by Diana Palmer
“You need a huge mug,” she murmured on a smile. “To fit your hands.”
“They aren’t that big,” he said, chuckling. He reached one out and caught hers in it, studying the difference in size. Her slender fingers seemed small in his, and she could feel the strength in that callused warmth. He had beautifully masculine hands, olive tan with flat, immaculate nails and wrists that were darkly sprinkled with hair.
“You’re very hairy,” she remarked without thinking as her eyes lifted to his chest, where the shirt had come open when he leaned toward her.
“All over,” he returned, watching her flush. “Don’t you like hairy men, Miss Glenn?”
She tried to draw her hand back, but his locked into it, fingers between fingers in a lazy, sensuous movement.
“I don’t know,” she faltered.
He leaned back in the chair, tugging at her hand. “Then why don’t you come here and we’ll find out together.”
Lord, he was strong! She found herself pulled out of the chair before she could protest, and drawn toward him. Arrogant beast, sitting there like Caesar, smiling confidently, muscles rippling as he overcame her resistance.
“Mr. Carson…” she began.
He tugged at her hand, landing her squarely on his lap. Under her, his powerfully muscled thighs rippled as he shifted her so that her cheek was against his upper arm, so that her view of the world ended at his face. He smelled of cologne, something musky and oriental, and he laughed like a predator at her blank stare.
“Now, feel,” he said, sliding her hand inside his shirt. He pressed it palm down into the thick tangle of hair. “Hairy as hell.”
It wasn’t fair, she thought, staring up at him. She was melting, and no amount of willpower was going to spare her. Her lips parted as she experienced for the first time in her life the powerful sensuality of touch. He moved her hand, watching her as he taught her how to stroke him.
“Yes, that’s it,” he said on a soft laugh, “I like being touched. Especially like this,” he added, his voice like velvet, and he guided her hand down toward the flat plane of his stomach.
“No!” she whispered, tugging back her hand as it touched his belt.
“How you do bristle with inhibitions, Miss Glenn,” he observed calculatingly.
“I haven’t asked for private tutoring,” she said, flustered.
“No, you haven’t, big eyes,” he admitted, searching her face with oddly patient eyes. “But I think you could use a bit, all the same.”
“I’ll hire a gigolo,” she promised. “Please let me go.”
“Why?” He drew her hand back to his chest and held it there. “I’m not asking you for anything. Yet.”
“Ever,” she corrected. “I work for your grandmother, and only temporarily. My duties don’t include satisfying your appetite.”
“I don’t think you could, Amy,” he said shockingly. “You wouldn’t have the slightest idea how, would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t,” she said irritably. “For which you should thank God. At least, I won’t be chasing after you!”
His thumb brushed across her lips and he studied them intently for a long time. “Why not?” he asked softly. “I might enjoy being chased by you.”
“Well, I wouldn’t enjoy it,” she muttered, trying to break the light but steely hold that big arm had around her shoulders. “And will you stop treating me like a new toy?”
“That isn’t how I think of you at all,” he said under his breath. “Not at all.” His hand moved up to her bun and began removing pins. She tried to stop him and only managed to pull out a few long, dark hairs in the process, so she gave up. He laid the bobby pins on the table and smoothed her hair down over her shoulders, as if he loved its silky length.
“It feels like satin,” he said quietly, stroking it. “I’d forgotten how sensuous long hair can be.”
“Been dating bald women, have we?” she said with a nervous laugh. “You’ve had your fun, now suppose you let me go home?”
His hand moved around to her face, devastating as it traced her soft skin and touched her bow of a mouth. His dark eyes were devoid of laughter now; intent and searching and curious. “You don’t look twenty-eight,” he told her. He bent his head. “I want you, Amy.”
Before she could find a sensible answer, his warm mouth was covering hers. She wanted to protest, but she liked what he was doing too much. His lips coaxed hers to part for him, to allow the slow, rhythmic penetration of his tongue. Her fingers clenched in the thick hair over his chest, and he stiffened.
