To Love a Scoundrel (19 page)

But she knew why, of course. She'd known from the moment she first stared into those honey-brown eyes: She wanted Brent Connors as much as he wanted her. Maybe more.

Jewel swallowed her apprehensions and allowed the barest hint of a smile to curve her lips as she acknowledged yet another ripple of desire. Then she raised her curled hand. Ignoring the brass knocker, she prepared to announce her arrival by pounding on the door.

Inside the suite, Brent stood at the window staring out at the dark, murky river. His thoughts, however fractured, were every bit as uncontrollable as the twisting, headstrong Mississippi. His breathing was rapid and shallow, as much from anticipation as from exertion. He'd been dashing from one corner of the room to the other, from the living room to the bedroom, darting like a firefly gone berserk.

Everything had to be perfect. Bedspread, smooth and inviting. Lamps and chandeliers, their flames low and provocative, barely flickering. Champagne, expensive, chilled, straining at the cork with abundant effervescence, as eager to explode as his own body. Brent drew in a ragged breath as another of those splintered thoughts shattered his concentration. What about the food?

He wheeled around, but at the last moment stopped himself from making another unnecessary trip to the Louis XV dining table. The bluepoint oysters were as fresh and icy as they had been three minutes ago; ditto the slabs of ham, sliced cucumbers, and boiled ox tongue. The rest—pecan pie, ladyfingers, and assorted fruits and nuts—would stay fresh until the wee hours.

Why am I doing this? he suddenly wondered. Why am I preparing for an event that will never take place? The last few hours had been a waste of time and energy. Jewel, if she even bothered to show up, would never taste the French mustard or sauce piquant, much less the entrees they would accompany. She wouldn't dream of raising her crystal wineglass to his in a toast. A toast to what? Insanity?

"Good Lord, Connors, what have you gotten yourself into?" he muttered into ribbons of foggy night air. If Jewel did plan to go through with this—to pay up, as it were—he knew what he would have to do. Brent Connors was, if nothing else, a gentleman. He would have to assume the debt. Give her a way out. But could he actually turn down those alluring green eyes, that pouting mouth, the soft full body he sensed would be a perfect fit to his own? Brent gasped as another spurt of desire slammed into his loins. He took a deep breath and a few sluggish steps closer to the open window.

He tried to channel his thoughts, hoping to fill his mind with something other than the exquisite ache, that desperation he guessed he would continue to feel even if he bedded a thousand other women. Only one, he suspected, could relieve that. One bouncy, calculating, auburn-haired temptress who would most likely turn him inside out, then stomp him flat.

Brent shook his head, again trying to control his wandering mind.
If
she showed up, he mused, his only option as a gentleman, the only one he could live with, would be to release her from the debt. When that happened, he assumed she would flee from the scene of the crime, leaving him to pick up the ashes of what could have been. He sighed at the thought, and at that moment, the door on the gingerbread house of his Belgium clock banged open. A carved yellow and blue bird sprang from its bowels and began to announce the time.

"Cuckoo." Back inside the clock, then out again. "Cuckoo." Back inside the clock...

Brent watched, mesmerized, and realized something was slightly out of tune, a thump that lagged behind the rhythm of the count. Although he was muddled enough almost to believe the bird had added a deft drummer to its merry little band, he finally understood the sound was coming not from the clock but from outside his suite. Someone was knocking on the door.
Jewel?

Swallowing hard, Brent started across the thick carpet. When he passed the clock, the bird emerged for its eighth "cuckoo."

He reached for the doorknob, marveling at his growing nervousness. Brent Connors never had sweaty palms. At least not until he'd met that green-eyed vixen. Taking a deep, calming breath, he pulled the double doors open.

"Good evening," he said in a suddenly hoarse voice, carefully avoiding her gaze. "Please, come in."

Giving Brent a brief sideways glance, Jewel trudged into the suite on leaden legs and stood in the center of the room. Crossing her arms below her breasts as if caught by a sudden chill, she glanced around the suite. Her gaze was riveted on the marble-topped table laden with gourmet delicacies when Brent approached her from behind.

