Mira fought to retain her composure. She imagined him from his cover model days, his glistening, oiled body flexed, his long dark locks tossed back in almost every conceivable pose on the novels. A Viking warrior, an exotic desert sheik, a rough and rowdy cowboy or a regency-era rake. She’d lived all the adventures of the characters between the pages of the books, never dreaming that one day the sexy model turned novelist would be eating lunch in her dining room.
And of all the things she served him, it had to be a lousy chicken sandwich and iced tea.
“I read your last novel, Between Destiny and Desire,” she said.
“My most erotic published work to date,” he offered.
Oh, yeah. She remembered all the graphic details. Some of the love scenes had left her wondering how two people could actually get into some of those positions, or if half of those pleasure devices he wrote about truly existed in 17th century France. She wondered if Armand had experienced every sexual act he wrote about. Her face warmed at the thought.
He was looking at her now, the way a hungry dog might eye a meaty bone. She’d no doubt he had an enormous sexual appetite. He must. How else could he write such uninhibited tales of lust and love and make the scenes come to life on the page unless he’d experienced all of it firsthand.
He lifted the napkin to his lips. “Did you like it?”
Mira shook her head, having suddenly gone brain dead. Did she like what? Last night? His book? “Did I like . . . what?”
“My book. Between Destiny and Desire.”
She nodded. It was all she could do as she recalled one vivid scene. The hero, Bjorn had bound the naked heroine, Druscilla upon her request and was doing erotic things with a strand of pearls and artificial phalluses—sexual acts Mira had never even heard of until then.
Armand stared.
“It shocks you that I write erotic romance.” It was not a question.
Mira lifted a cloth and began polishing a silver candlestick on the mahogany buffet because she didn’t know what to do with her trembling hands. “I’m not shocked,” she answered. It was the truth. Who better to write erotic tales than the ultra-sexy Armand Giancarlo.
“So you’ve experienced everything you write about?” she dared.
His gaze caught hers. “Are you certain you want to know the answer to that question?”
Uh-oh! As Mira worked the polishing rag up and down over the obscenely long and thick silver candle stick, she grew aware of the eroticism of what she was doing. She laid the cloth aside, but as she stared at the limp rag, she recalled another scene from one of his novels. She imagined the soft cleaning cloth as the silk scarf in one of the bondage scenes, recalling the leather whip and naked bottom of the heroine as the hero flogged her, the pleasure toys he’d used on her and oh-so-wonderful things he’d done afterward!
She swallowed hard, turned and gripped the edges of the antique buffet table. She’d asked Giancarlo too much. Somehow she didn’t want to imagine him making love to other women—not in real life nor between the pages of his books.
She heard his chair move across the floor, then turned around to find him coming toward her. She backed up against the counter and he paused, as if he realized she was uncomfortable.
“Last night when I caught you lurking in the hallway—wearing no panties or nightclothes beneath your robe,” he said with a shameless grin—“I assumed you’d come for another reason. I apologize if I was presumptuous.”
Mira’s heart pounded wildly in her chest. The orgasmic dream had awakened her, but it was the curious noises coming from the third floor that actually drew her to investigate. How presumptuous of him to imply she’d gone looking for sex. Was it because she’d allowed him to kiss her and touch her body? She was not seeking a relationship, or a casual fling. Although she rather suspected with a man of Armand’s arrogance and appetites, he might be on the prowl for another sexual conquest. From all the stories she’d read about him in the tabloids over the years, he was a tiger yet to be tamed.
She recalled his question and replied, “I came upstairs because I couldn’t imagine why you’d be on your computer at three in the morning.”
Hi quirked a brow. “Tell me the truth. Why did you allow me to touch you so intimately, Mira?”
Warmth crept over her cheeks and Mira realized she was blushing. The room grew warm and she tugged at the collar of her cotton dress. Actually, she didn’t know.
Armand stared as if waiting for her answer.
“I wanted you to,” she managed finally.
