Pure Sin

by Susan Johnson

  Incongruously, an image formed in her mind—from a long-ago history text—of relays of runners bringing mountain snows great distances to Rome for an emperor’s precious Persian ices. Adam Serre reminded her of that rarity.

  A man superb enough for an empress’s pleasure. So beautiful, he would tempt the vestal virgins themselves.

  With a brute primeval force beneath his charming grace and civility.

  And hers for forty-eight extravagant hours …

  A similar heated musing ran through Adam’s mind as he strode down the lengthy hallway, the crimson brocaded walls and spurious ancestor portraits flashing by his peripheral vision.

  Flora Bonham was his prize—a tantalizing bonus for his four deuces.

  He took his leave of his hostess in the supper room, pleading an early-morning appointment when she coaxed him to stay.

  “But you promised to dance with Henrietta tonight, and she’ll be wretched if you don’t.”

  How could he refuse such shameless pressure with Molly’s niece Henrietta seated at her side?

  “Forgive me, Miss Henrietta,” Adam politely said, his smile effortless after years of accommodating pursuing women, “but the stakes went high at our table, and I forgot the time. Would you care to dance?”

  “I would most dearly love to, Adam.” Her moue instantly altered, and her gloating smile reminded him of a spoiled young lady given the bauble she’d been crying for.

  Dutifully offering her his arm as he had a thousand times before at a thousand other balls, he led Miss Henrietta Fisk into the ballroom under the beaming gaze of his hostess.

  “I missed you tonight,” the young girl said. “But Auntie said Uncle Harold always lures all the good-looking men off to his card room. I’m glad you came back.” She spoke with a proprietary air that set off familiar warning signals in Adam’s brain.

  “The high stakes attract a large crowd,” he blandly said, not responding to her personal comments. Molly’s niece had inappropriately declared her love for him last month, and he was treading cautiously. Sweet virgins with love in their eyes had always made him uncomfortable. He prayed the waltz would be brief.

  A few moments later with a sigh and longing in her large blue eyes, young Henrietta said, “You dance divinely, Adam.” And she leaned into his body.

  He moved into a turn to ease her away, concerned with appearances even if she wasn’t. Henrietta was much too romantically inclined, and he wondered at times, when Molly or Harold threw her into his path, whether his marital status was incidental to their plans. Divorce in Montana Territory was swift and simple. “You’re an excellent dancer yourself,” he replied in what he hoped was an avuncular tone. “Did you learn in Chicago?”

  “Oh, yes, my finishing school had the dearest dance master who knew positively every new fashionable step. Where did you learn to dance so divinely?”

  At a brothel in Paris when he was fifteen, Adam thought with fond memory. Therese had been sixteen, a sweet peasant girl from Provence, and they’d spent a week exploring each other’s bodies, haunting the all-night dance halls, and practicing with Spanish guitars—flamenco dancers all the rage in Paris that year. “My dance master was an old Venetian my father hired on an Italian tour. Very staid and dull,” Adam said in measured half truth.

  “How truly divine. I’ve been abroad only once, but Mama will take me now that I’m old enough to be presented at court. Mrs. McKnight has promised Mama to introduce us to a baroness who will sponsor me.”

  Adam glanced at the clock wreathed in white roses above the door. Almost one-thirty. How much longer was this waltz going to continue? “You’ll enjoy Napoleon’s court. It’s more lively than Victoria’s. And you’ll meet many other Americans.” The emperor allowed entreé to the nouveau riche like Henrietta’s American meat-packing family, causing the ancient régime who boycotted the upstart emperor to sniffingly refer to his court as couleur de théâtre.

  “Oh, you know just everything!” she enthused with a toothy smile, glowing eyes, and a toss of her chestnut curls.

  In relation to a young maiden from Chicago, he no doubt did, Adam sardonically thought. But in lieu of the tactless comment that came to mind, Adam mildly said, “I’m a bit older than you. I’ve seen more.”

  “And ladies just adore older men,” Henrietta purred. “Especially handsome, experienced men,” she added with a tittering giggle.

