When he drew back to look at her, her silver gray eyes were soft, warm, like polished moonstones.
“Your mouth is dangerous.” He feathered another kiss across her lips. Was it insane to feel he couldn’t get enough of her mouth? He almost dreaded the thought of how desperate he’d been to bury himself inside her and never leave.
“Dangerous?” she murmured against his lips.
“Hmmm, yes…” He licked at her lips, savoring the taste. “I can’t stop thinking about what you could do to me with it, what I want to do to it.”
“Really?” Her surprise shocked him. Did she have no idea what effect she was having on him? His cock was so hard he’d be lucky to get upstairs without any serious pain.
Emery’s hand tightened on her trapped wrists. “How many men have you been with?”
“Hmm?”
Sophie was smiling dazedly, as though his last kiss had addled her mind and left her happily drunk on passion.
“How. Many. Men? How many times? And don’t lie. The truth, Sophie.”
Finally his words seemed to sink in. “Two men. Two times each.”
So few? How had men not been beating down her doors to share her bed? Emery decided the men, wherever she was from, were idiots.
“While you’re with me, no one else, understand? I’m the possessive type.”
She scowled, her eyes narrowed to slits.
“The same goes for you. I don’t share and I don’t want you eyeing any other women. I hate that. Every man I’ve dated has never been able to keep his eyes off other women. Can you promise to be better?”
Emery swept his gaze over her tantalizing body, trying not to indulge in fantasies of all the things he would soon to do her. “You’re all mine, and I haven’t been able to look away since Royce brought you to me.”
Truth. Scary, confusing, truth. Sure, she wasn’t gorgeous, wasn’t slender. Sophie was the opposite of most women he met on a daily basis. And that made her fascinating, an odd mixture of warrior tigress and kittenish innocence. He knew with the right man, a good dom, she’d explode and burn like a wildfire in bed. Damn if he didn’t want the blaze to consume him.
* * *
Sophie let him lead her through a maze of corridors lined with paintings hung on the richly painted walls. This had to be a dream: to be escorted through a mansion lit by dim golden lamps and pools of moonlight spilling through windows, leaving pearly puddles of light across the floors. Her hand was tucked securely in Emery’s, the contact comforting. She’d never been one for touching, hugging, any of that. But Emery’s large elegant hand curled around hers was soothing and yet completely mystifying.
Emery was like a phantom of the past, a gentleman whisking his lady toward a distant bedchamber. Sophie was only too eager for his seduction, but everything around her was a distraction. There were statues and art in odd places. She couldn’t help stopping in front of carved marble figures or running her fingertips over the glossy polished wood of what had to be priceless antiques. After she paused for the tenth time, Emery sighed.
“What is all of this?” Sophie stood transfixed by a marble figure of Poseidon that was tucked into a corner.
“Over the years I’ve collected and rescued many pieces from original houses built in the first half of the last century on the island.”
“Why?” Sophie turned her face up to his.
He was silent for a long moment, his gaze crossing the expanse of years. “Back before the Depression, this coast was covered with castles and palaces. American fortunes were lavishly spent on homes that rivaled those of the European royals. But after the Depression and every decade since, those same houses have slowly decayed, been destroyed, sold. Just last year some developer beat me out in an auction. He bought one of the houses four miles from here.” Emery’s eyes sharpened, the lines of his face tightening as he popped his jaw. “He bulldozed the whole place and built some cheap condominiums. Americans have never respected history.” Emery spat the last few words. Irritation tinged with a hint of despair consumed his hazel eyes.
How true it was. Too many landmarks, too many places with history had been destroyed in the wake of American growth.
Emery tightened his grip on her hand. “I’ve devoted much time and personal resources to preserving any land I can and I rescue everything possible from demolition sites and bring it here.”
