by Brenda Joyce
Claire watched him sticking a floppy into the laptop’s drive. He didn’t seem to care that they were sharing a room, which told her that he wasn’t as interested in her as she was in him. Which was a good thing, of course. That way she could stay out of trouble.
Except she had been thinking about it, and she didn’t want to stay away. Not anymore, not after yesterday. She had a yearning for this man that made no sense. And it got to her ego that he could be so immune to her charms.
Claire studied him. He was so intense. He had probably forgotten that she was present, and didn’t even know that she was watching him and thinking very unholy thoughts.
Claire folded her arms. “Hmm. I’m in the mood for birdbrains. What do you think?”
Ian’s response was “Mmm.” He began typing away on the keyboard.
Claire lifted the phone, becoming quite annoyed. “White or red with that?”
“Whatever,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes. Maybe that was the key. She could get him drunk and then take total advantage.
His head whipped around. “What the hell are you doing?”
She flushed. “Ordering room service.”
“You’re boring holes in my back.”
“I was not,” she said with mock indignation. “I beg your pardon!”
“I’m going to work for a few hours. Then I’m going out to meet Maclntyre for a drink.”
Claire hung up the phone. “Without me?”
“It’s a guy thing—and don’t start with the big eyes, Claire,” he warned. He turned abruptly back to his laptop.
She couldn’t believe it. They would dine—and then he would abandon her to her own devices. Not that she needed to be entertained. Claire knew she had better things to worry about, like meeting Elizabeth the next morning at her hotel, the Berkeley, on Wilton Place. That was only a few blocks from the Hilton Tower. Claire knew she should prepare herself for what might come.
Claire picked up the phone, her spirits sinking. God, how could this be happening? If Elizabeth was here to protect William, then she knew everything, then she was an accomplice of sorts, and Claire loved her so. Maybe she had so suddenly come abroad because she was worried about Claire tracking David’s killer; maybe she knew nothing about their hunt for Elgin. Claire couldn’t help praying that was the case.
Ian’s typing stopped. He turned to look at her. “Now what?”
“I’m worried.”
“I can see that. Elizabeth?”
Claire nodded. She suddenly felt so sad, enough to cry.
“Claire, let’s not anticipate or predict anything. Let’s see what she has to say. Stay in the present. Don’t start thinking up worst-case scenarios. You’ll only scare yourself.”
He was right. “How about a nice filet mignon?” she asked.
“Great.” He actually smiled at her, and it was warm. So much that she felt its warmth right down to her curling toes. “Get a good Burgundy or Bordeaux while you’re at it.”
“Okay.” Claire smiled back, and their eyes locked. Ian was the one to turn away first.
She had to face it. She was definitely in love. She no longer considered Ian a stranger. And things would work out—somehow. Claire would settle now for any scenario as long as William and Jean-Léon were innocent. If her father had lied to her all of these years to protect his brother, she would be able to understand. She promised herself that and refused to consider any implications or how shaky it actually felt.
After ordering their meal, Claire got up abruptly and went into the bathroom, closing and locking the door. She tossed her purse on the vanity. She didn’t want to look at herself in the mirror, because she felt horrid and filthy. As she stripped, she wished she had a sexy nightie—even better, some sultry makeup. Claire had left her red lipstick and kohl eye pencil at home. She quickly showered, then debated the choice of dressing for dinner in jeans, Ian’s soft T-shirt, or a hotel towel. The hotel wasn’t ritzy enough to offer bathrobes to its guests, which was a relief. Claire chose the towel, dusted some blush on her cheeks, put gloss on her lips, pasted a smile on her face, and walked back into the room.
She was nervous. Really, really nervous.
He spoke without turning. “I found something.”
Claire went to stand behind him, silently ordering him to turn around and look up. But telepathy had never been her thing. “What?”
“A copy of a paragraph from the Evening News. Jesus, Claire.” Ian turned to look at her. “It’s from—” He stopped. “Where are your clothes?”
