by Daisy Banks
Such a darn pity about Jess. She crouched back down to go over the plans Martha had sent her again.
* * * *
“Hello. Where are you?”
She looked up from the computer at Magnus’s call. Darkness had set. The light from her screen reflected in the windows. “In here.”
“There you are, not working still surely?” He reached for her and hauled her from the chair into his embrace.
“Wedding things. I’ve got thirty replies from guests who will join us. Dreams, the band who played here for the Timeless film are going to come play for us. Richard sorted it this afternoon. He will be a witness. Jess can’t be, though. She’s in hospital.”
“What a pity about your friend, and what a lot you’ve accomplished since I went out this morning.”
“I’ve picked my gown, my flowers, and ordered both. I’ve also evaluated the garden plans and e-mailed Martha a lot of questions.”
“I see, yet while you have been so busy all I have done is chosen your ring.”
“I knew you would! Can I see it?”
He set her down and bent onto one knee. He took her hand, and with his other, presented a small green leather box. “For you, my perfect bride.”
How strange her fingers trembled now. They hadn’t when she first touched her amulet, but while the gold-encased crystal was a part of her, this ring meant something different. She opened the case. “Oh, my.”
“Do you like it?”
The rectangular emerald set between two baguette-cut diamonds sparkled in the light from the lamp on her desk. She smiled. “It’s perfect.”
“Not too big or ostentatious?”
“No, neither, it’s beautiful.”
“Allow me to put it on your finger?”
She nodded. “Yes, Magnus.”
He took the ring from the box and slid it on to her finger. “Not too tight?”
She shook her head. “It’s perfect.”
“I agree. The stone is flawless. I can see you like it.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you so much.” She reached up to kiss him, slid her arms around his neck, and pressed her lips to his. He tightened his embrace around her so her body molded to his. The fragrance of his cologne, appealing as it was, couldn’t hide the more tasty scent of Magnus. Her body responded to the smell of him, the taste of him, and she gave a little whimper.
“Now?”
A kind of low growl rumbled at the back of her throat as she shoved his jacket from his shoulders and tugged at his belt. The craving for him hit her as strong as it ever had.
“Here.” He nudged her back toward a chaise in one of the alcoves of the study. She fumbled, reaching to stop herself falling.
Magnus thrust her skirt up out of the way.
“Yes, now!” Desire shot through her. Instant arousal hit a fresh high. She wriggled to help him drag off her thong.
He caressed her clitoris, but she needed all of him. “Don’t wait, not today.”
His smile offered the promise of pleasure as he lowered the zip and kicked off his gray flannels.
She clawed at his back through his shirt as he entered. The sheer power of him silenced her pleas. The chaise creaked, offering an accompaniment to the rising rhythm.
Each thrust shoved her further along the route to fulfillment. She gasped for breath. Her nipples burned at his touch.
“I love you.”
She fell.
Over the edge and burning like an ember from a bright sun, the energy consumed her cries.
“Yes, for me!” He thrust again and groaned as he joined her delight.
She clasped him tight against her as their breathing slowed. “Magnus.”
“I adore you. We will love together forever.”
She opened her eyes and looked into his. The light she found there made her smile. “I darn well hope so, otherwise we could both be very miserable.”
He offered his hand as he withdrew from her. “We will always be one. No matter what.”
“Hmm, I think I need to talk to you about that.”
“At least give us time to be married first. Things may have changed by then.”
She reached up to kiss him as he adjusted his clothes. “Yes, they may, but there again they might not.”
Magnus clasped her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Whatever befalls us, we will face it together.”
She brushed the wrinkles from her skirt and picked up the discarded panties. “Yes, agreed. I’m so happy to be with you.”
He smiled. “I know. It’s time we went down for dinner. I’ve news to share with you.”
A sense of wariness lifted the fine hairs on the back of her neck. “What’s this news?”
His dark gaze held hers. She wasn’t the only one wary. She clasped his hand and squeezed. “Tell me, Magnus?”
“I’ve received a communication from my father. My parents will attend the wedding.”
“Oh, my God.”
Meet the Author
Bio goes here
Turn the page for a special excerpt of Daisy Banks’s
Timeless
Their love will be eternal, the legend says...if they survive.
Lonely and forced into a life of secrecy, four hundred-year-old Magnus finds Sian--the sexy music film producer who’s working in his house--tough to ignore. As she resists his alter ego when he invades her dreams to seduce her, her innate powers astound him and his need only grows. In dreams or reality, he’s determined to make her his. She is meant for him alone.
Independent, hard-working Sian has hopes and plans for the future that include the stately house at Darnwell. Not its aloof owner. She’s there to acquire the home for a video shoot, nothing more. By day, each layer she explores in Magnus’s grand old home with him leads her deeper into love. But by night, he seduces her in her dreams, gives her ecstasy like she’s never known. Then she learns his secret: Come the full moon, she is the only one who can control his wolf curse. First though, she has to survive it.
On sale now!