Shock rippled through her at the thought of this man hunting for bits of Americana, that he could care so much for the broken dreams of a golden age long past. Her heart clenched tight. He was unlike anything she’d expected. He was haunted, yes; tortured, yes. But whatever hold his past had on him, he seemed determined to protect it. Like a king in a bewitched land where time could never move forward and he never aged. There was something sad and beautiful in seeing this about him. She couldn’t help but wonder if he thought his preservation of the past in some way preserved his brother, too.
“It seems like you’re a romantic, Emery.” She gripped his hand tighter, squeezing his palm.
His hands suddenly curled around her arms, shaking her a little. Fine lines around his eyes creased as his gaze hardened.
“Never mistake me for a romantic, Sophie. Especially not when I am fighting off the desire to bend you over my bed, naked and open for my possession. I’ve done nothing but devise a thousand ways in which I’d like to take you, restrain you, own you. Does that sound romantic to you?”
Sophie’s mouth went dry. Rather than be repulsed, his words shot fire straight to her womb, and she blinked slowly, barely able to move.
“Any more of those delightful little hungry looks of yours, and I’ll forget the bed and take you against the wall right here,” he warned.
“Promises, promises,” she muttered, inwardly amused she could find air to breathe. At twenty-four years old she’d never been all that interested in sex, had actually dreaded intimacy of any kind. Yet, here she was panting like a cat in heat after a stranger, wanting him to make love to her until she forgot her name, until her legs gave out and her vision hazed.
I’m shameless, completely shameless and I don’t even care.
Was it possible to go from prude to wanton in a mere hour? Apparently it was.
She eyed Emery with open hunger, the way his dark suit molded to his muscles and clung to him as he moved. He was like a leopard: sleek, graceful, powerful. He could corrupt a legion of the purest angels, have them tearing their wings from their backs and throwing themselves prostrate at his feet for just a touch or a husky whisper. The devil could make bargains with the body of this man, and she was more than willing to sign on the dotted line to give her soul up for another of his all-consuming, soul-stealing kisses.
It was only after a moment that she caught him watching her. His eyes shimmered with summer heat, scorching and dangerous.
“I think we’ll save a tour for later. You look too tempting and I don’t think my great Uncle Timsworth—” he pointed to a painting over her shoulder, of a gray-haired, solemn-looking man seated in a chair, cigar in hand— “would appreciate me fucking you against the wall next to him.”
Sophie blushed; her breath halted for a second. Why did the idea of that make her want to melt into a puddle on the floor?
“Are you hungry?” He raised her hand to his mouth, feathered his lips over her knuckles, locked his eyes on her the way an artist might focus on a blank canvas. Visions, dreams, each step of a masterpiece placed in the artist’s mind’s eye all before he set a brush to canvas. Sophie wondered what he saw in her, what masterpiece he sought to create.
Please let it be something dark, carnal, sinful.
As though able to read her thoughts, Emery smiled. It wasn’t just any smile, but one that knocked her behind the knees, sent her tumbling into his arms. It was a smile that drove her to a place emptied of all else save need for him and what he promised with a simple look.
Trouble. She was in so much trouble. Sophie tilted her head back to look up at him, the heat of his c
hest against hers hot enough to make her sweat despite the fact that she should have been cold in her leather miniskirt and corset top. She sucked in a breath when his head descended toward hers.
Chapter 5
AFTER BEING TAKEN TO THE HOSPITAL AND TREATED, FRANCESCA ESPINA, THE BOYS’ NANNY, RECOUNTED WHAT SHE COULD REMEMBER OF THE CRIME. SHE STATED THERE WERE AT LEAST THREE MEN IN BLACK MASKS WHO CAME IN THROUGH THE BACK KITCHEN DOOR. DURING THE FIGHT, ONE OF THE BOYS TRIED TO DISTRACT ONE OF THE KIDNAPPERS BUT WAS HURT. BLOOD SAMPLES FROM THE SCENE WERE MATCHED TO THE YOUNG VICTIM AS WELL AS TO THE NANNY.
—New York Times, June 10, 1990
Emery’s lips brushed Sophie’s ear. She angled her neck toward him, offering more of her skin, hoping desperately he would continue that wicked play of his mouth.