“Yes,” he whispered against her lips, “yes, I like that. Do it again.”
Her eyes opened, gray as a rainy day as they searched his. Her fingers contracted and he smiled. It was a kind of smile she barely remembered from her disastrous near-engagement, a possessive and totally male look that hinted of conquest, delighted dominance. She should have resented it, but he was the kind of man who made arrogance seem natural.
She watched as his mouth came back to hers, tenderly probing, teasing. Her body reacted restlessly to the building passion, moving against his involuntarily.
“You feel it now, don’t you?” he whispered. His free hand moved to her back and turned her into his body, so that her breasts were pressed against his broad, warm chest. He kissed her, and even as his mouth began taking possession, he moved, so that her breasts were drawn back and forth against him, so that the tips became sensitive and began to harden. Her blouse and bra were thin and his shirt was completely out of the way now, and when he laughed softly, she knew it was because he could feel what had happened to her.
“This is delicious,” he whispered. His mouth slid down to her throat, and he inhaled the flowery scent of her skin while he learned the delicate lines with his lips. “You even taste like a virgin,” he breathed, drawing his tongue along the throbbing pulse under the warm skin.
Her face turned into his shoulder and hid there, because she was vulnerable now and he knew it. She had no secrets from him.
His lips touched her closed eyelids, nudging her face out of hiding. “Amy…” he murmured as he found her mouth again.
This time, there was no teasing. He arched her body against his, and the pressure of his hard mouth forced her head down into the crook of his elbow. He nudged her mouth open under his and began a devouring, expertly sensual exploration of it that made her tremble and ache in his embrace.
“I’d forgotten how exciting it could be, to kiss,” he whispered against her yielding lips. “I could get drunk on your mouth.”
“Don’t stop,” she heard herself moan.
“How could I,” he murmured, his breath loud as he bent again, “when I’m as hungry as you are?”
His arms contracted, and for a long time she fed on his mouth, liking its hard warmth, even liking the bristles where he needed another shave, her arms around his neck now, her body pressed so closely to his that she could feel his heart slamming against her through the muscular walls of his chest. She tasted him, tasted coffee and spice, and opened her mouth even more, so that he could take whatever he liked.
“If I took you,” he whispered into her mouth, “would your body open to me so hungrily?”
She moaned, and his mouth grew demanding, his arms began to bruise her against his. With unexpected abandon, she dragged her chest against his so that he could feel how wildly she wanted him, and his hand caught in her long hair as he tugged her head back to look at her face.
His eyes were narrow and glazed with passion, his jaw taut. He let his gaze move down to her breasts, and his free hand began at the top of her dress. He opened the first button, and the second, holding her eyes now, daring her to protest, to stop him.
“I’m going to bare you to the waist, Amy,” he said quietly. “And I’m going to feed on you, with my eyes and my mouth.”
She was trembling wildly now, with no thought of denying him what she wanted so desperately. Her body arched toward him, yielding, hungry. She could barely bre
athe for the hunger. And just as he reached the button between her lace-clad breasts, a door opened somewhere down the hall.
Without thinking, she pulled free of his arms and got to her feet, fumbling buttons into holes.
He leaned back and stared at her as she struggled to smooth ruffled hair and straighten her dress. Something dark and soft lingered in the eyes she didn’t see. He reached out and retrieved her hairpins.
“Here,” he said gently. “Don’t forget these.”
“Thanks.” She took them, meeting his dark eyes.
His fingers caressed hers as he handed over the pins. “Forget that interview tomorrow,” he said. “Stay.”
She met his eyes. “Worth, I won’t sleep with you,” she said, putting it bluntly as the footsteps came closer.
“All right,” he replied easily.
She shifted, her gaze going toward the door. “I…”
“I won’t back you into a corner,” he promised. “I can’t offer you a future, Amy. And since I can’t, I won’t compromise you. Is that word old-fashioned enough, or should I say that I won’t—” and he used the modern vernacular, and grinned wickedly when she glared at him.