  Oh, Lord. He didn’t train virgins. “Your mama wouldn’t agree,” he quickly asserted.

  “But Auntie Molly thinks you’re divine.”

  She might also think his fortune—a portion of which was in her husband’s bank—was divine, Adam more cynically reflected. “Your aunt and I are good friends,” he said, moving away once again from her ample bosom pressed against his embroidered waistcoat.

  “Could we be good friends?” She gazed up at him with wide-eyed candor.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to be leaving Helena in the morning,” he replied, avoiding her question, adjusting his hand at her waist so he could ease away slightly. “I was here only briefly for business.”

  “Are you going back to your ranch?”

  “Eventually,” he evaded.

  “Uncle Harold said he’d take me out to see your house sometime during my holiday this summer. I’m just dying to see it. Auntie says it’s so elegant that royalty could live there even though it’s out in the mountains. Do let Uncle know when you’ll be home so we can come out to visit. We’ll have so much fun.”

  Adam had left the card room precipitously because he wished to be back in his room before Flora arrived. He didn’t question whether she’d come, but simply when. And in his current highly frustrated frame of mind, if the orchestra didn’t stop playing soon, and if Henrietta didn’t stop babbling soon, he couldn’t guarantee his civility. “When I know my plans,” he equivocated, gazing over her head at the orchestra—surely they had to finish soon—“I’ll let your uncle know.” And the waltz came to an end in a flourish of violins as if through mental telepathy he had pointedly commanded them to stop.

  Adam bowed over Henrietta’s hand.

  “Oh, dear, must you go?” she wailed, clutching his fingers.

  “I’m afraid James is waiting for me,” he politely parried, surveying the crowded ballroom for his hostess or some other duenna. “Ah—there’s Molly,” Adam declared with muted relief. “Allow me to escort you to your aunt.”

  He was outside the Fisks’ Italianate mansion two expeditious minutes later. Swooping down the entrance steps in a flying descent, he felt like a schoolboy let out of a dreary classroom. As he pushed open the elaborate wrought-iron gate seconds later, he murmured, “Freedom,” with a profound sigh.

  “You did look extremely pained on the dance floor,” James said, chuckling, his long stride matching his cousin’s as they moved down the street.

  “I was damned near ready to hit someone during that interminable dance. But you needn’t leave with me if you prefer staying.”

  “I wasn’t at the Fisks’ for the company.”

  “Nor I. God, callow young ladies are a bore.”

  “Molly looks to me as though she’s seriously matchmaking. And Isolde’s trail is hardly cold.”

  “Molly was matchmaking already two months ago. Apparently expeditious divorces are socially acceptable on the frontier.”

  “Are you divorcing Isolde?”

  “I don’t have any plans. I just want her out of my life.

  And I’m definitely not in the market for another wife, regardless of Molly’s plans.”

  “So you prefer not being single again.”

  “With earnest young ladies like Henrietta around, it’s a temporary excuse at least. The chit’s irritatingly aggressive.”

  “Speaking of aggressive women, what was Lady Flora’s side bet?”

  Adam turned to his cousin with a grin. “You misunderstand. Aggression’s the wrong word for Flora Bonham. She’s pure temptation.”

  “Every man in that car
d room would agree; they all wanted her side bet.”

  “They’d have to go through me first. She’s mine.” An uncustomary assertion of ownership from a man who had always viewed women casually.

  “Really?” James’s eyebrows rose. “Is this serious?”

  “It is for two days. The lady’s exclusive time is mine for forty-eight hours, per her side bet and my raise.”

  “So you won’t be leaving Helena tomorrow.”

  Adam cast him a sidelong glance, a faint smile creasing his cheek. “Not likely.”

  “Do I detect a smile after these many long weeks?”

  “She has that effect on a man, doesn’t she?” Adam said with a broad grin. “I have a feeling I’ll be smiling a lot in the next two days. By the way, you’ll have to move to another suite tonight.”

  “The hotel’s full.”

  “Well, I’m sure Harold can find a bed for you at his house,” Adam said with a facetious lift of his brows.

