by Susan Napier
‘No. Don’t bother…’ The pressure of his thumb stopped her words in her mouth. ‘I like the nude look. I like the contrast between the sultry seduction of your elaborate eye make-up and the soft, pink innocence of your mouth.’ And, as if that wasn’t erotic enough to take her breath away, he added casually, ‘Besides, I don’t like the taste of lipstick.’
He took away his thumb and she swayed slightly, thinking that he was going to suit his actions to his words, but instead of following up his claim with a kiss he said indulgently, ‘So how about fixing me a drink while I go and see Pierre about dinner? Whisky—on the rocks. The eight-year-old Scotch, if you please…’
Regan’s hands were still trembling as she uncapped the Scotch and poured his drink, clashing the neck of the bottle against the squat crystal glass.
She ordered herself to calm down. They had the whole evening ahead of them…of course he didn’t want to rush things. He was a highly civilised man. He wanted to unwind from his busy day first, to be amused and entertained in undemanding company. As Cleo had loudly insisted—this wasn’t prostitution. And Adam had just proved her right with his willingness to do what his escort wanted rather than exercise his own preference. The message was that Regan was here to enjoy herself, not simply to provide raw sex on command…
When she turned from the bar her heart jumped to find that Adam was already back, lounging on the couch, his long legs splayed, his head tipped back against the pale cushions, exposing his scarred throat as he gazed up at the ceiling. He must have moved as silently as a cat. He had shed his jacket and tie, the subtle sheen of his dark blue shirt catching the light where his arms stretched along the back of the couch. His collar was unbuttoned, and as she moved closer she could see a drift of dark hair revealed by the narrow V of his open shirt.
The ice cubes tinkled against the glass in her hand and he rolled his head to one side and lazily watched her approach. In spite of the relaxation of his big body, Regan wasn’t fooled into thinking that his brain was clouded by his fatigue. His eyes, though heavy-lidded, weren’t in the least bit drowsy as she offered him his drink.
He shifted his torso, dropping his right hand to rest near his hip, but made no attempt to reach for the glass. After a moment of dithering uncertainty she stepped between his splayed knees to bend over and place his drink directly into his hand.
His fingers flexed around the glass, momentarily trapping hers against the slippery surface, and when she lifted her head enquiringly she saw that his eyes weren’t on her face. They were level with the plunging front of her dress, where her small, unconfined breasts, rounded almost to voluptuousness by gravity, crowded up against the edge of the deeply scooped neckline.
Trapped in her provocative pose, Regan was shocked to feel her nipples tighten and begin to rub against the material with every indrawn breath, as if beckoning his attention.
‘You’re not wearing a bra.’ He voiced his intimate discovery, lifting his other hand to languidly trace a finger around her curving neckline, careful not to touch the creamy swells of flesh, only the seam of fabric against which they strained. He took a sip of his drink as he did so, allowing her captured fingers to slip away from the glass.
Deprived of the excuse to flaunt her modest charms in his face, Regan had to force herself to move. All he’d had to do, she thought, was tuck his finger into that edge and he would have been stroking her aching breasts…
‘I—I’m so small I don’t usually have to,’ she said, her head throbbing with blood as she straightened reluctantly within the corral of his strong thighs.
‘The best things come in small packages,’ he murmured, letting his fingers trail down her bare arm, and then drift lightly over her hip and flank to the sensitive back of her knee, which he had earlier caressed with such electrifying effect.
‘Stockings or pantyhose?’ he wondered, plucking gently at the silky sheer black nylon.
Regan’s tongue felt thick in her mouth. ‘Stockings.’
Since she’d been widowed she had discovered a simple economy: it was cheaper to mix and match pairs of stockings than to buy pantyhose that might have to be discarded because of a ladder in one leg. But tonight it hadn’t been economy dictating her choice of underwear.
‘And, let me guess…black lace suspenders?’
