by Nan Ryan
“I want to go.”
“All right. Fine. I think that’s a real good idea. A visit to a big city would be good for you,” said LaDextra. “Let’s see, early fall would be a perfect time to—”
“No. Now. I want to go now.”
“Now? This month?”
“This week. Monday if possible.”
“Well, honey, what’s your hurry?” LaDextra’s brows knitted as she studied Anna’s upturned face. “Something is wrong. You’re hiding something from me.”
“No. No, I’m not.” Anna couldn’t tell LaDextra the truth, that she had to get away from The Regent—from Brit—if only for a week or so. “It’s just…” Anna smiled reassuringly and said, “I’m like you, LaDextra—impulsive.” She lifted her slender shoulders, adding, “I’ve decided I’d like to go to San Antonio. So why wait?”
LaDextra nodded, charmed. “Why, indeed? I’ll have Will wire Justin and Olivia to let them know you’re coming. There’s a morning train out of Regentville. You can leave Monday if you like.”
“Oh, thank you,” Anna said, rising up on her knees and giving the elderly woman an affectionate hug.
Brit didn’t object.
He stood in the middle of Beverly’s big bath and allowed her to help him get undressed. He had kicked off his shoes and removed his socks, and now, while he unbuttoned his blue shirt, Beverly unbuckled his belt and undid the fly of his beige linen trousers.
When the pants were open, she put her hands to the waistband and pulled both the trousers and white linen underwear down over his hips. She followed the trouser’s descent, sinking to her knees on the plush carpet as she peeled the pants down his long legs until they pooled at his feet.
Brit watched as she carefully lifted one foot, then the other, freeing him of the trousers. She then tilted her head back and looked up at him. He was Adam naked now, and Brit could tell by that familiar hungry look in Beverly’s eyes that she could hardly wait to get him bathed so that she could get her hands—and her mouth—on his flaccid flesh, which was now at her eye level.
If he read her thoughts, she read his as well. She boldly cupped him, gazed adoringly at the soft male flesh, raised her eyes to his, and announced brazenly, “I will show it—and you—that no sweet-faced, slender blonde can make this magnificent male member stand at attention as quickly as I can!”
Brit hoped she was right.
He stepped into the hot, sudsy tub and relaxed while Beverly lovingly bathed him. Kneeling beside the tub, she dabbed gently at his discolored jaw with a soapy washcloth, then cleansed away a streak of matted blood in his right eyebrow.
When she moved the washcloth to his chest, Brit noticed she was pulling one of her favorite tricks. She purposely leaned over the tub so that the sudsy water would saturate the nearly transparent fabric of her white negligee. Instantly the gossamer gown clung wetly to her full breasts, delineating her large nipples.
To Brit’s astonishment, the sight of her pebble-hard nipples peeking through the wet gauze did little to his libido.
Beverly scrubbed Brit’s back, washed his long arms and legs and then, smiling seductively at him, lowered the washcloth slowly down his belly to his groin. He caught her mild surprise when she found that he was still as soft and harmless as a baby even after his extended bath with her talented hands.
Still, he wasn’t worried. Yet. She could arouse him; he was sure of it. She would get him out of the tub, dry him off and do what she did best. No need to be nagged by doubt. She could get it up if anybody could.
Her wet negligee outlining her hardening nipples, Beverly dropped the washcloth in the water and said, “Now, get out, darling, and I’ll help you dry off.”
While Brit vigorously rubbed his wet hair with a large white towel, Beverly dried his tall, lean body. His hair still damp, Brit tossed the towel aside.
“That’s it, Bev,” he said, “I’m dry.”
She smiled up at him, tossed her towel away, removed her dampened negligee and said huskily, “Well, I’m wet.”
“Good, let’s go to bed.” He started to turn away.
She stopped him. “Not just yet. Let’s start in here.” She nodded to a mirrored wall of the luxurious bath and said, “Let’s watch ourselves get hot and hotter and hottest.”
