“Jesus, woman, you excite me so much I can’t think!” Jude stepped closer, ready to plunge inside her. Yet he inserted only his tip, and then stood very still, gawking at the length of his cock as it bridged their quivering bodies. The springy hair at his root vibrated with his need as he tried to wait her out. Silently, he taunted her to be the one who lunged first.
The darkroom resonated with their unspoken challenges: his deeper breathing a counterpoint to her rapid panting; her feral scowl an invitation to yowl like a stray tom stalking a female in heat.
“Kiss me, Maria—”
“Take me, Jude, I—”
Words got lost in their sudden coming together. Hips angled and bucked, straining for the most solid contact before finding the familiar rhythm they’d established long, long ago. Jude grabbed Maria’s ass to arch up against that spot deep within her—the sultry, sensitive place that always made her clutch him in desperate ecstasy. She held on, hard, oblivious to the table legs scraping the rough floor. All she knew was that she had to complete herself yet again in this sensuous man’s embrace. He grew harder and more insistent, then convulsed to enter the mad, mindless frenzy of his climax.
“Yes, yes—please,” she whimpered, racing toward that hard, sharp edge of delicious oblivion. With a final squeeze, her body became one unrelenting spasm. On and on she undulated, seeking the release and completion that would sate her body…her soul.
She went completely still then. Totally spent.
After countless heartbeats, Maria drifted back to her present reality. Knew she was still joined with Jude, caught up in his arms as he, too, let his breathing return to normal.
“For a moment, I was wishing Jason wouldn’t come home,” he confessed, his face buried in the soft fabric of her blouse. “That’s selfish, of course. But there it is.”
Maria opened her eyes. Gazed at the photograph…the portrait this skilled photographer had preserved for her, for Jason and Jude—and for the possibility that her wedding day might not be commemorated in any other way. “I understand,” she replied with a hitch in her voice.
He sighed. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Should’ve kept my mouth shut.”
“No. We both miss him, for our own reasons. We can’t deny the emotions his absence invokes, nor should we consider them inappropriate. We’ve come too far for that, Jude.”
He nodded, and then eased himself out of her. Took a clean cloth from his table and gently wiped her before drying himself. Tugged the damp folds of her drawers together again, and then lowered her skirts. “I had intended to bring the portrait to the town house—”
“To avoid any repercussions from your family?”
“You know how ugly it gets when Mum and Sis act on their envy.”
She nodded. Again studied the portrait on its easel as he helped her down from the table. “I think I look very much at home, enthroned as the queen of your darkroom, dear Jude. If I want to see it again, we’ll have to find a reason to come down here, won’t we?”
“As though I must hunt for a reason.” Jude kissed her softly. Smiled ruefully. “Let’s get you to the top of the stairs, and then I’ll see that the way’s clear. What a lovely surprise it’s been, having you here—and moving forward in our quest to find Jason, of course. Shall we go?”
13
“Do come in, my dears! How lovely to see you—and you’ve brought Miss Palladino today!” Meriweather Golding grasped Lady Darington and Jemma by the hand as she flashed a spry smile at Maria. The old dear had to be nearing ninety, yet her fashionable cerise gown made her cheeks bloom; the two ringlets at each temple gave her a quaint but coy air. “We have a special surprise today! You’ll never guess who’s here to entertain us!”
Jude brought up the rear of their quartet, raising a sly eyebrow. Even as a widow, Mrs. Golding made the social columns regularly—because she served up either outstanding refreshments or the juiciest gossip in town. Maria smiled back at him, only vaguely intrigued. Everyone would ask them about Jason, which would upset Dora—which would in turn set off her daughter’s temper or tears. Even an extraordinary entertainer would be challenged by such a double dose of drama.
“You ladies enjoy yourselves,” he remarked. “I’ve brought plenty of reading material.”
“Make yourself comfortable in the front parlor, dear Jude,” their hostess said, gesturing toward the nearest room off the foyer. “I’ll have Vera bring you a tea tray.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Golding.” He kissed her hand, lingering over her bejeweled fingers until she giggled. “I’ve never seen you look lovelier. These emeralds sparkle almost as brightly as your eyes.”
Maria sighed as he entered the sunny front room. While it was best to get out among friends now and again, she was more in the mood to catch up on Miss Crimson’s mail. At a surprised collective gasp from the adjacent music room, however, her ears perked up.
“Good afternoon, ladies! The radiance in this room, it dazzles me!”
As though she were a marionette whose strings had been jerked, Dora Darington swiveled her head. “Come along, Jemma!” she chirped. “We don’t want to miss a moment of this!” As Dora steered her daughter quickly toward the doorway at the end of the hall, Mrs. Golding wore a catlike smile, as though she might burst with awaiting her guests’ reactions to the afternoon’s diversion.
“I believe I met some of you a few evenings past,” the mystery man crooned, “and I wish to thank my kind hostess, Mrs. Golding, for bringing us together again. And—why, it’s Dora! The lovely Lady Darington, whom I met at Lord Fenwick’s! And this beauty beside you surely must be your—sister. Am I correct?”
Maria nearly walked into the two blondes, who had stopped in the doorway for the rolling pronouncement of their presence. And wasn’t this a surprise? Yosef Polinsky stood beside the square grand piano, gazing happily at the roomful of women!