He gave a throaty laugh. “Are you hungry for food? We have plenty of time to satisfy your other hungers.”
Disappointment at his stopping his kisses warred with the rumbling in her stomach.
“Food please,” she replied, still a little breathless.
He laughed again, only this time the sound was louder, richer. She laughed too. It felt good.
“Food it is. This way.”
He took her down several more corridors. As he led her on a winding trail through the massive labyrinth that was the Lockwood house, her eyes darted from the portraits on the walls back to Emery. His muscled body shifted and moved next to her, and the close tailoring of his suit displayed the finest figure of any man she’d ever seen. She licked her lips, ready to speak, to draw him into another sensual touch or kiss, but he stopped before a door and pushed it open.
“This is the original kitchen, built back in 1902 when the house still had over twenty servants and catered to huge parties.”
Emery gestured to the large marble bar and even larger countertops that filled the room. Sophie could almost see into the past—the hustle and bustle of ill-tempered cooks shouting for scullery maids to bring fresh water to the stove. The steam curling from the soup and the smell of fresh bread and roasted chicken. Her mouth watered at the thought. What a grand thing it must have been to have lived in such an era. She continued her study of the kitchen, noting the wooden rack that hung above the center marble island where gleaming silver pots and pans were attached by handles and strings amid garlands of various spices.
Emery peeled off his suit jacket and tossed it over the surface of one bar stool. Sophie licked her lips at the sight of his muscled shoulders and slender hips. Perfect for fitting between her thighs…
Down, girl. She shook her head at the way her body kept trying to take over. She’d never seen a man so good-looking. He shot her a look over his shoulder, a mischievous grin on his face. He had to know he could kiss her senseless, but there was no bravado, no arrogance in his manner. He seemed to know his very presence had her hungry for him. She wanted him to take her now, hard and fast. It was as though she could barely wait another minute to have him touch her again.
“I can read your face,” he teased. “Save those wicked thoughts for later tonight. Now, have you ever had breakfast for dinner?”
Sophie stifled a giggle as he spun to face her, wielding a spatula and carrying a big skillet. He waggled his eyebrows and smiled. Her breath caught. Gone was the tortured soul; in his place was a seductive man, all smiles and trouble. Despite her questions, her need to know his story, she wouldn’t wreck the miracle of his good mood.
“Promise me there’s bacon. I’ll do just about anything for bacon.” She meant it too. Bacon was one of her life’s little pleasures, just like chocolate. Her hips hated her for it, but bacon couldn’t be passed up.
Emery stalked toward her, eyes warm as honey. He circled behind her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and nipped her right earlobe. Sophie stiffened at the intimate contact despite the flood of wet heat between her legs. She wasn’t used to physical contact from a man, especially one she desired.
“Rule number one, relax into my touch. Unless I’m punishing you. Then you may anticipate me all you like. Now…relax.” He curled long, elegant fingers around her throat, not squeezing, merely holding her in place as he flicked his tongue into the shell of her ear. Sophie jolted up, only to be jerked back down by his arm around her stomach, to be held down, pinned helpless for his exploration of her sensitive spots…It was too much. She liked it far more than she should: the helpless feeling, the surrender to even so small a domination.
Sharp tingles stabbed her lower back, responding to the mind-bendingly erotic sensation of his tongue in her ear. He licked behind it, nibbled at the soft skin there, and she thrashed, desperate to get away, but wanting more at the same time.
“Mmm…,” she moaned as he repeated the delicious torture, and her nerves seem to fray. She knew she wouldn’t be able to take much more of this. Sophie dug her fingers into the skin of his arms, trying to alert him that she was at her wits’ end.
Finally, slowly, he relented. Fire still licked up her spine and she shuddered, trying to shake off the arousal that had nearly soaked her underwear. Emery took her by the arm, forced her to stand up from the bar stool. She squeaked in sheer surprise when he swatted the metal spatula against her bottom and then sighed when he set the spatula aside and ran his palm over her bottom, rubbing soothingly at the place where he’d spanked her.