"Cold?" he asked, appraising the rigid downy hairs saluting him from her forearms. No longer in charge of his own mind, and although the evening was warm and sultry, he illogically suggested, "Perhaps you'd like a fire. I could stoke up the old—"

"No, please," she said, whirling around to face him. "I'm not the least bit cold. Just a little surprised."

Taken back, again the schoolboy in love with his teacher, Brent became defensive. "Surprised? What did you expect—a mattress tossed on the floor and a quick 'Take off your clothes, ma'am, time's a wasting'?"

"Something like that," she said, her grin cooler than it felt.

Catching the humor in her eyes, the twitter of nerves in her voice, Brent relaxed a little. "Sorry about the outburst. I'm not real sure how to behave in a situation like this. It's rather new to me."

"Me too," she said, her eyes wide and guileless.

Brent released his breath, surprised to find he'd been holding it, and took a long, objective look at her. She'd changed her clothes, as he'd suggested, but she'd switched from one Gypsy outfit to another. She still had the multicolored scarf draped across her shoulders, its sequins sparkling—winking at him it seemed—and in place of the yellow blouse she wore a puff-sleeved white top with a much higher neckline. Her skirt, falling to just above her ankles, was bright red with clusters of tiny apricot-colored flowers planted in erratic patterns. Her hands were unadorned. Her hair, loose and free, hung in cinnamon spirals across her shoulders and back.

She was dressed for business as Madam Zaharra, and yet she'd also managed to do as he'd asked. She
was
soft and slinky. In Brent's eyes, she was swaddled in puffy white clouds and sparkling stars, wrapped in the soft cocoon of his dreams, a place in which he imagined he could most happily die.

His breath clogged in his throat. Heat flared in his loins. Brent shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at the expensive Wilton carpet. "Go on," he said with difficulty. "Get on out of here."

Jewel's arms dropped to her sides. "What?"

But still he kept his head bowed, his gaze fastened to the floor. "I said get out. You're free to go."

"Oh, now, just a minute here," she said, taking a step in his direction. "We had a deal, a bet. What's going on?"

Testing himself, daring his very sanity, Brent raised his head and looked into her eyes. "All bets are off. You're free to go."

Jewel stood rooted to the spot, not believing a word she'd heard. Was he making it easy for himself, trading her debt to him for her dismissal when they docked in the morning? She cocked one auburn eyebrow. "I have no intention of leaving this ship or this room. Now what's going on?"

Trying to ignore the way her full bottom lip trembled ever so slightly, he shrugged and said, "I didn't think you'd show up. Now that you have, I realize we can't go through with this."

Suspicious and somehow disappointed, she demanded, "Why not?"

Brent took another long breath, knowing for sure that he, not some wooden bird, belonged in the little gingerbread house. No longer able to look in her eyes, he dropped his gaze back down to the gray and white carpet. "When I make love to a woman, it's because that's what we both want, not because of some bet made out of desperation."

"I've done nothing out of panic," she insisted, her precarious position as an employee and her recent discovery of Harry adding to the turmoil in her heated body. "A bet's a bet, and I'm here to pay up. I suggest we get on with it."

In spite of her boldness, the tightening of some of his muscles, and the hardening of others, Brent managed the lie. "Sorry, sugar. But I'm just not interested."

Jewel stamped her foot. This wasn't the way it was supposed to happen. She'd lost all control of the situation—of him—and had a very fragile grip on herself at best. What was he up to? He was lying—of that she had no doubt. She could almost
taste
his desire, feel the thundering of his pulse even though several feet separated them. She
knew
somehow that his need was as great as hers. Why the lie? Was he so intent on tossing her off the ship, ruining yet another of her assignments?

As determined to remain on board as she was needy, Jewel slid the scarf off her shoulders and tossed it aside. It fluttered to the floor, puddling on the thick carpet like shimmering lake. She moved toward Brent.