Claire smiled and hoped it was serene. “I was going to wash out some things, either that or I need to buy new underwear.” Total lie. “This hotel is cheap. No plush bathrobes for us to steal.”
He was flushing. “What happened to my T-shirt?”
She smiled. “I promised not to wear it, remember?”
“I recall no such thing. Go put it on,” he snapped.
“What’s wrong, Indiana? A case of the schoolboy jitters?”
His eyes widened. “I know what you’re up to. You’re as transparent as glass—Miss How-Can-I-Seduce-Ian.”
“Honey, I am not trying to seduce you,” Claire scoffed. “I mean, please, in this thing? If I were trying to seduce you, I’d be in a thumb-size G-string, a Wonderbra, and stilettos. All black,” she added as an afterthought.
“You own a Wonderbra? I don’t think so.” His hands were on his hips. He was red-faced.
“I own stilettos.” She smiled, feeling triumph at hand.
“No, you don’t.”
“Three inches qualify.”
“Fine.” He threw up both hands. “Now please, go get dressed.”
She blinked. “Just like that?”
“Yeah. I’m working, remember?”
“Am I making you uncomfortable? I thought you were a man of the world.” It crossed her mind to go back into the bathroom and come out naked.
He stared at her. “Do you want to jump into that bed with me?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” she said, feeling her own cheeks begin to redden.
“Put some clothes on,” he said harshly.
“Great,” Claire huffed. She walked into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. “And by the way, deal’s off, screw Beijing,” she shouted. She pulled on his T-shirt, then instantly regretted her choice. She tore it off. “You should just accept the inevitable,” she shouted through the door, fully aware that she was contradicting herself. But was their love affair—or better yet, love—really inevitable? Or was the whole thing wishful thinking on her part? She put on her jeans and a plain white ribbed tank top. When she returned, he said, not looking at her, “Maybe I have.”
“What?” she gasped.
He remained engrossed with the computer screen. “Maybe I have accepted the inevitable. Claire, now is not the time for us to lose our heads in a wild affair.”
“Yes it is,” she said stubbornly.
He sighed and looked at her. “Go figure.”
“Because what if we really do lose our heads? Or what if one of us does? I was shot yesterday, Ian, and what if I had died? What if you die?” Her mouth was trembling with a mind of its own. “I know I make a lot of jokes, but maybe I care a lot about you, and maybe I need you, and maybe I’m scared.”
Claire was frozen. She hadn’t meant to reveal herself this way. Claire Hayden never let out her real feelings. It was like letting the world look at your laundry while it was hanging out to dry. “Forget it,” she whispered, turning away.
“No.” He quickly came up behind her, turning her around. He did not drop his hands from her shoulders. “I know you’re scared. And I wish I could make the fear go away.”
“You can,” Claire whispered, drowning in his eyes. “For a while, anyway.” She could barely believe she was begging him to make love to her.
He was silent.
But Claire had meant every word. “It won’t be the end of the world. The end of the world might co
me—via Elgin, or another assassin—but not over there, in that bed.”
His jaw tightened. “You’re killing me,” he finally said. “And I like you a lot. That’s the problem. This is very complicated. William, your father—”
“Ssh,” Claire said, putting two fingertips on his mouth. She was almost amazed with herself—she had never been so assertive before. But she was compelled. There was no turning back. “It’s only complicated if you make it that way. We’re both consenting adults.”
His eyes were turning dark. “No. You’re consenting, I’m not. This is coercion, plain and simple,” he said roughly. And his hands tightened on her shoulders.
Her heart soared. “Ian.” His name rolled off her tongue as a sigh.
Their eyes held. Silence filled the room, along with the sounds of traffic on the street below.
“There’s nothing I want to do more than make love to you,” he ground out. “Damn it, Claire.” He didn’t look happy. “I’ve been telling myself for days not to complicate matters.”
Claire was elated—he’d been thinking exactly as she had. She felt as if she’d won the lottery. “See—talking to yourself is only a good thing if you’re old and lonely.”