It only made her wetter, hotter.
“Sweetheart, with me, bacon is always guaranteed.” Releasing her, he chuckled and walked over to the fridge. In rapid succession he tossed a stick of butter on the counter, slid a carton of eggs alongside it, and smacked down a package of bacon. He spun, nudged the fridge shut with the toe of his elegant dress shoe, and reached above his head to retrieve a grease splatter shield.
She gawked at him. He acted completely normal, as though he hadn’t just brought her to her knees, desperate for sex, and then whacked her on the ass with a kitchen utensil.
Closing her eyes, she drew in a fortifying breath. Then she expelled it and opened her eyes again. “You do realize this is insane, right? We’re total strangers…and this—” Sophie waved one hand in the air between them— “is crazy too. I don’t sleep with guys I haven’t dated and I definitely don’t let strangers spank me.” He raised one brow, that single action a challenge.
“Or boyfriends?” The soft stroke of his voice stirred honeyed desire in her.
“Not boyfriends either.”
One corner of his mouth kicked up into a rakish smile. “I’ll be the first man to lay my hand on you.” He played with the spatula, eyeing it in serious contemplation. “Maybe not just my hand…but don’t worry, sweetheart. You’ll love it when I give it to you.”
Her mouth dried up completely. And a heat wave flooded her from head to toe so badly that she braced herself on the counter to stop from toppling off the barstool.
Emery cracked two eggs over the skillet and flicked molten gold eyes on hers. “This was your idea, Sophie. You wanted to be my sub. Intimacy, both sexual and otherwise, is part of the bargain, at least for me.”
Sophie flinched. Intimacy? Was she ready for that?
No. Hell no.
The last time she’d been intimate and let her guard down, a man had gotten inside her heart, and then nearly killed her when he walked away. That had been five years ago and the pain had only barely started to ease. She couldn’t live through that again, couldn’t bear to be on the end of a one-sided relationship at the end of the day. Sophie was convinced Unrequited Love was her middle name. And she had no intention of sharing herself so openly again. The last time she’d really cared about a guy, she’d made the mistake of sharing her job with him. Letting him see how important her work was hadn’t brought them closer. Instead it had driven him away. She couldn’t erase the look on his face from her mind, either, as though she’d lost her sanity when she tried to tell him she was helping to save lives by writing her articles and researching cold cases for patterns. He’d said her interest in the morbid subject was “unheal
thy” and she should be writing articles about house decoration tips, or recipes for parties, as though her career was little more than a glorified hobby.
Sophie would never forget how she’d felt when he’d left: torn between rage and hurt, tears burning her eyes, and her throat so tight she couldn’t breathe. The worst thing in the world was opening yourself up and being rejected. She couldn’t let that happen again, not on Emery’s terms, when he was demanding an emotional intimacy she couldn’t give him.
It was time to leave. She’d get her story another way and figure out who had kidnapped him without risking herself in the process. She slid off the stool, her worn ballet flats silent as they touched the ground. Slowly she reached for her clutch purse on the counter, training her eyes on Emery’s body as he kept his back to her, cooking the eggs. Her heart kicked into a panicked rhythm as she struggled to remain calm, stealthy in her escape.
The smell of his cooking was heavenly, wrapping around her, teasing her stomach to the point that it grumbled. Loudly. Sophie froze. But Emery must not have heard her stomach because he didn’t turn around. Thank God, she thought and quickly tiptoed toward the kitchen door. With one longing glance over her shoulder at Emery, she didn’t see the hulking mass blocking her path until it was too late.
Whump!
She collided with solid muscle and large hands fell to her shoulders, rooting her in place as she prepared to struggle.
“Say, Emery, your little sub’s making a run for it,” announced a familiar voice.
The man who held her still was none other than Royce, Emery’s friend from the club, the one who’d brought her right to Emery and practically shoved her into his lap.
Emery didn’t even turn around. He merely laughed. Cocky bastard.
The Gilded Cuff Page 6
