Marcus’s smile grew broader. But all he offered in response was “Oh, you know.”
Shane opened his mouth to object, then closed it again. Because in that moment, deep down, he did know. He knew that Sara was unlike any woman he’d ever met in his life, and he also knew that the way he’d responded to her was completely different from the way he’d ever responded to a woman in his life. And he’d started to respond that way long before the hijacking had occurred. Long before they’d been taken hostage and thrown into dire straits. He’d responded the minute he met her. And that response had only grown with every word they’d exchanged and every moment they’d shared. Maybe it had happened more quickly because of their circumstances, but even if everything had gone the way it was supposed to, he’d still feel this way about Sara. He knew that. He knew it. He’d still want to be with her now, more than he wanted to be anywhere else.
So why wasn’t he with her?
“I can ask Amira for her address,” Marcus said, seemingly reading his mind. “She’ll know where to find Sara.”
Shane glanced down at his watch. It wasn’t even dinnertime yet. Maybe if he left now, he and Sara could go out somewhere and talk. Or better yet, stay in and talk. He didn’t care. As long as they could talk. As long as they were together. As long as they could stay that way for the rest of their lives.
He nodded to Marcus. “Yeah. I’d like to see her. Talk to her. Thanks, bro,” he said. “I owe you.”
Marcus shook his head. “You owe Amira. And she’ll only ask that you don’t make an obnoxious toast to the bride and groom at our wedding.”
Shane laughed. “It’s a deal. But only if you return the favor at my wedding.”
Sara was just coming down the stairs into the main entry of her mother’s house when she heard a car pull up out front. Goodness, Devon and his parents were already here, and her mother wasn’t dressed yet—she’d have to greet them herself. Drat early birds, she thought. And drat this dress, she thought further, halting in front of the mirror at the foot of the sweeping circular staircase to haul up the bodice that kept threatening to fall dangerously low. And drat the designer, too. Obviously he’d been thinking wishfully about the average woman’s bust line when he’d conceived it.
And while she was at it, drat all dinner parties, Sara further complained to herself. She’d forgotten all about her mother’s having arranged this impromptu one with friends for Sara’s brief, and unexpected, trip home. She’d tried to get her mother to cancel it—considering everything Sara had been through over the last couple of days, entertaining guests was the last thing she wanted to do—but her mother had been adamant. It would only be five other people, her mother had reminded her. Unfortunately, that five included one Devon Trent, an old schoolmate of Sara’s whom her mother still insisted would make a suitable husband for her daughter.
It was more important now than ever that they have the little soiree, her mother had insisted, because now they could celebrate her safe return from those dastardly kidnappers, as well. It would bolster Sara’s spirits after her unfortunate experiences.
Unfortunate experiences, she thought again as she struggled with the strapless, pale blue silk gown. She only wished those experiences all had been unfortunate. But no matter how badly she might recall some of the events of the past few days, Sara could never truly think of them as unfortunate. Because they’d given her her time with Shane, however brief it had been. And also because they’d offered her an opportunity to grow and change, for the better. She’d learned a lot about herself over the past several days. And she’d known, for the first time in her life, what it was like to be in love.
Because no matter how much she had tried to deny it since waking that morning beside Shane, Sara knew without question that she had fallen in love with him. She wasn’t sure when or how it had happened, only that it had. Pragmatic, sensible Sara Wallington had fallen head over heels in love at first sight.
No, not first sight, she quickly corrected herself. Oh, she’d been very much attracted to Shane from the start, but it had only been when she’d witnessed his outgoing personality and his wry sense of humor, even in the face of danger, and noted his tenderness and sweetness that she had started to have feelings for him. And those feelings had come to fruition last night—though, truly, it felt like ages ago now—when the two of them made love.
She was in love with Shane Cordello. Even though she knew he wasn’t the kind of man who would stay around for long.
But don’t cry, Sara, she told herself. Oh, certainly you’ll think back on this time with wistfulness and yearning. But life goes on. So much to do. You’ll have your career. Probably. Once Admiral Monteque forgives you for botching the first assignment you ever received and bumps you up from the RII mail room, where you’re bound to start your career—if you start at all. Why, in fifty years or so, you might even make it up to the steno pool.
She sighed heavily and surveyed her image in the mirror one last time. She’d dressed formally, as her mother always dictated for such affairs. Above the costly blue silk gown, a diamond choker encircled her neck, and coupled with it were diamond earrings and a matching bracelet around her white-gloved wrist. Her pale red hair was wound up into a sleek French twist, and she’d done her best with her cosmetics to hide the shadows beneath her eyes.
The doorbell rang again, so she turned and hurried to answer it.
“Devon, you impatient boy,” she said as she pulled the door open…only to find Shane Cordello standing on the other side.
He looked tired and rumpled, and utterly incongruous in a dark suit and tie. Well, perhaps not too incongruous, she decided upon further inspection. The tie, after all, was knotted inexpertly, and the shirt was misbuttoned and the entire ensemble appeared to have been slept in. He looked wholly uncomfortable in the formal clothing where he’d been so at ease in his ragged jeans. She couldn’t help smiling at the picture he presented now, as if he were wearing his big brother’s clothes and not quite pulling off the image he wanted. Could it be that he was trying to impress her? she wondered. Why had he come here tonight?
