do nothing to change her, for all his confidence.

“Do you always expect your mistresses to find pleasure?”

“Yes.”

Thoughtfully he stared down at his champagne glass. His long fingers played idly with the crystal stem. The movement was unconsciously sensual. It reminded her of his hands on her naked skin. The breath caught in her throat and a strange shiver captured her. Perhaps she was cold, although a fire blazed in the hearth.

He looked directly at her. For once, cynicism didn't veil his gray eyes. “Unless my lover responds, the experience is barren.”

The simple words sliced her defenses to shreds.

For her, the experience was always barren. Such an essential part of life stolen from her by male greed and carelessness and cruelty. A great lump of misery lodged in her throat and the room went fuzzy. For the first time in years she felt like crying.

She cried in front of no man. She strove for composure.
Still, her voice was husky when she answered. “You're not what I expected.”

Brief amusement crossed his dark face. His stubble was a dark shadow across his jaw and his hair was ruffled. Soft firelight gilded the hard muscles of chest and arms. He was beautiful, she suddenly realized. Not as Perry and his friends were beautiful. But beautiful like a stallion or a raging storm or a rough sea. Beautiful like everything powerful and vital and dangerous.

“You're not what I expected either.”

“Most men treat whores as commodities.”

“Surely you consider yourself more than a whore.”

She shrugged. “I barter my body for money. What else would I call myself? I'm not ashamed.”

“No, and that's one of the attractive things about you. You select your lovers, you control the affairs. You have more in common with rakes I know than with those sad creatures who hawk their wares in Covent Garden.”

Only the grace of God had saved her from becoming one of those creatures. And the obstinate determination that if she was destined to be a harlot, she'd become the apotheosis of harlots. “At heart, we are sisters.”

“No.” His voice was even and sure.

He took another sip of champagne and began to eat. Olivia stared at him in astonishment. She'd never met a man like him.

Apprehension chilled her as she wondered if his wager wasn't reckless at all. “I'm surprised you never married again, my lord. You're in the prime of life, and you'd find intimacy with a wife more readily than with a mistress.”

His face hardened and his fist clenched on the damask tablecloth. He spoke with obvious difficulty. “Of course you know about my wife.”

His unspoken grief was palpable, in spite of the many years since Lady Erith's death. But other currents swirled about him too. Unprecedented for sophisticated, detached
Olivia Raines, she found herself stumbling into clumsy apology.

“Forgive me, I had no right to mention your wife, Lord Erith. It's just when you…” Anger still shadowed his expression as she steeled herself to continue. “When you said you wanted to be more than a client to the women you bought, it struck me you wanted a wife, not a temporary mistress.”

“I'll never marry again.”

The words held such stark despair that she couldn't speak. The only sound was the flames crackling in the grate. Heavens, what lay behind his vehement reaction? Love? Hate? Indifference?

No, anything but indifference.

Who knew what he'd been like as a young man? Breathtakingly handsome, surely. She tried and failed to picture Lord Erith as an innocent. That saturnine face seemed too knowing for her to imagine him untouched by life. But perhaps once that face had held hope, trust…
love
.

Lord Erith liked to present himself as an unfeeling monolith. In that moment the already tottering image shattered, never to be restored. He might fool the world into believing him hard and cynical, but it was a thousand miles from the truth.

“I'm sorry I brought up unhappy memories,” she said very quietly. “My only excuse is that this…this evening hasn't progressed the way I thought it would.”

He shook his head. “Some memories hover too close to the surface, whether you talk about them or not.”

“Yes.” She looked down at her plate. She hadn't eaten much. Neither had he. She felt strangely awkward, she who hadn't been awkward with a man since she'd come to London. But when she spoke, her words emerged with an uncertain edge. “Do you want to go back to bed?”

He looked up with a smile that held as much self-derision as amusement. “No.”

She was startled. “No?”

His hand relaxed from its tight fist. “Don't be a fool. You know how much I desire you. But you're not ready to give me what I want.”

“This can't be the evening you planned when you gave me that spectacular ruby bracelet.” Which she suddenly realized she should be wearing.

“Perhaps not. But it's been memorable.”

Her lips twitched. Yes, he was right. Memorable indeed.

He rose and walked past her into the bedroom. He passed close enough for her to catch his scent, sandalwood and musk. It was as if she tasted him again. As she remembered how his engorged member had jerked under her lips, an odd sensation settled in her belly. Olivia drank more champagne to banish the memory. The wine settled sour and flat on her tongue and did nothing to stem her restlessness.

Erith emerged carrying a square velvet case, which he passed to her. “I meant to give you this earlier but my capacity for thought evaporated when I saw you on the stairs.”

In his other hand he held a shirt, which he tugged over his head. A trace of real woman must lurk inside her, because she couldn't help regretting that he covered his superb physique.

“Open it,” he urged.

In her concentration on Erith, she'd forgotten the jeweler's box.

Yet surely that was why she was here, for jewels and money and prestige. Not for the pleasure of watching a handsome man do something as banal as dress. Hot color rose. After all these years of balancing over her world like an acrobat on a tightrope, she risked tumbling to ruin just as she reached the chasm's other side.

After the bracelet, she'd expected another extravagant bauble. Still, her heart faltered as she opened the box, to reveal a collar of rubies and diamonds in the same trellis design as the bracelet. In all her time as a courtesan, she'd never seen anything as magnificent.

She stared dumbfounded at the necklace.