With that she leaned toward him, kissed his broad chest, nuzzling her nose in the crisp black hair that grew like a large fan across the wide, flat muscles. Her hands resting lightly on his trim waist, she put out her tongue and made wet teasing circles around a flat, brown nipple.
Brit was stunned at how little it affected him.
Her lips never leaving his flesh, Beverly slowly sank to her knees before him. Kneeling now, she was clearly shocked to see that he still had no erection.
“It’s the water, Bev,” Brit said sheepishly.
She whispered, “Doesn’t matter, darling. I’m glad, really. It will be thrilling to feel your flesh grow and stiffen in my mouth.”
Her hands brushed tenderly through the thick, crisp hair of his groin and again she cupped him. Then she tilted her head back, looked up at him, licked her lips wetly and said, “Watch in the mirror while I arouse you to a fever pitch, darling. When you’re fully erect and ready to pleasure me, we’ll watch together.”
With that she took him gently in her hand, opened her mouth wide and slipped it over his soft, limber flesh.
Brit stood in the mirrored bath and watched as the naked, red-haired woman knelt between his legs and gamely attempted to awaken his sleeping flesh. He gritted his teeth and silently cursed himself for his body’s mysterious lack of response. What in hell was wrong with him? Jesus, if this didn’t make him hot and hard, he was hopeless.
For several minutes Beverly Harris stayed on her knees with her mouth on Brit’s flesh, in a futile attempt to make him spring to pulsing life.
It didn’t work.
“I’m sorry, Bev,” Brit murmured, his hands in her hair, urging her head up. He gently drew her to her feet and said, “I’m very tired and half-drunk and—”
“You’ve been tired and drunk before and we made love all night,” she said irritably. “That’s not it. You don’t want me.”
Her accusation hit home.
He had thought that he wanted her. Or that she could make him want her. He wanted to want her the way he used to want her. But he didn’t.
There was only one woman he wanted and it wasn’t Beverly Harris.
“Of course, I do.”
“Liar!” she accused, growing angry now. “Liar, liar, liar. I know exactly what’s wrong with you!” She reached for her discarded negligee, raised it up before her. “It’s Anna. Anna owns your body now, doesn’t she? Has she stolen your heart, as well? You bastard, you’ve been thinking of her the whole time you’ve been here with me.”
“Ah, Bev, that’s nonsense.”
“You want her? Well, get out of here and go home to her!” Beverly was shouting now, her eyes tear-filled and flashing with anger. “See if she’ll get down on her knees for you, because I never will again!”
It was nearing midnight when Anna undressed. She slipped a cool white cotton nightgown over her head and smoothed it down over her hips. She wasn’t sleepy, but she got into bed and picked up a book from the night table.
She didn’t read.
She couldn’t see the words because Brit’s handsome face kept intruding. The image of him as he had looked at lunch today plagued her, wouldn’t let her alone. Never had he been more strikingly handsome, more potently masculine. Throughout the meal it had been almost impossible to keep her eyes off of him, when all she’d really wanted to do was gaze at him forever.
Each time he had lifted his wineglass to his lips, she had felt her stomach flutter and turn somersaults. His beautiful tanned hands cupping the fragile glass made her recall all too clearly how it felt to have those lean, dark hands gently caressing her sensitized flesh.
And when he drank the wine, oh God, that mouth, that marvelous, magic
al mouth. She had watched that sensual, full-lipped mouth open to take a drink of the wine, and couldn’t keep from remembering the feel, the heat of those sculptured lips opening on her own.
Anna sighed and laid the book aside.
She had to stop thinking about Brit. She would stop thinking about him. She reminded herself—one more time—that while Brit Caruth might be masculinely beautiful and almost impossible to resist, he was a ruthless, self-indulgent scoundrel who cared nothing for her. She was in his way, just as he was in her way. He was, she knew, as intent on evicting her from The Regent as she was on seeing to it that he was permanently exiled.
She could hardly wait for that day to come.
Determined to put him from her thoughts and think about something pleasant, Anna told herself she was eagerly looking forward to her upcoming trip to San Antonio.