“You have a horrible mouth,” she shot, brushing back her long, tangled hair.
“Yours is exquisite,” he returned, glancing at it wistfully. “I’ve never kissed anything so soft and sweet.”
“I’m going home,” she muttered. She got her purse and started out the door, almost colliding with Jeanette.
“Hello, dear.” The older lady grinned. “I thought you’d gone. Worth, Clara wants me to come over for bridge tomorrow night, will you drive me?”
“Of course,” he said.
Jeanette looked from one of them to the other. “No arguing,” she told them firmly, mistaking the tension. “And don’t you dare try to run her off, Worth, or I’ll put myself in a nursing home!”
“God forbid, they’d expel you by the third day,” Worth said with lazy good humor.
“Hmph!” she grumbled, and smiled at Amelia. “I’ll see you tomorrow, dear. Good night.”
“Good night,” Amelia said, and smiled back.
She didn’t even glance at Worth, but was thankful her legs didn’t fold on the way out the door.
She lay awake for a long time that night, thinking about the delicious interlude in his arms. She’d wanted him to open her dress, she’d wanted him to look at her and touch her. She’d trembled with hungers she barely understood. Was she crazy to agree to stay on? He’d promised not to compromise her, but what would she do if he put pressure on her? She couldn’t refuse him if he kept kissing her. She wanted him.
And what did he want? An interlude or someone to cuddle, but not to keep? Was he being sweet so that she’d stay because his grandmother liked her so much? Or did he just feel sorry for her?
In the end, she decided to live one day at a time and hope for the best. At least she wasn’t getting emotionally involved with Worth. That, she couldn’t allow. He was not a marrying man, and she couldn’t handle an affair. She’d just have to think up some polite way of telling him that she’d rather they had a friendly relationship that didn’t get physical. She’d long since given up on the idea of a husband and children, since her relationships were so few and far between, and only lukewarm at best. The good men were married, and the ones who were left were unmarried for too obvious reasons. She’d learned that these days most men liked brief affairs and nothing more lasting. They’d learned that they could have their cake and eat it, too—all the benefits of marriage and none of the responsibilities. But Amy wanted it all, wedding cake and rings and exchanged vows. And she supposed that she’d just waited too long to try. It was too late. She was a spinster for life. Well, so what, she asked herself irritably. Wasn’t living alone better than risking everything on a man who could turn out to be a gambler or a secret drunk or a wife beater or a bigamist? Sure it was! She closed her eyes on that optimistic note and finally fell asleep.
Six
Amelia called and canceled her job interview, and settled down at the Carson home, working hours that were odd and sometimes tiring, but enjoying herself all the same.
Worth was in and out, mostly out. Infrequently he had her take notes or type up something for him, but she spent most of her time with Jeanette. The elderly lady could tell some hair-raising stories, recollections of her days as a reporter. Amelia learned about grisly murders and street life with wide-eyed fascination. Jeanette delighted in shocking her.
Summer went into fall, and Amelia found herself looking forward to each new day. The Carson estate had beautiful grounds, and when her employer was busy with other things, she liked to wander around them and sigh over the vegetation. It was a shock when Worth came looking for her one Monday, a day he usually spent at his office.
He’d kept his distance from her since that unexpectedly ardent exchange at the supper table. But he’d been watchful, and in another man she might have mistaken it for interest. She didn’t make that mistake with him. Jeanette had told her too much about his past. She’d daydreamed a little, but very quickly she learned that he could turn his emotions on and off, teasing her one minute and bellowing about mistakes the next. She coped with his shifting moods by not letting herself get too involved, by keeping her emotions at a safe distance. And it worked. He became more friend than employer, and she found him unusually easy to talk to, just as she had that first day.
“Does Mrs. Carson want me?” Amelia asked with a smile. She was wearing white slacks with a pink tank top, her hair loose and swinging freely around her shoulders, sandals on her small feet. She laughed as he joined her, and he watched her face for a minute before he replied.