  “Spare me. I had to listen to Henrietta’s divine chatter during my duty dance too. She must get bonus points every time she utters the word. I think I’ll just head out of town tonight.” He glanced at his cousin. “Should I explain to Spring Lily that you’re busy for a few days demonstrating the finer points of Absarokee culture to the British?”

  Adam turned his head, his gaze on James for a moment. “Not if you value your life,” he softly said.

  “She’s buying love potions to change your mind, you know,” James retorted, his smile sportive.

  Adam groaned. “Lord, I think of her as a sister.”

  “Unfortunately,” James cheerfully declared, “she doesn’t view you in the same familial light.”

  “She’ll have to,” Adam muttered, “because I’m not marrying anyone ever again.”

  “Do I detect a misanthropic view of marriage?” James playfully inquired.

  “Five years with Isolde, however irregular her sojourns in our conjugal home, is as high a price as I’m paying for marriage. Never again,” he emphatically declared. “Never.”

  “Think of poor Henrietta’s afflicted heart and those dozens of other women who were hoping to land you now that Isolde appears to have deserted the territory.”

  “Actually, I’m thinking of my own unafflicted life now that she’s gone. I’m damned pleased. And with Flora about to entertain me for two days, pleasure has taken on a whole new meaning.”

  Walking through the clamorous center of town, the men passed by the hurdy-gurdy dance halls and saloons blaring music through their opened doors into the summer night. The street running down the gulch was crowded with miners celebrating their latest gold finds, spending their gold dust for female company, gambling, and drink.

  As they wove their way through the raucous crowds, they approached the Planters House, its lanterns on the colonnades casting a golden glow over the pale stone facade and white-columned veranda. Taking the shallow steps in a bound, Adam passed through the double doors with a brief nod to the doorman, crossed the floral carpet in the lobby in rapid strides, and mounted the broad balustraded stairs three at a time.

  “What if she doesn’t come?” James said, slightly breathless after their swift ascent.

  “She’ll come,” Adam succinctly replied as they moved down the lighted corridor.

  “So sure?”

  Adam nodded, reaching for the key in his jacket pocket, his room only three doors away. “She’s missed me,” he softly said with a smile.

  “And you’ve missed her.”

  Adam’s head swiveled toward his cousin, and he stared at James for a moment. “Do you think so?”

  “I’ve never seen you run for a woman.”

  Adam shoved the key into the lock. “She’s damned good,” he murmured, pushing the door open.

  “She must be.”

  “Can you pack and be out soon?” Adam asked, tossing the key on a table.

  James’s eyes widened, astonished at Adam so noticeably bestirring himself for a woman, fascinated at the transformation in the man he’d known all his life. “You’re hooked, my dear cousin,” he murmured.

  “Maybe,” Adam cheerfully admitted. “But just for two days, Esh-ca-ca-mah-hoo,” he added with a grin, loosening the crisp white tie at his throat. “Just for two days …”

  Chapter Eleven

  The lamplit suite was quiet. James had left long ago. Still in his evening clothes, Adam was lounging in the brocaded chair, his eyes shut, waiting. But he wasn’t sleeping. Far from it—a moody, restless energy animated him, his thoughts filled with Flora’s image … with memories and expectation. How long had it been since he’d touched her? he mused. Two weeks? Three? More, he decided, running over the sequence of time; it had been over a month now … a very long time. His fingers closed over the pleated whorls on the upholstered chair arms, his knuckles white under the pressure. And then he consciously relaxed; she’d be here soon. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. Two-thirty.

  It was shortly after three when Adam heard the knock on the door. He came to his feet in a smooth uncoiling of muscle and moved toward the door.

  Before he reached it, the rapping repeated itself in a brisk tattoo, and when he opened the door, Flora quickly slipped inside. “Do you know how many people are still in the corridors at three in the morning?” she hastily murmured, dropping her small canvas valise in a thud at his feet. “Too damned many,” she answered herself, expelling a small sigh of relief at having reached safety undetected. She smiled up at him then, as though remembering her manners. “I should have made you devise a plan for my disappearance,” she added with the warm smile he’d seen in his memory countless times since he’d slipped away from her sleeping form weeks ago.