He hesitated, as if he was unsure of what he was about to say. His gaze locked with hers. “You’re a beautiful woman.”
She was not and she damned well knew it. Plain and thin described her best. Some might even say mousy. She wasn’t even very good at sex, nor was she knowledgeable other than what she’d read in books or magazines. Was he telling her the lies he thought she wanted to hear?
“I wanted much more from you,” he added.
A shiver shook her. So had she, but rationale had prevailed even in her weak moment. “I know.”
He sighed, cocked his head to the side. “Mira, now that the pretense is off, perhaps we should be honest with one another.” He shifted, drew his hand to his chin. “I am most curious about you.”
Mira clutched at the collar of her dress as if to stave off his plundering gaze. “Why?”
“You live here alone. There appears to be no man in your life or children about. Are you in a relationship? Divorced?”
Mira stared. She’d been out of the loop so long she didn’t know how to define her status. “I’m not married…but…I do date . . . occasionally,” she lied. She hadn’t been out with a man in more than ten years. Joel had been her first, last and only date. Hell, he’d been her first, last and only anything. But after her devastating experience with his sorry ass, she hadn’t wanted a relationship with another man.
After her family and the close-knit community of Annabelle Island had turned against her—all except her grandmother Ada—Mira had no desire to become entangled emotionally or physically with a man. Her collection of steamy romance novels had seen her through all these years. Armand Giancarlo’s—aka, Raven Midnight’s books, in particular.
A moment of awkward silence passed between them.
Armand looked at the table, then back to her. “Would you care to join me for lunch? Actually, it’s no fun dining alone.”
How well she knew. She’d inherited this antebellum Victorian house upon her grandmother’s death eight years ago and had lived here—alone—ever since. A few years ago she’d decided to turn it into a bed and breakfast to bring in an income and at least pay the taxes and insurance and put a few groceries in the pantry. Even still, the varied guests who arrived from all over the United States and occasionally Europe didn’t make it feel any livelier.
Mira nodded. “All right. Give me a moment and I’ll join you.”
Armand took his seat at the table again while Mira quickly prepared a sandwich for herself. She was acutely aware of his eyes on her the entire time. While it might have irked her to think of any other man staring at her backside, she actually enjoyed his perusal. It had been many years since she’d attracted the attention of a handsome man. She sliced her sandwich in two, poured a glass of iced tea and joined him.
“Yes, this is lovely,” he commented between bites.
It was. Although she felt odd dining with one of her guests, it also felt right.
“There’s a full moon out tonight,” Armand commented, then hesitated as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.
“What?” she asked.
He sighed. “Would you think I’m being presumptuous if I asked you to go to dinner with me—then afterward, perhaps we could take a moon lit stroll on the beach…or even a swim afterward if you’re feeling bold.”
Mira lifted a brow. A date. He was asking her on a date. Panic clawed at her insides. “Are you asking me out, Mr. Giancarlo?”
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Armand looked to his left, then his right. He cast a glance back over his shoulder before his gaze settled upon her again. “Who is Mr. Giancarlo? Call me Armand.”
She knew she must be blushing for her face warmed. She hesitated, wondering how to decline thoughtfully. “I’ve too much work to leave the Inn, Armand.”
His brows knitted into a line. “I am your only guest, Mira. Am I that much trouble?”
Her mind reeled. Actually there wasn’t anything keeping her at the inn. She simply didn’t have anything to wear on a date! Where could she find an outfit on such short notice?
“Perfect. It’s a date,” he said.
She shook her head. “No. I . . . I can’t go tonight.”
“Then tomorrow,” he insisted.
“No.”
“Very well, but you should know that I intend to have dinner with you one way or the other. Shall I have dinner delivered to the Inn so we may dine in your lovely rose garden?”
A date at home? She tumbled the idea through her mind. Actually, it didn’t seem like a bad idea. “All right mister—,” she’d almost called him Giancarlo again but caught herself. “Armand.”