At that moment the chose to intervene, and made a few decisions of her own. She lurched, dipping her bow into a large swell, then abruptly righted herself.
Dawn

Jewel staggered, off balance, and tumbled into Brent's arms. Instinct prompted him to draw her closer than necessary. Desire kept her locked in his arms long after the ship stopped its exaggerated pitching.

Jewel snuggled against his chest and slid her hands around his waist where her fingers clung to his linen dress shirt. Then she raised her head and looked into his eyes. "You want me. Admit it."

"Do not," he said hoarsely, avoiding her gaze, but recklessly staring at her mouth instead.

"I know you want me. Why are you pushing away what's yours for the taking?''

Why wasn't she taking the easy way out? he wondered briefly as he lied again, this time with a tongue that felt as if it were carved of Belgian walnut. "The only thing I want from you is your absence."

"Really?" Jewel's tongue peeked out the corner of her mouth as she tightened her grip on his shirt and molded her hips to his. "That's funny," she said in a breathless whisper. "I could have sworn you were unarmed when I walked into this room." With a half smile and a twinkle in her eyes, Jewel let her gaze slide to the desk where his Colt .45 lay tucked in its belt and holster. When she looked back at him, her smile widened and became unmistakably carnal as she added, "Oh, my... I see that you are."

The knot in Brent's throat grew huge and sprouted tentacles that coiled around his windpipe. Struggling for air, for a way to retain his sense of honor, he whispered, "You're brazen. A brazen hussy."

Even though the heat in her own body was building to a fever pitch, so close to igniting them both she could barely keep her feet under her, she shrugged. "That may be, but at least I know when a man wants me. And you definitely want me."

"Do not," he insisted, knowing he was losing the battle, no longer sure whom he was fighting or why.

"Do," she whispered, sliding her fingers into his thick dark hair, lowering his mouth closer to hers.

"Do..." he choked out, "not."

"Don't," she said as her mouth brushed across his.

"Do," he groaned, defeated and relieved all at once.

Intent only on Jewel now, on tasting, touching, feeling her, Brent plunged his hands into her hair and wrapped the long tresses around his fingers. As he crushed his mouth to hers, as she matched his urgency, Brent inhaled and was suddenly filled with her essence. She smelled of violets—
fresh
violets. Where had she found a field of flowers? Or was it all in his mind? Brent suddenly wondered if he even had a mind, and that not entirely lucid thought was his last as their passion ignited, consuming them both.

Entwined together, two candles twisting, melting in the heat of their own desire, they spiraled down to the thick carpet. Jewel knew she was out of control, out of her mind, but it didn't matter. She was frantic to have him inside her, to have him fill the source of her heat and extinguish the exquisite flames. Only then would she be able to think again, to become herself anew, and to return as the master of her own mind, ruler of her mutinous body.

Too eager, too much in a hurry for caution or regrets, she tore at Brent's cravat and ripped the buttons from his expensive shirt. Soothed for a moment, she let her fingers luxuriate in the thick mat of hair on his chest—but only for a moment. As Brent's kiss deepened, as their heated bodies rolled across the carpet, each one seeking dominance and the way to best find primal gratification, Jewel busied herself with his belt buckle and the buttons beneath it.

"Hold still," he said, the words thick and dark, as he poised just above her writhing body. "Let me touch you—I need to touch you."

Barely able to control her movements—to harness nature, as it were—Jewel spread herself beneath him and slid her hands around his neck. Intent on bringing his mouth back to hers, she pulled him toward her, but Brent only brushed her lips with his before continuing down her throat to the collar of her high-necked blouse. Caught up in her frenzy and his own foggy desire, he roughly tugged at the material until it separated, exposing her camisole and the taut nipples beneath. As impatient as she, he pulled the fabric aside and took her breasts in his hands. When his mouth followed, sliding across one full mound toward the crown, she cried out.

"No... forget that," she managed in a husky voice as she tugged at her skirts, pulling them up and out of the way. "Take me," she urged through a tortured gasp. "Take me
now.'"