  “You obviously came up with one,” he replied with a faint smile, taking in her riding garb and valise.

  “By the merest chance, no thanks to you,” she retorted, although her voice was amused rather than resentful. “I saw James in the lobby when Papa and I came back from the Fisks’.”

  “He’s leaving for camp.”

  “And I’m ostensibly leaving with him. He was very cordial to my hastily contrived plan. Papa didn’t question the story, and I’ll meet Papa at Four Chiefs’s camp in a few days. James even came up to our suite and waited while I packed. He’s very nice.”

  “Just so long as he’s not too nice.”

  Flora’s violet eyes sparked with mischief. “I love your jealousy.”

  “You delude yourself,” Adam murmured, his expression amused.

  “Perhaps I could still catch James,” she sweetly asserted.

  Moving with infinite speed, Adam kicked the valise aside, swept her into his arms, and holding her close, said very softly, “You can try …”

  “Ummm … are you going to make it worth my while to stay?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Such assurance, my lord.”

  “You’ve been on my mind … since I left the ranch. And I’ve been waiting for you tonight now for”—he flicked a glance at the clock—“an hour and seventeen minutes.…”

  “Did you put that time to good use?”

  “I think so.” His smile was very close, seductive.

  “You were always so excellent without planning,” she said, her breath warm on his chin, “I tremble at the prospect of a thorough plan.”

  “Hardly thorough yet,” Adam replied, bending his head to kiss the tip of her nose, “with forty-eight hours to consider.”

  “Forty-eight hours …,” she whispered. “How blissful. We’ve never been together for more than a single night at a time. I’m enormously happy I lost the bet.”

  “Not as happy as I,” he murmured, his dark eyes heated. “Now, let’s get you out of these clothes. The riding you’ll be doing here won’t require any.”

  Carrying her into the bedroom, he seated her on the edge of the bed and began to unbutton the blouse she wore with her black riding skirt. After three buttons slid free, the bodice gaped open, revealing a gl
impse of her lush breasts peaking out from beneath the turquoise silk.

  “James saw you like this?” he softly said. “Without a chemise or corset?” A nuance of censure infused his voice.

  “I’m sorry,” she appeased, sensitive to the challenge in his expression. “I was in a hurry. And when I changed from my ballgown, it took so long to remove all the layers of petticoats and underclothes, I redressed in the simplest possible way.”

  “You can see your nipples through the blouse.” He pressed the fine material against her breast, prominently outlining her nipple.

  “I didn’t mean to be provocative,” she soothed, the delicate pressure of the silk on her nipple sending a heated tremor spiraling downward. “I’m sure”—she took a small breath as the warmth settled between her legs—“no one noticed.”

  “Perhaps,” he murmured, thin-skinned and frowning, quickly rebuttoning the front. “Stay here now,” he directed, placing his hands on her shoulders for a moment to underscore his command. “And when I’m seated over there,” he went on with a nod of his head toward the windows, “walk toward me.”

  Releasing his hold, he moved across the room and settled in an ornate armchair, his dark gaze narrowed on her in critical scrutiny.

  Sitting on the edge of the large four-poster bed, her feet not touching the floor, her hands resting on the cut-velvet coverlet, Flora felt a small disquietude, not certain how to deal with Adam’s remonstrances when her consciousness was eclipsed by desire. The flush of arousal pinked her cheeks, colored her pale throat, where it slipped down the vee of her blouse, burned unsated in her blood.

  Even dressed in a simple unornamented skirt and blouse, Flora exuded a lavish sensuality, Adam resentfully thought, struggling with his unruly jealousy. Even seated in utter stillness, her ripe form seemed ready to burst from the stifling constraints of her clothing like some opulent fertility symbol. More disturbing, though, to his condemnatory mood was the flush on her cheeks—the color of revel and dissipation—and her flattering willingness, wholly indiscreet and enchanting, as he well knew. And, damn her, she was so easily aroused. Could he somehow blame her for his savage resentment, for his suspicions and doubt? Could he censure the luxury of her womanhood for its replete abundance? Could he more pertinently subdue his brute impulses and his need to tame her?