Justin Box was a gregarious man who liked everyone, and Olivia was a wise, genteel lady who had a knack for making people feel comfortable. Anna would, she knew, feel right at home with the likable couple, and she was sure they would be happy to have her come for a visit.
Besides, never in her life had she been to a big city, and she was quite curious. She couldn’t imagine what it might be like, but from all she’d heard and read, San Antonio was a bustling, exciting place where there was so much to do and see she wouldn’t have time to think about Brit Caruth.
Anna yawned, blew out the bedside lamp and closed her eyes. Minutes later, they opened at the sound of drumming hoofbeats. Curious as to who might be riding toward the mansion at this late hour, she got out of bed and went out onto the wide front balcony.
There was no mistaking the lone horse and rider. Captain’s gray coat shone silver in the moonlight as the mighty stallion galloped up the pebbled drive, his dark master astride. Brit’s linen suit coat was missing, and his shirt was open down his dark chest and billowing behind him in the wind.
Anna’s pulse quickened at the sight of him. She whimsically imagined that he was a big, brave knight from days of old, that she was his ladylove, whom he had come to whisk away from the castle.
She wished that it were so.
She wished she could slip down the stairs, rush out to meet Brit and feel those strong arms lift her up into the saddle before him. Then the two of them would ride away in the summer moonlight and make love in some secluded spot until sunrise.
Scolding herself for her foolishness, Anna turned and hurried back inside before he could spot her. She got back in bed, turned onto her side and was immediately distracted by something glittering brightly on the bedside table.
Her eyes narrowing, Anna reached out and picked up the shiny silver concho she had twisted from Brit’s trousers that fateful night in the stables. She forcefully threw the offending silver disk across the room.
It hit the wall and fell to the plush carpet below.
Twenty-Five
Brit brought the lathered, snorting Captain to an abrupt halt directly in front of the mansion. He dismounted and turned the big stallion loose. He knew that Captain would dutifully circle the immense manicured lawns, pick his way down the path to the outbuildings far behind the house and go directly to his private stable, where a sleepy groom would unsaddle him and give him a rubdown.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Go on,” Brit said to the big iron gray, which had not yet moved. He pointed a finger in Captain’s face and warned, “And don’t go tromping through LaDextra’s flower beds or we’ll both be in big trouble.”
The stallion whinnied, nudged Brit’s shoulder, turned and pranced away.
Brit inhaled slowly and automatically looked up at Anna’s room. It was dark. She was asleep.
Quixotically, he wished that she was awake and standing on the balcony in the moonlight, eagerly awaiting his arrival. He envisioned her there. And he envisioned himself anxiously scaling a vine trellis to her, taking her in his arms and whisking her off to his room, where he could make love to her through the long, hot night.
Brit exhaled heavily and scolded himself for being a fool.
His hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets, he went up the front walk, circled the huge mansion and quietly let himself in the back door. In the shadows cast by the dim wall sconces, he climbed the back stairs to his room.
Inside, a lone lamp burned low on the bedside table. The rest of the room was in shadow.
Brit sat wearily down on the bed, but was up immediately. He crossed to the drink trolley, poured himself a bourbon. He took one small swallow and set the glass aside. From a silver box on a marble-topped drum table, he snagged a cigar. He lit it, took a couple of drags, then impatiently snuffed it out in a crystal ashtray.
He started to undress. He took off his open blue shirt, tossed it aside. His hands went to the waistband of his soiled and torn beige trousers, but fell away before he unbuttoned them. He wasn’t sleepy. He was edgy, restless, haunted by the bedeviling vision of an angelic face with enormous blue eyes framed by spun-gold hair.
And a tall, willowy body that had fit so perfectly against his own.
Brooding, Brit shook his head as once again he relived that terrible moment on the morning after he had made love to Anna in the stable. There had been at least a dozen people in the dining room enjoying a late breakfast when she had stepped inside, silently commanding everyone’s attention.
Including his.
Especially his.