She blushed at his gentle mockery. It seemed like such a ridiculous cliché, and yet the garter belt had made her feel wickedly sexy when she had been clipping it onto her silky stockings. She had bought the lacy black underwear on her second wedding anniversary, in a vain attempt to inject some excitement into her marriage bed. Of course, she hadn’t known at the time that Michael’s excitement was reserved for his busty blonde mistress!
Holding her rosy-cheeked gaze, Adam smoothed his spread hand slowly back up over the hem of her skirt and across the front of her thigh until he encountered the betraying outline of her suspender, pressing lightly to imprint it on his palm.
‘Anything else?’
All her attention was concentrated on his hand on her leg.
‘I beg your pardon?’
He took another swallow of whisky, watching her over the silvery rim. ‘I asked if you were wearing anything else?’
She licked her lips. ‘You mean a-apart from my dress?’ she said huskily.
‘I mean under your dress,’ he clarified, removing his hand, but leaving behind its heated brand on her thigh.
Her eyes widened and she nodded jerkily. What kind of woman didn’t wear panties when she went out, for goodness’ sake? What if she got knocked over in the street, or was ambushed by a freak gust of wind? The potential for embarrassment was enormous. Even Lisa, who was an ardent minimalist, wore tanga briefs to cover the bare essentials!
‘Black lace?’
She nodded again, riveted by the breathtaking boldness of that pantherish stare. He sipped his whisky and she had a strong premonition that what he was planning to say next was in the nature of a challenge.
‘Would you take them off for me, if I asked you to?’
The air was sucked from her lungs and a molten wave of heat scorched through her veins.
‘Y-You mean…here? Now?’
He tilted his head. ‘Have I shocked you?’
Senseless.
Regan was furious. She’d thought she had been doing so well! And now he had flung down this outrageous gauntlet.
There was a faint smile on his face as he waited to see what she would do next, and to Regan the hint of mocking detachment in his regard was an added insult. She had a lowering suspicion that he wouldn’t be surprised if she melted in a puddle of stammering embarrassment—that he had seen through her sophisticated charade to the nervous little mouse beneath.
No! She wasn’t going to be shocked by his indecent proposal. Wasn’t this precisely why she had come here—to play adult games, to experiment, to explore beyond the limits of her own experience? To celebrate her freedom from the tyranny of lies by flinging open the doors on her sequestered sexuality?
Aware of the danger she was courting, Regan was gripped by a powerful urge to shake up that infuriating masculine self-assurance…to pay him back, shock for shock. It struck her quite forcibly that, in spite of the explicit sexual threat that Adam represented, she was less afraid now than she had been all evening.
So…Adam wanted to see how far she could be pushed, did he? Well, now was the time to show him that she was more than equal to his game. Maybe if she had been more keen to indulge in sexual role-playing during their marriage then her husband would have been less keen to stray—except that Michael had never encouraged his loving wife to be anything other than strictly conventional in bed.
Conventional and boring!
Without a word Regan reached up under her skirt and hooked her shaking thumbs into the high-cut sides of her bikini panties.
Adam’s face was suddenly wiped clean of all expression and he moved with lightning swiftness, his thighs tensing as he leaned abruptly forward to clamp
a preventive hand on her forearm.
‘I’m sorry…I was teasing you. I apologise for my lack of finesse,’ he said, coolly snatching his gauntlet back out of her reckless grasp. ‘I’d hate to spoil our evening by rushing pleasures that are better savoured. I’m afraid the potent combination of a sensuous woman and an excellent Scotch temporarily overwhelmed my self-control—not to mention my good manners,’ he added, with just the right touch of rueful self-derision. He settled back with his whisky, looking up at her with carefully modified solemnity.
Smooth-talking devil! He might have been only teasing, but he had been in full control of all his faculties. He had been testing her compliance.
Pumped for action, Regan was tempted to ignore his glib apology and go ahead with her daring act of defiance. However, he had just referred to her as a sensuous woman, and for that delicious compliment she was almost willing to forgive him. If he had called her beautiful she wouldn’t have believed him, but to be sensuous a woman didn’t have to have model-girl looks. Beauty was only skin-deep, whereas sensuality was innate—and therefore infinitely more desirable as far as Regan was concerned.