He took a final sip of his iced tea and rose from the chair. “I’ll meet you in the foyer at seven PM sharp, mademoiselle, for our steamy date in your enchanting rose garden. Oh, and panties are optional,” he added with a naughty wink.
She felt her face warm as a delicious thrill shot through her. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
By 6 PM it looked as if suitcases had puked all over Armand’s bed. Ties and socks and shirts lay strewn in every direction like casualties of war. With a groan he reached for the black Armani suit again, held it against him and peered into the full length dressing mirror. Too formal and pretentious. He reached for a lightweight peach colored turtleneck. No, too sissy looking. He needed something he could get out of easily in the event things heated up. At least he was counting on things steaming up between him and Mira tonight.
He eventually settled on a crisp white button down shirt and casual dark gray slacks. Tie or no tie? He pushed his shoulder length hair out of his face and secured it back with his hands while he decided. No tie. He’d leave the first few buttons open, too. Hell, maybe several. He wriggled a brow at his sexy image in the mirror. Yeah, he still had appeal. “Show a little chest hair, Armand,” he murmured as he struck a pose.
He showered, slicked his dark locks back into a sleek pony tail, then dressed.
While the roses he’d ordered for Mira arrived mid afternoon, there’d been no sign of the caterer. The restaurant assured him dinner would arrive by five. Bloody hell! His first date with Mira Reece was a disaster in the making.
Mira was waiting on the settee in the foyer when he reached the foot of the stairs. His breath caught in his throat at the vision of beauty greeting him. Sweet dear, lovely Mira was stunning! She’d shed her frowsy day dress from earlier and now sported a form fitting, wispy veil of a black dress that hit her mid calf. The bodice was low, emphasizing her small, but high, firm breasts and lending a hint of enticing cleavage. Around her throat sparkled a three tiered black and red jeweled choker. Vintage, he’d bet. Her short, auburn hair was combed back away from her pretty heart shaped face. She wore no make up, but needed none. Her pale skin glowed flawless like an innocent angel’s. She smelled of flowers—gardenias. And be damned, he couldn’t tell whether or not she’d worn panties. He hoped not. He wasn’t wearing a stitch beneath his own trousers either.
Upon closer inspection, he noted tears glittering in her beautiful brown eyes.
“Mira” He moved close, caressed her dainty shoulders. “What is wrong, sweet lady?”
She lifted her eyes to him. “I have to cancel our date tonight, Armand.”
“Are you ill? Is it because the caterer hasn’t arrived with our meal? Not to worry. We’ll take my car into the village.”
She shook her head and looked away. “No, it’s nothing like that.” She took him by the hand. “Let’s go into the parlor where it’s more comfortable.”
Armand felt like a giant in her presence as he followed her, her tiny hand lost in his. He took a seat beside her on a brocade sofa—one of the period pieces of the manor he’d been admiring upon arrival.
“My sister, Jocelyn is in the hospital.”
He reached up and cupped a cheek. “What happened?”
“She attempted suicide again—alcohol and pills. They’re moving her to a mental treatment facility as soon as they’ve stabilized her.”
Bloody hell! Poor Mira and what she must be going through. Armand reached across and drew a foot stool closer, then motioned for Mira to lift her feet. “Not to worry, sweet lady. Our date can wait in light of this unfortunate turn of events.”
Mira looked at him and his heart nearly broke. He had the distinct feeling her sister’s shenanigans had been going on for quite some time and it had taken a serious emotional toll on her.
“Does this happen often?” he inquired.
Mira gave a half laugh. “Once every few months. Jocelyn isn’t mentally stable.”
He drew her tiny hand in his. “I am truly sorry. Would you like for me to drive you to the hospital to see her?”
She laid her head back on the settee’s high back and stared toward the ceiling. “I can’t leave. Jocelyn’s neighbor, Connie, is bringing her children to me tonight.” She looked up at him. “That won’t be a problem will it?” she asked. “I mean, I’ll keep my nieces and nephews as quiet as I can, but you know how energetic small children are.”
“Nieces and nephews? How many?”