“Sometimes I feel like I’m talking to myself when I’m talking to you. Why won’t you listen?” he cried.
“Because . . .” She gulped hard. “Because I think I’m in love with you.”
He went white.
“Oh, God.” Her brain went into shock. “Now I’ve complicated matters.”
“Yeah, you certainly have,” he said. He leaned over her, and Claire found herself pressed against his body and wrapped in his arms. His kiss was long, slow, and deep.
Claire tried to fuse her body with his. Emotion overcame her. Elation, euphoria, triumph, love, fear. The latter was niggling.
There was also truth. This was so right. He was so right. Everything about him was simply perfect.
She had never wanted to be with any man more. She had never wanted anyone the way she wanted him.
“Hurry,” she urged, running her hands up and down his back with growing urgency. She pressed her thigh against his erection. It was large and solid and she was pleased.
“No,” he said, lifting her into his arms while slipping off her tank top. It fell away, undoubtedly to the floor.
Claire began to argue as he carried her to the bed. “No. I need you now.”
“Shut up, Claire,” he said with so much affection in his tone that she could not take offense.
Claire did intend to protest his choice of words. She really did. But he was removing her jeans, and she wasn’t wearing any underwear. She was also on her back, and he was leaning over her, inspecting her from head to toe while running one large palm from her shoulders down to her toes. She shivered in delight as his fingers grazed her breasts and nipples, her belly, her pubis and inner thighs. Their gazes met on her gasp.
“How long has it been?” he asked frankly, his eyes shining now.
His hand was moving back up the inside of her calf, her thigh. Claire had to shift her legs wide for him. “Nine months, a year,” she managed.
“What a fool,” he said, bestowing a somewhat chaste kiss on her sex.
She knew he referred to David. Claire bit off another gasp, and he moved over her, their eyes holding. Claire began to tug at his belt.
He grinned, but it was brief, and quickly his expression became strained. His lips found hers, and as he kissed her, Claire fumbled with and opened his belt, his pants. He kicked off his trousers, his briefs.
Claire reached for him. “This is my lucky day,” she heard herself whisper.
“I hope,” he said, tonguing her ear.
She loved him even more for not being an arrogant jerk. “Hurry.”
“Don’t think so,” he said, sliding his tongue over her jaw and down her throat.
Claire realized his ultimate destination and she lay still, except for her thundering heart. He reached her breast, her nipple. But his attentions there were brief.
Claire moaned as he kissed and tongued his way down her belly. When his tongue slipped between her labia, she managed, “Keep this up and I’ll buy you a Wonderbra and a whip.”
“Do you ever stop talking?” he asked, shifting slightly to take her hand and wrap it firmly around his penis. Then he went to work.
His tongue did amazing things to her sex, and Claire came, shouting God’s name in vain.
Someone banged on an adjoining wall.
He pulled her close and she found herself wrapped in his arms again, but this time he was thrusting his huge hardness inside, and it was heaven-sent. “Come again, Claire,” he whispered, moving slow and deep but with real urgency. His words were tight and hard. “This time, shout my name, okay?”
She wanted to jab his ribs and call him Dick, buster, whatever. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe. This was it, the experience she had been waiting a lifetime for.
He said something, his own rendition of worship and sacrilege. He was moving faster, harder, now.
Claire clung. “Oh, God.”
“Ian,” he gasped, and it was an instruction.
“Oh, God, I love you,” Claire screamed.
And as she was on the wings of another huge orgasm, carried far, far away, she felt his release, too, and she thought but wasn’t sure that she heard him breathe her name at last.
Room service came and went. Claire kept her eyes screwed shut, hiding under the sheets, pretending to be asleep.
She had to be the idiot of all idiots. Of all time. Who the hell shouted to the world—literally—that they were in love?
Claire knew it would be even stupider to hope he hadn’t heard her. After all, hadn’t she said the same thing while totally sane?