She reluctantly removed her hands and ran them slowly up and down the side-seams of her dress, deliberately wiggling her hips as she smoothed the rumpled fabric back into place. It felt wild and wanton, stroking herself like this in front of him, but it was the kind of thing that a sensuous woman would do—inviting a man to share her feminine appreciation of her own body.
He watched, his face softening with a return of his former amusement, but this time it was laced with a measure of wry respect.
‘Why don’t you join me?’ he murmured, intrigued by the hint of shy excitement in her slinky self-absorption.
‘Thank you, I will…’ she purred, caught up in her performance, her eyes glowing with smug triumph as she sank onto the empty cushions beside him. The couch was long enough to take his full length—and wide enough for an orgy, she thought, nervously.
‘I meant in a drink,’ he explained, toasting her with his glass.
‘Oh…’ Her sultry look dissolved. ‘I did have a vodka and tonic around here somewhere…’ She frowned vaguely about.
‘Forget it. Just go ahead and help yourself to another,’ Adam advised with the careless ease of a man who never had to worry about a budget—for alcohol or anything else. Lounging at his ease, he obviously expected her to play hostess while Pierre was occupied in the kitchen.
She thought she had probably infused enough alcohol into her system as it was, but a drink would give her some occupation for her nervous hands.
She stood up, ultra-conscious of her lack of grace as her narrow heels tilted awkwardly into the thick pile of the carpet and almost tipped her sideways into his lap. ‘Shall I freshen yours, too?’ she asked, to distract him from her clumsiness.
‘No, it’s fine,’ he said, swirling the contents of his glass. ‘You pour a mean Scotch.’
Regan shrugged with her hands. ‘My father was a big whisky-drinker—’ She bit her lip as she turned away, annoyed at her slip. She knew the cheap rot-gut that had killed her father by the time she was ten had little in common with the smooth, expensive, aromatic spirit that Adam savoured.
‘And your husband? What about him?’
Her body stiffened as she swung back to face his grating accusation.
‘My what?’
He caught at her left hand, lifting it to the light so that they both could see the faint band of pale skin on her ring finger. He immediately let it drop, as if contaminated by her touch.
‘Are you married?’ he demanded harshly.
She hesitated. Just what kind of man was she dealing with? ‘What if I said yes?’
The light grey eyes hardened to cold steel. ‘Then I’d politely show you the door. And Derek would cease to be part of my acquaintance. He knows my opinion on the subject: I don’t sleep with other men’s wives. And I despise cheating and deception—No-one gets a second chance to breach my trust. So if you are married tell me now, before this goes any further, because I make a very bad enemy…’
Regan was stunned by the ruthless force behind his pronouncement. He possessed the will, the wealth and the power to protect his personal honour, and wouldn’t hesitate to use those weapons to threaten and punish anyone who sought to compromise it in pursuit of their own interests.
‘I’m not married,’ she declared huskily, her curiosity more than satisfied.
Unfortunately, his suspicion was too sharp to be easily blunted by the belated admission.
‘But you were,’ he rapped out. ‘Divorced?’
If she hadn’t been so naive for so long she might have been able to say yes with dignity. As things stood, there was little honour in being Michael’s widow.
She shook her head and looked down, disturbed to find herself twisting the non-existent ring on her finger.
‘Widowed. Mi—my husband was killed in a car crash.’
There was a brief, splintering silence.
‘I’m sorry.’
Her chin jerked up at the deep gentleness of his tone, her cheeks stinging as if he had reached out and slapped her. The cold steel had gone from his eyes, to be replaced by a smoky speculation that made her angry heart burn. She didn’t want tenderness, dammit! All she wanted from him was one night of simple, uncomplicated lust.
‘Don’t be.’
His eyes narrowed at the clipped command.