Chapter 1
A teeth-rattling knock battered the door, startling Magnus awake. He hauled himself from the comfort of the wing backed porter’s chair, glanced at his watch, and exasperation rising, stalked over to open the door. A chill blast hit him. Raindrops pelted the marble tiled portico, spotting his polished shoes.
He sucked in the cold air, speechless at the sodden young woman who stood before him.
Clutching the neck of her coat and dabbing her cheek with a tissue, she seemed unconscious of his gaze. Runnels of water dripped from her brandy colored curls to form tiny puddles on the shoulders of her coat.
“Miss Armstrong?” he asked.
Her bright green eyes flashed up at him as she wiped a raindrop from the end of her nose. Once she’d flipped back her lapels, she shook her shoulders, splattering more water, and smiled with slick, pink shimmering lips.
“Mr. Johansson? Hi, I’m from Gorsewell Productions, I believe you’re expecting me. Sorry I’m a bit late. You know, you’re not on the GPS. Hell of a place to find, this, but I made it through the sticks at last.” She held out a black lace, fingerless gloved hand in greeting.
The sharp rainstorm hadn’t dampened her sultry tones. They slid over his skin to leave a wave of gooseflesh. His irritation she’d arrived over two hours late ramped up a gear. Not only was she behind schedule, but hardly his idea of an executive producer. Her disheveled, bawdy looks belonged to one of the long vanished waterside stews he’d once reveled in.
“Miss Armstrong, how do you do?” As he shook her hand, flames of sensation eddied on his skin. Her smooth, pale, lace covered flesh nestled briefly in his palm. He took his hand away, flexed his fingers to ease the scorching flickers around his hand.
“I’m fine, and yourself, Mr. Johansson?” Hoisting a
large bag on her shoulder, she took a step, edging him back, allowing her to enter. The portico door slammed shut, its eighteenth-century glass rattling.
“I am quite well, thank you,” he said.
Without the buffeting wind to drain it away, her fragrance teased like an invisible mist in the air as she stepped into the hall. Sensual, like her voice, warm, feminine and appealing, the scent of her stoked the dormant need he’d squashed for decades, kindling life where none should be.
The thick, damp curls reached almost to her waist as she tilted her head back to gaze up to the gilded ceiling. “Awesome,” she murmured, and he nodded, though it wasn’t the view of the familiar ceiling prompting his agreement.
Here stood the worst surprise he’d received this millennium. But he’d spent years working to build up immunity to her kind, and this exquisite little dolly mop wasn’t about to break through his shell.
Straightening, she slid the strap from her shoulder and dumped the sports bag on the polished mahogany floor. “Is it like this throughout?”
Teeth clenched, he winced at the thought of one of the bag’s metal clips tearing into the wood, now silky smooth after restoration. Thoughtless wench.
“Yes.” He lifted the bag and set it on the marble topped hall table. “My home is over four hundred years old, a rarity which follows the Baroque style. Much of it is now very close to the original standard of craftsmanship. May I take your coat?”
He approached, and a tiny flicker appeared in her eyes. Her pupils expanded a fraction, the first step in an ancient dance, and her response thrilled him in a way it had no right to.
Miss Armstrong slid the coat from her shoulders, and his neck muscles bunched in tension. The garment, a garish neon pink darkened by rain, was lined in heavy purple silk. A lovely foil to her pale skin, more of which was revealed by the way the scarlet bolero draped down so low, exposing one naked shoulder. He’d nearly forgotten the appeal of such skin. Porcelain, yet far more delicate than the object itself, and not icy cold, but warmed with the flush of lifeblood.
He hung the coat in the vast closet, stifling the vortex she’d raised in him.
She swiveled on crimson patent, six-inch heels that could also damage the floor. They were somewhat at odds with her olive-green leggings, which ended mid calf, leaving an expanse of rain-dampened flesh. Pale flesh, spattered with tiny dark specks she must have kicked up on the cinder path while running from her car to avoid the rain.
She flipped open her bag, took out an iPad and stared around her again. “Perfect.” The word oozed from her like a low satisfied purr, and provoked his instant response.
Shock radiated through him. He wanted her, all of her. This moment, he could revel in taking her and enjoy a taste of paradise.
Swallowing his desire, he fought to master his thoughts, while she stared up at the painted panels in the interlaced plasterwork moldings above the stairs.
She must go. He’d show her the rooms he’d discussed with the owner of the company then send her packing.
An age or more had passed since one such as this had disturbed his equilibrium. A flash of need ripped through him. He’d been unprepared to receive her, hadn’t expected such a creature. What had happened in the world, he should have to deal with the likes of her?
He stepped back, turned past the tall, long case clock, and entered the main hallway, where he placed his hand on the comforting familiarity of the rosewood handrail.
This visitor dazzled like an exotic butterfly. In her thigh skimming, mustard yellow tutu with its froth of spangled lace trim, she emanated life, exhaled vitality with each breath as she stepped toward him, tilting her shapely head to view the paintings. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. Too late, he fought her careless snare, for pure unadulterated passion coiled from her.
Here walked one worthy of the chase as he’d once known it.