Of course, she could write the last instance off to being absolutely mindless while in the throes of an orgasm. That was fairly close to the truth.
Except the real truth was she had meant every word both stupid times, and now she could not be more mortified.
“Claire,” he called softly, and she felt the bed dip by her feet. “Dinner’s on.”
Should she continue to play possum?
“I know you’re not asleep,” he said, and there was amusement in his tone.
She felt him tugging on the sheets.
“Fine,” she snapped, sitting bolt upright and clutching the covers to her chest. “I am starving,” she said. Her cheeks were already burning, and she could not look him in the eye.
“You are also loud,” he said, laughter in his voice.
She stole a glance at him. He had slipped on his briefs. They were chambray blue and very revealing. “I hope the waiter wasn’t gay.”
“I borrowed your towel.” He was smiling, his eyes twinkling. “Here.” He handed her the tiny ribbed tank top. Her jeans followed.
Claire gave him a dirty look—as if her loquacious moments were his fault—and tossed aside the covers. She knew he stared at her as she hopped into her jeans and then shrugged on the tank.
“You know, we do have neighbors,” he said, holding out a wineglass.
Claire snatched it. “Fine. You know, you could be a gentleman right now.”
He grinned. “But what fun would that be?”
She stared. “I could toss this at you.”
“Why are you so angry?” He began to laugh.
“This isn’t funny.”
“It isn’t?” He laughed harder, saw her face, stopped. “You seduced me.”
“Oh, God. I cannot take this!” She set the wine down on the table that had been rolled into their room with their food.
“I’m sorry. Truce. Pax Britannica,” he said, still sputtering with laughter he could not repress.
Claire faced him with her hands on her hips. “You men are all the same. Egomaniacs!”
He laughed all over again.
“Why are you so happy?” she cried.
He seized her hand and reeled her in as if sh
e were a trout on his fishing pole. “C’mon, Claire, we both know you aren’t dense.”
She found herself against his mostly bare and newly aroused body. “Well. . .”
He slid his hands down to her behind and lifted her up. “I’m a happy guy. Got me a gorgeous dame.” He kissed the top of her head. “One who shouts and screams. Never had a screamer before,” he teased.
She had melted, from the top of her perspiring head to the tips of her painted toes. “I never was such a ‘screamer’ before, either.”
“Hmm. More grist for my ego.” He began tugging up her tank top.
Claire pressed her hips against his distended loins. “More grist for your mill.”
“Like that.” The tank top was tossed to the floor.
“I don’t want to be a screamer,” Claire complained breathlessly as he cupped her small breasts in his hands.
“I don’t want you to change,” he said, and he made love to her again.
They brought their plates into bed, the bottle of wine and glasses on the left-side night table. Claire had shrugged on his T-shirt, and Ian put on his briefs. They inhaled oven-warm rolls and their filets in near silence. The wine went down like water. Ian ordered another bottle.
He had forgotten all about Maclntyre. Claire chose not to remind him.
Ian had also ordered something called Chocolate Decadence. It was actually a sampler of five different chocolate desserts. Claire dug into a chocolate pastry, washing it down with wine. “So what did you find, Ian? You started to tell me about something in the Evening News.” It was a newspaper she had never heard of.
He was eating a huge chocolate cookie with creamy white filling. “God, I forgot to tell you. According to this article, the Elgin heir died in a hunting accident in June of 1935. I didn’t know that Lionel had an older brother at one point.”
Claire blinked, tempted to lick her fingers, and then decided, Why not? “Is that significant?”
“I don’t know.” He smiled at her.
Claire licked her fingers and took the other half of the cookie. “Thanks, you’re a gent after all.”
“I’ll call my office in a bit and have them do some checking on the older brother.”
Claire suddenly got a chill. She put the last bite of cookie back on the plate that sat in the middle of the bed between them. There was chocolate on the white sheets. Not to mention crumbs—and lots of great sex. But she didn’t want to reminisce now.