“No,” he said lazily. He fell into step beside her. He was wearing gray slacks and a white shirt, rolled up to the elbows and carelessly unbuttoned.
“Something bothering you, boss?” she teased gently.
He glanced down at her with a smile. “No.”
“You’re home early or going to work late, then,” she remarked. She had a strand of grass in her hand, and she nibbled it as they walked back toward the house. It was a beautiful day. Flowers and shrubs bloomed all around the cobblestone path and birds sounded in the tall trees.
“I have something for you,” he said.
She stopped walking and stared at him. “For me?”
“Sort of,” he murmured dryly. “Come on.”
He led her to the side of the house and presented her with a ten-foot square of neatly plowed and raked ground.
Her breath caught. She looked up at him with huge eyes. “For me?” she exclaimed, and her smile was like the sun coming out.
He chuckled at her enthusiasm. “For you. Plant whatever you like.”
“Oh, Worth!” Impulsively, without thinking, she barreled into his arms and hugged him fiercely. “Thank you!”
His big hands held her shoulders, held her there, and his head bent over her. “You’re more than welcome. It’s little enough thanks for the good you’ve done around here. Grandmother worships you, did you know?”
“It’s mutual. I think she’s the berries.” Amelia sighed. Her eyes closed as she pillowed her cheek against his broad chest. It felt so natural to be held by him, to stand in the shade of the trees and be together. Under her ear, she could hear his heartbeat. At her temples, his breath felt ragged, disturbed.
“Amy,” he whispered.
There was a note in his voice that meant trouble. And she wasn’t ready to deal with it, not yet. She tugged away from him, smiling to soften the rejection, and folded her arms across her aching breasts. She wouldn’t look at him. She couldn’t.
“Now, what shall I plant?” she reasoned aloud, oblivious to the strain that colored her unusually high-pitched tone.
He came up behind her, slid his hands around her waist and drew her back so that her body rested on his. “The yardman’s name is Harry. He’ll get you whatever you like.”
“No, really, that
isn’t necessary, I can buy what I want.”
“I said, he’ll get it.”
“Tyrant.”
His hands slid up, so that they rested just under her breasts, and her heartbeat jumped. He felt it and laughed, deep in his throat. “It’s broad daylight,” he reminded her. “I wouldn’t do it in public, if that reassures you.”
She knew exactly what he meant, and had to bite her lip to keep from saying something rude. He liked to tease, she knew that by now. He didn’t even mean anything by it. She was young and not too unattractive and handy, and he was very much a man. She just had to keep that in mind and everything would be fine.
And it was, until he bent his head and kissed the side of her neck.
She caught her breath and moaned, and everything changed. Very slowly, he turned her, holding her in front of him. He stared down into her eyes so intently and for so long that her heart went wild and she felt as if she were being electrocuted. She jerked her head down against his chest, breathless.
“I’ve tried,” he whispered. “Oh, God, I have.”
His hands tightened on her waist. Then, all at once, he bent and lifted her.
She clutched at his shoulders as he turned and carried her into the greenhouse several yards away. It was deserted. The yardman usually took Monday mornings off, and Mrs. Carson was taking her noon nap.
He set her gently down. His big, warm hands framed her face and he searched her eyes. He was breathing heavily, and she could hear his heartbeat.
“I saw a painting of a fairy once,” he whispered. “She had long black hair and blue eyes and a slender, beautiful body like yours. And every time I look at you, I want to see you without your clothes, Amy. I want to take you into my bed and show you what it’s all about. And that,” he said gruffly, bending, “is why I’ve tried so damned hard not to do this….”
His mouth melted into hers, soft and then hard, teasing, then rough and hungry. She went on tiptoe to link her arms around his neck. Her mouth answered the wildness of his. And she wasn’t even shocked when his hands slid down to her thighs and lifted her hard against his, so that she could experience the very tangible evidence of his need.