She had been so appealingly fresh faced and glowing. Her long hair had been pulled back on one side, and she’d worn a girlish pink dress with puffed sleeves and full skirts. She might have been sixteen years old, so pure and guileless she’d appeared. The sight of her looking so young and innocent, coupled with the fresh memory of all the intimate things they had done just hours before, had taken his breath away.
Her cheeks flushed, her beautiful eyes sparkling, she had looked at him shyly, expectantly. And he had pointedly glanced at her, then quickly dismissed her.
Brit swallowed hard now, remembering.
He knew what his indifference had done to her. She had been crushed by his coldness. Bewildered and badly hurt. She had immediately assumed exactly what he had wanted her to assume—that he was already bored with her. That their night together had been a mindless diversion, nothing more. That he’d had all he wanted of her, was no longer interested in her.
Oh, God, was she wrong.
He hoped she’d never learn that the reason he had been so pointedly cold to her that morning, and ever since, was because the lovemaking had meant something to him. It had meant too much to him. It had meant as much to him as it had to her, and that had angered and frightened him.
Scared him half to death.
The last thing he wanted was to fall in love with a beautiful imposter who intended to steal his inheritance. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let it happen. So he had purposely let her believe that he was a callous cad who had taken what he wanted from her and then promptly lost interest.
Nothing could have been further from the truth.
She was on his mind constantly, and it was driving him crazy. He could think of little else. Since that sweltering Fourth of July night when exploding fireworks intermittently illuminated her beautiful face as he made love to her, she’d been on his mind and in his blood and under his skin. Jesus, he couldn’t even get it up with Beverly because he wanted Anna.
Only Anna.
No one but Anna.
Brit shook his head, disgusted with himself. There was little he could do about the fever in his blood. This beautiful blond thief had a definite hold on his body. But he’d be damned if he’d let her get her hands on his heart.
Or on his inheritance.
He had to remember at all times that no matter how sweet her kisses or how pliant her body, she was a cunning imposter with but one goal in mind. To swindle LaDextra out of The Regent and leave him holding the bag. He knew it as well as he knew his own name.
But he had to have proof. God, why were the
Pinkertons dragging their heels? Why was it taking so much time to learn the woman’s true identity? When was he going to hear something?
Brit shook his dark head, determined to dismiss her from his troubled thoughts. He was tired and he was finally getting sleepy. He finished undressing, turned off the bedside lamp and crawled between the silky white sheets.
He lay perfectly still in the darkness for several long minutes, then turned his head on the pillow. And saw, lying on the bedside table, the leather-bound book of poetry that Anna had left at the springs that day she’d come upon him naked. Brit raised up onto an elbow, reached for the book. He laid the book on the mattress and opened it to where a brittle flower lay pressed between the pages.
The rose.
The bloodred rose that Anna had worn in her hair the night they’d made love. Brit’s hooded eyes darkened and a muscle danced in his lean jaw as he carefully lifted the fragile flower and touched it to his lips. He shuddered, recalling how he had plucked the fragrant rose from Anna’s golden hair and brushed its delicate petals over her face and shoulders and breasts.
Brit scowled darkly and stuck the dried rose back between the book’s pages as anger overcame sentimentality. He slammed the book closed and threw it forcefully across the room.
It hit the wall with a thud and fell to the plush carpet below.
At first he couldn’t believe it.
He blinked, rubbed his eyes, looked again.
She was still there.
Brit anxiously sat up, thrusting a pillow behind his back, never taking his eyes off her.
His beautiful Anna had swept in through his open balcony doors and was floating gracefully toward him, as if she were walking on clouds. Her long golden hair was unbound, its shiny silkiness framing her exquisite face and flowing down her back. Her white nightgown with its long sleeves and high yoke covered her from throat to bare feet, but to his delight it was totally transparent.
His eyes wide, he could see her tall, slender body through the filmy fabric as if she were wearing nothing at all. Her full, creamy breasts were clearly visible, the pale pink nipples unthreateningly beautiful in their soft, sleepy state. Her delicate ribs were outlined beneath the flawless, pearlized skin, as were her flat belly and prominent hipbones.