He gestured to the ceiling and the corridor, which led to the main rooms of the house. “I thought you would find the house suitable from the information I received when I contacted Mr. Gorsewell. I take it, he’s briefed you.”
Her concentration fixed on the ceiling, she nodded, moistening her sugar pink lips with the tip of her equally pink tongue. He glanced away, but his gaze had reached into the deep shadow of ripe cleavage revealed by her corseted bodice. An unwelcome shudder ran through him. Someone ought to explain to this little hussy how to dress for a business meeting.
He dragged his mind from her attractions. This remained business, no matter how outlandish or desirable the company’s representative might be. Commerce had always struck him as a sordid affair and until recent years, he’d rarely engaged in it. This afternoon’s only objective must be the promise of a large amount of easy money to top up his funds so he could continue renovations on the house. The fact Miss Armstrong oozed the sex appeal of a lively whore had nothing to do with it.
Business. That’s all. He’d spent too long in control of things to let them slip now.
“Well, Mr. Johansson?” She looked over her shoulder, arched a smooth dark eyebrow, shook her small digital camera at him and followed up with an encouraging little smile. “You are going to show me around, so I can make some notes and get a few shots?” The way her lip curled up at the corner tore at him. The tiny movement invited him to so much more.
“Yes, of course. As you are so late in your arrival,” he said, unable to resist the challenge.
Yet she simply shrugged the one naked shoulder and gave him a sultry smile.
“I suggest we start in the ballroom. It’s the largest room in the house, and you might find it the thing your company wants. If you’ll follow me, Miss Armstrong.”
A pity she had to walk behind him. There would have been a kind of pleasure in watching her walk before him. The short tutu skirt would flick and entice with her swaying steps.
His effort to banish such thoughts brought a film of sweat to his upper lip. Her heels tapped a call to arms as he led her down the corridor to the double doors of the ballroom. Perhaps too busy looking at the ancestral portraits, so far, she’d not uttered a word.
He opened the doors and heard the soft catch of her breath as he ushered her through. This room instilled such reactions. How many times had he seen it? And still he marveled at the symmetry and glory of the gilded decoration.
Mirrors lined three of the walls, giving him the added discomfort of being able to view all of her as she stepped forward. The red bolero clung to her small, narrow back and enclosed the contours of her well-rounded breasts, which the tight-laced bodice did nothing to disguise. A hint of the outline of her nipples against the silken fabric made him roll his tongue against his teeth.
If he’d found her in St. James’s Square in his youthful wanderings, she’d have cost five guineas, maybe more.
“Good God, I’d not expected anything like this,” she said.
He nodded. How could she have expected perfection like this?
The panel of French windows onto the terrace did not give enough light on such a gray day. While she stood wide-eyed, he flicked on the switch so the eight crystal chandeliers sprang to golden life.
“Will this room suit your purposes?” He posed the question as she busily scribbled notes. She held the thick stylus at an unusual angle in her lace-clad hand. Long, square tipped nails, shiny with crimson gloss, sent his pulse pounding. He licked his lips and forced the ache down to a manageable level. Her visit must be a short one, for he could bear her company no longer. A flash from her small camera startled him back to her presence.
“We can get at least a half a dozen good shots in here, a masked ball type thing,” she murmured, speaking almost to herself. “Do those doors open?” She strode across the polished floor to the doors, pausing briefly to snap another photograph.
“Yes, they lead to the terrace and there are steps down to the formal gardens.” He follow
ed her quick pace. “Would you like to see?” At last, something which gave him some illusion of a business arrangement.
She gave a little sigh, as though he were too slow to understand what she wanted. “Please, Mr. Johansson. I do have a job to do. Not that I want to make you feel as though we’ll invade your home, but I need to get the schematic for this over to Franklyn before the end of the month.” She quickly thrust one of the French windows open. He ignored her jibe, but added it to her list of imperfections. Late, dressed like an expensive trollop, she must be the most unprofessional individual he’d ever met, and appeared far too swift in her assumptions.
“Of course, Miss Armstrong, forgive me. When one has lived in a home so long, one feels every guest should be given time to enjoy its delights.”
Her eyes narrowed. The pink lips pursed, yet she nodded. “I’m sure. However, my job is to find if it’s suitable for a music video shoot, Mr. Johansson. I’m not here to assess the individual merits of your home or its decor.”
She stepped out onto the terrace, despite the rain, and made her way over to the large, ornamental terra-cotta pots standing at the top of the steps leading down to the bowling lawn. Rain drops gathered like tiny pearls on her glossy red shoes.
“These are good. I could probably use them,” she said, nodding toward the sweep of the steps and taking more photographs. “Do you have a maze?”
“No, I have never felt the need for one.”
“Pity, I could have done something with one. Never mind. Is there anything more you think would be suitable? Remember, we are looking for gothic horror, at this point. Though of course, things can change.” She headed back into the ballroom.
He followed and did his best to maintain his composure. This young woman seemed to have no qualms at suggesting his home might not suit.
“May I suggest the library?” he said as he closed the French windows behind them.