“Who the hell is Devon?” he asked by way of a greeting. “And why the hell would he be impatient?”
She noticed then that Shane wasn’t smiling, but looked sullen and irritated instead. And was that petulance she heard in his voice when he was asking her about another man? How very intriguing…
“Hello, Shane,” she said, amazed that she was able to keep her voice level. “It’s good to see you again, too.”
His dark brows arrowed downward. “I mean it, dammit. Who the hell is Devon?” He turned his attention to her attire then, and his features went slack. “Holy cow. You look gorgeous. You look like…”
“What?”
He smiled, but there was nothing happy in the gesture at all. “You look like a princess,” he said sadly, though why such a thing would make him unhappy, Sara couldn’t have said. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Yes,” she told him. “You’ve interrupted what was promising to be a very dull evening. Do come in, please.”
She could scarcely believe he was here. She really hadn’t expected to see him again, ever. She’d been told by the RII that his time in Penwyck had been scheduled down to the last minute, and that if the DNA tests on him and his brother came back positive, then his entire life would be scheduled down to the last minute, too. What had been left for Sara to deduce—which she had, smart woman that she was—was that those minutes would not include anyone outside the palace or the royal family. Certainly not the woman who had botched his delivery to Penwyck in the first place.
She had allowed herself to hope that he might telephone her when he had a chance, but she’d entertained no false dreams there. No matter what had passed between the two of them, Shane Cordello wasn’t the kind of man to run after a woman. Especially a woman he hadn’t known long. Especially a woman to whom he’d made no promises.
But he had run after her, she realized no
w. He was standing right there in her mother’s foyer, his gaze… Well. His gaze wasn’t exactly fixed on her anymore. No, it was wandering over the foyer, up the long circular stairway behind her and into the rooms that flanked the entry—the grand salon to the right, and the massive music room to the left. She couldn’t imagine what he must be thinking.
“Nice house,” he said.
Oh. That was what he’d been thinking.
“I mean, really nice house,” he reiterated. “Reminds me of the palace. Only…bigger.”
“Not really,” Sara said. “They’re roughly the same size.”
“Ah.”
“Well, originally, the palace in Marlestone was only meant to be the royal family’s summer home. This, of course, has been my family’s permanent home for three hundred years now.”
“Ah.”
And with that one quietly uttered sound, for some reason, he seemed to go from angry to thoroughly demoralized.
“Shane?” Sara asked. “Is there something wrong?”
He took in her attire again, his focus lingering on the necklace circling her throat. He lifted his hand to the diamonds, running the pad of his index finger lightly, slowly, over each of the sparkling gems. Sara closed her eyes, willing him to drop his hand lower, to touch the bare skin of her throat and neck and shoulders instead. But he drew his hand back again before doing so, leaving her feeling bereft and cheated and gloomy. When she opened her eyes, it was to see him trailing his gaze around the sumptuous furnishings of the house again. So she followed his gaze, trying to look at her surroundings with an outsider’s eye, only realizing then how very lush and ornate—and excessively overdone—the place was. Really, her mother should donate many of the pieces and artwork to the Royal Museum. They were only gathering dust—and appreciating to frightful amounts of value—here at home.
“Shane?” she said, turning her attention to him again.
“You, uh… You grew up here, I guess, huh?”
She nodded.
“You must like living this way.”
“I never really thought much about it, to be honest.”
“No, I suppose not,” he said. “I guess you’d take this for granted.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that, either.”
He was still standing framed in the doorway, had scarcely taken two steps inside the house, and was looking as if he intended to turn around and leave again. So Sara did the only thing she could think to do. She reached for him, gripping him by both lapels, pulled him inside, slammed the door behind him pushed him back against it, and…
And kissed him for all she was worth.
Normally, Sara would never have been so forward. But then, normally, she wasn’t in love with a man she had been terrified she would never see again. So she figured her behavior could be excused this once.
It evidently didn’t bother Shane, though, because he responded by immediately roping his arms around her waist and pulling her hard against himself and fairly devouring her, too. For long moments, all they did was enjoy the embrace, neither of them speaking, only becoming reacquainted in the most fundamental way they knew how. Shane kissed her as if it had been months since he last saw her, and Sara reveled in his obvious desire for her, because it so mirrored hers for him.
“So does this mean you missed me?” Shane asked between kisses.
“Yes, desperately,” she replied as she groped for breath and coherent thought.
He kissed her again. Then, “But it’s only been hours since we saw each other,” he pointed out.
“And it’s been hell,” she said, pressing her mouth to his once more.
“You’re right,” he agreed. “Hell.”
Neither spoke for long moments after that, only embraced more heartily and kissed more passionately and clung to each other as if they never wanted to release the other again. Somehow, though, Sara registered the sound of another car pulling up outside, of two car doors opening and slamming shut, and she sprang away from Shane—but only far enough to stop the onslaught of his kisses, and temporarily at that.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“Among other things,” he assured her.