‘Like that, was it?’ he mused, still with that threatening undertone of softness.
She raked her fingers through her hair, and flicked the ends over her shoulder in a gesture half-nervous, half-defiant. ‘You can’t begin to imagine what it was like,’ she said with a tight smile. ‘And I’d rather you didn’t bother.’
‘How long ago did it happen?’
She tossed him a frustrated look. She could guess what he was thinking—he was wondering whether she was acting out some psychological trauma associated with her marriage.
With a vengeance!
Her eyes flashed. ‘Long enough.’
Eight months. Long enough for her to have found out why Michael had insisted on handling all their joint finances. He had spent their savings, run up credit card debts, mortgaged the house and taken out loans for which, as his next of kin and inheritor of his estate, she was liable. The absence of a will had compounded the legal problems, and only after months of trying to straighten out the chaotic financial tangle her lawyer had informed her that there was little left to inherit.
And two weeks ago she had finally discovered why.
Two weeks ago she had received a tearful visit from Michael’s long-term mistress, the earthy, voluptuous Cindy…and his three-and-a-half-year-old son.
Her last remaining shred of respect for Michael had vanished as she had been forced to face the degrading truth that for the entire duration of their marriage her husband had been living an expensive double life. One that she, all unknowingly, had helped finance!
Well, tonight she would have her revenge.
Tonight she wasn’t going to be the sweet, understanding little woman, bravely swallowing her pride and doing what was expected of her.
Tonight she was going to be the ruthless user, the unrepentant sinner…
CHAPTER FOUR
‘SO YOU don’t miss having a husband?’
Like a hole in the head, Regan wanted to snap. Instead, she channelled her anger into another emotion.
‘I miss…certain things about being married…’ She tossed Adam a suggestive smile and swung back over to the bar. Conscious of his eyes levelled on her back, she relaxed her shoulders and moved with an exaggerated sway of her hips, the way she had seen Lisa move on the catwalk.
Drink in hand, she strolled back with that same, slinky roll and crossed her legs as she sat down, letting her skirt ride up above her knees as far as it liked.
‘Would you like me to do that for you?’ she offered, as he eased a hand across the back of his neck, digging hi
s fingers into the tense muscle.
‘You do massage?’
‘I’m not a qualified masseur or anything,’ she said innocently, ‘but I’m sure I could give you a rub that would ease some of your tension.’
‘I think having your hands on my body is more likely to increase rather than decrease my tension,’ he said, with the faint smile that turned her insides to marshmallow.
She cleared her throat of a tiny obstruction. In the background she was vaguely aware of Pierre, moving to and fro from the kitchen to the table. ‘So…what sort of things do you normally do to unwind after a hard day at the office?’ she asked.
From his bland expression she knew he was going to tease her again. ‘Well…I find flirting with a warmly receptive woman very relaxing.’
‘Then you should soon be a positive puddle of contentment,’ she responded, equally bland.
His quick grin was white and wolfish. ‘I already feel myself melting. And what do you like to do to relax, Eve?’
‘Oh, read, sew, cook…’ she said demurely. She lowered her lashes and slowly lifted them again. ‘Make love…’
‘Interesting. I usually find that the act of sex has the opposite effect,’ he murmured, topping her with stunning ease. ‘I don’t feel in the least relaxed when I’m inside a woman’s body. I’m all edgy and agitated, and every muscle feels explosively hot and tight with urgency…’ He paused to take a swallow of whisky, enjoying the way her violet eyes widened and the pulse at the base of her bare throat kicked up a storm. ‘But perhaps the feelings are very different for a woman…’
Regan hoped not! She mastered the impulse to throw herself on top of him and demand that he demonstrate right there and then.
She gave a blasé shrug of her slender shoulders instead. ‘Men and women aren’t so very different—’
‘Honey, if you think that, then you must have skipped human biology in high school,’ he interrupted drolly.
In fact her mother had removed her from class whenever there had been a danger she might be contaminated by sex education disguised as legitimate learning.