“Four.”
Armand swallowed hard. “How young?”
“Um . . . two, four and seven and eight.”
Children were about to descend upon this peaceful island sanctuary! Having been raised an only child, Armand had always longed for the day when he might have a houseful of children of his own. But suddenly he had visions of toddlers swinging from the chandelier in the entry hall, of crayon scribbles on the doors and walls and the pitter patter of little feet up and down the stairs all day and night. Squealing children. Squeaky toys left on the steps. Bikes and tricycles left behind his rental car. All well and good, but there was work to do. He had to finish Passion’s Storm in less than a month! Tara Carrington, his agent, would rip him a new asshole if he didn’t get a manuscript to her soon.
Sweat beaded across his brow and upper lip. Oh, this was not good at all.
Mira must have noticed his distress for she sat upright. “Seriously, Armand, I will keep the children as quiet as possible while you write.”
He gave a wan smile. “Of course.”
The door bell rang and Mira rose. “That must be Connie, with the kids. Excuse me.”
Children. He’d no actual experience with them and didn’t know what to expect.
He slipped into the foyer, curious to glimpse the little darlings. Mira and a petite, dark haired woman spoke in hushed tones at the door.
“Armand,” Mira said, upon spying him in the door way, “Would you put Joseph Junior on the sofa temporarily?”
Armand lifted a brow. Why, the sleeping cherub in the Connie woman’s arms was practically a baby.
He didn’t know anything about babies..
Armand gingerly accepted the sleeping toddler. He gazed down at the boy’s angelic face and something in his gut warmed. Either that, or the chicken salad sandwich Mira served him at lunch was curdling in his gut.
Three more waif-like children squeezed passed Connie, their sleepy eyes pinning him as they gathered around.
“Who are you?” the youngest, a boy of about four quipped.
“My name is Armand,” he told the child.
“That’s a funny name,” one of the girls said with a snicker. The other one, about a year older and a head taller with blue eyes agreed.
Armand cleared his throat. “I’ll have you know that Armand was my father’s name. He was born in France.”
; “You have a lot of hair on your chest,” the youngest girl said and giggled.
“I’ve got hair on my butt,” the four year boy old piped up.
“Devin!” the girls cried in unison.
Armand suppressed a laugh, although he winked at the boy and gave him a fist bump followed by a high five. “We’re kindred spirits young man.”
The boy’s brown eyes glittered with mischief.
Mira bid farewell to Connie, closed the door and then turned around. “Are we all getting acquainted?”
“Hey, let’s go to aunt Mee Mee’s room,” one of the girls cried. “She’s got a big bed we can jump on like a trampoline.”
Devin charged up the steps, followed by the girls. To Armand it sounded like a herd of wildebeests charging through the silent manor.
“No running in the house,” Mira called. “I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
“Okay,” the girls sang out in unison as they thundered up the next set of steps to the second floor landing, oblivious to their aunt’s warning.
“Really, Armand, they’ll quiet down after they get settled in. You’ll see. They’re just upset by the turn of events with their mother. Come.” She motioned to him. “Bring Joseph Junior to my room.”
Once the children were settled in their beds, Mira changed from her evening clothes into well worn pink sweats. As it was after eleven PM, she assumed Armand had retreated to his suite for his nightly writing session. She made a cup of cocoa, pulled a crocheted blanket from one of the linen closets and sat on the front porch for the longest time, listening to the churning waves of the Atlantic as she sipped her steamy drink. Well, so much for a hot date with the most delicious-looking man on earth. Tonight, cocoa would be her comfort.
She thought of her sister Jocelyn’s tragic life—pregnant at sixteen, married at seventeen, divorced at eighteen, remarried at twenty, then divorced again two years later. She’d lived with a string of men thereafter, mostly unreformed ex-convicts or drug addicts who enabled her to live a dangerous lifestyle. She’d worked in bars, topless clubs and once spent two years hooking to feed her heroin habit.
Midnight Craving (Contemporary Romance) Page 5