She smiled. “My mother’s expecting guests.”
“Yeah, this impatient Devon, for one. You never did tell me who he is or why he’s impatient.”
She grinned. “Jealous?”
“You’re damned right I’m jealous.”
“You have no need to be. There’s no one but you, Shane.”
His expression changed then, to one that told her how very relieved he was to hear her say such a thing. Honestly. Could he have ever doubted? she wondered. Could he have truly thought she would ever want anyone but him? Silly boy…
“Come upstairs,” she said.
And without awaiting a reply, she took him by the hand and fairly dragged him up to her bedroom. She knocked on her mother’s door as she passed, muttered something about lying down because she had a frightful headache and would be down to greet their guests in half an hour. She heard Shane chuckle and promise her it was going to last a hell of a lot longer than thirty minutes. Sara made a mental note to hold him to it. But first she wanted to hold him to herself. And no sooner had her bedroom door closed behind them than she pulled him into her arms and kissed him. Deeply. Wantonly. Needfully.
He wasted no time with words and went right into action, cupping her jaw with one hand to urge her mouth open wider for the penetration of his tongue. Then he easily pushed the top of her gown down to her waist, baring her breasts—what a brilliant man the designer was to have foreseen such a need for the garment, she thought vaguely—and filled his hand with one of the tender globes. Impatiently, he palmed her, rubbing her breast in intimate circles, kneading the delicate flesh in impetuous fingers. Then he tore his mouth away from hers and kissed her throat, her neck, her shoulder, before lowering his head to draw the erect peak of her breast deep into his mouth.
She tangled her fingers in his dark hair as he began to suck at her, pushing his head, his mouth, more firmly against her. “I—I thought we were going to…to talk,” she gasped.
“Haven’t you heard?” he said, the words coming warm and damp against her skin. “Actions speak louder than words. And right now, I’m pretty much shouting at the top of my lungs.”
So he was, Sara thought. So he was. So what could she do but listen to him? Listen and contribute her own side of the conversation.
For long moments he tugged at her breast, mouthing the taut, sensitive peak, sliding the tip of his tongue along its lower curve. When he straightened to kiss her again, she reached for his tie, pulling the length of silk free from his collar to cast it aside. His jacket went next, when she skimmed her hands beneath it and pushed it off his shoulders, and she hastily went to work on the buttons of his shirt. That garment, too, was then cast aside, and Sara made immediately for his belt and the zipper on his trousers.
And never in her life had she felt so comfortable and correct as she did in that moment, undressing a man. Because it wasn’t just any man she was undressing. No, it was the man she wanted. The man she needed. The man she loved.
He found the zipper at the side of her dress and yanked it down in concert with her opening of his own trousers, then pushed at the pale blue silk until it slipped down over her hips, pooling in a soft puddle at her feet. And then she stood before him wearing only white silk panties she had donned over white silk stockings with garters, and pale blue satin high heels. Shane groaned when he saw her attire, and her fingers on his trousers stilled.
“Oh, man,” he said. “Do you realize how many men fantasize about seeing a woman dressed this way?” Then a thought seemed to occur to him. “Why are you dressed this way? I didn’t think women wore garter belts anymore, unless they were anticipating…”
Sara smiled a seductive little smile. “They do if they think it feels erotic under their clothing,” she said.
Shane gaped softly at her. “Are you telling me…”
“I always wear braces, Shane. Garters to you,” she said, translating the term to American. “They make me feel—” she smiled naughtily “—like a woman,” she finally finished. “Just because I wasn’t sexually active before doesn’t mean I never felt sexual, you know.”
“Oh, man,” he muttered again. “So then the whole time we were together up there on the mountain, you were wearing…”
“Well, not the entire time. I had to slip out of them when I took off my shirt to make bandages. My stockings were a mess.”
“But before that?”
“Yes, I was wearing them before that.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Oh, man. If I’d known…”
“Yes?” she asked with much interest.
This time he was the one to smile naughtily. “We could have had a real interesting time in the washroom on the jet, Sara. And you wouldn’t have been able to put a stop to it that night on the mountain, either.”
“And tonight?” she asked.
His smile went positively wicked at that. “I don’t think you want to call a stop to it tonight.”
“Damn. Am I that transparent?”
He took advantage of her question to give her a thorough once-over from head to toe. “Um, in case you didn’t notice, sweetheart, you’re more than transparent. You’re almost naked.”
Though he quickly went about rectifying that, hooking his thumbs in her panties and pulling them down over her hips. Sara aided him the rest of the way, until all she had left on were her braces and heels. She started to removed those, too, but Shane halted her with a gentle hand.
“Keep them on,” he said roughly. “I like you that way.”
“Nearly naked?” she asked.
“All the best parts are naked,” he assured her.
She sighed fretfully, throwing a wistful look at his loosened—but not yet removed—trousers. “Yet you defy nudity yourself. Spoilsport.”
He pulled her against him, her naked breasts rubbing intimately against his bare chest, stirring parts of her that she hadn’t thought could be any more stirred. “You want me naked?” he asked.
Taming The Prince (Crown & Glory Book 8) Page 17