My God, he looks ready to devour Dora! Maria glanced at Mrs. Golding, who sparkled like a star as she stepped around the two Daringtons to take center stage.
“Didn’t I promise you a most pleasant afternoon, ladies?” she cooed. Then she grinned girlishly at the foreigner. “Mr. Polinsky has graciously agreed to regale us with his magician’s skills and his ability to read minds! And I can tell you, he’s very, very good at that!”
Before their eyes, the little widow had dropped fifteen years. But it was Lady Darington’s reaction that caught Maria’s closer attention: Dora gazed directly at the man whose foreign accent had fascinated them last week, as though she and Polinsky were the only ones in the room. Her neck arched like a swan’s as she widened her eyes coquettishly. “Mr. Polinsky,” she murmured in a husky voice. “What a pleasure to see you again. May I present my daughter, Jemma?”
Jemma, thank God, had left Willie at home: she would have dropped the ferret, judging from her irritated expression when Polinsky had called her Dora’s sister. Knowing an opportunity when she saw one, however, Jemma dipped in a graceful curtsy to the man in the tweed suit. As the magician stepped forward to take Miss Darington’s hands, Maria pondered the little scene playing out before all these women. What was different about Yosef Polinsky today?
As he bowed over the flustered Jemma’s hands, Maria realized some of his coarseness—the appearance of being fresh off the boat—had disappeared. The magician still spoke with an Eastern European accent, but his manner seemed more refined. Less provincial. More keenly attuned to the audience around him—
Because these women are here without their men.
Maria blinked. Oh, but Miss Crimson would love to report this! Without any of these cackling biddies knowing who’d written it!
“And—it’s Miss Palladino, isn’t it?” he continued. “Wearing such a lovely butterfly pendant in memory of her fiancé, lost at sea.”
Around her, gazes sharpened. “And how would you know that, Mr. Polinsky?” she demanded in a strained voice.
The medium’s mouth quirked. “I have contacted his spirit.”
All in the room gasped, leaning in to catch this conversation. Dora grabbed her daughter’s hand—and on second thought, reached for Maria’s, too. “What have you learned about my son?” she asked breathlessly. “Nearly three weeks have passed since—since his disappearance. Do not toy with my emotions, Mr. Polinsky!”
The medium stepped closer, his gaze intent. “I would never toy with you, my dear. I feel the flutter of your heartbeat…the need for any word at all of your beloved Jason. And I can tell you he has gone ashore now, in America. And…how do I say this? Your son is involved in…nefarious affairs, I fear.”
“Nefarious, Mr. Polinsky? How so?” Lady Darington stood ramrod straight. She allowed the medium to take her hand, yet refused to believe what he said. “My son is a most honorable, forthright—”
“Yes, of course,” Polinsky demurred, “but he is not in his right mind, you see. And he is perhaps…operating under the orders of a superior.”
“The captain who shanghaied him?” Maria stepped into this ring of emotional fire, suddenly eager to be heard—and to learn any tidbits this man would offer, even if her brother was the stronger, more trustworthy wayfarer in the spirit realm. “We’ve already surmised that he was taken hostage on the eve of our wedding, sir. Lord Darington, Dora’s husband, has already contacted his shipping offices along the coast, and they will soon locate Jason.”
“He eludes them.”
The room suddenly felt airless. Maria detested being watched so closely by these women—spinsters and widows, mostly, in need of excitement. They followed every word Polinsky uttered as though he were an ancient oracle revealing mysteries and miracles. He appeared more polished today: his hair was carefully combed and his shirt collar stood stiff and white above his fresh serge suit.
“How do you know this, sir?” she demanded, sensing the two Daringtons were about to spin into a hissy fit. “Upon what authority have you—”
“The same omnipotent Spirit your brother calls upon.”
Something was too smooth about this performance. Maria could not be a sheep in this man’s flock: all the ladies around them appeared spellbound, clasping their hands in their laps as they leaned forward to follow every nuance of this bizarre exchange.
So she looked to Meriweather Golding for an escape. “I must apologize,” Maria murmured. “It was not my intention to monopolize Mr. Polinsky’s attention.”
The little widow beamed beatifically at her special guest, and then gestured toward three chairs around a small table to her left. “Very well, then! I shall have Vera bring our tea and cakes, so we may enjoy Yosef’s amazing repertoire of magical tricks!”
As Meriweather bustled from the music room, Maria noted how the chairs and small tables had been arranged so all the ladies faced the center of the floor, where Polinsky stood with his back toward the piano. “I shall now get acquainted with each of you on a more…intimate level—by reading your auras,” he added quickly. “Very much the same as reading your souls. Your deepest needs and desires.”
Eyes widened and lashes fluttered at his innuendo. Yosef was now their idol, and he played upon that power by strolling between them, to smile at each woman as he held her gaze. With his hands, he then followed the outlines of their heads and shoulders, about three inches away from touching them. No one dared speak, even to acknowledge his greeting, for fear of breaking the spell he wove. Mystery and anticipation filled the room. A palpable excitement simmered in each upturned face. Every woman present waited breathlessly for her turn.
Maria watched carefully, well aware of the techniques magicians and fraudulent mediums employed. Polinsky approached their table last, and on either side of her Dora and Jemma sat graceful and straight. Like baby birds eager to be fed, they perched on their chairs with their faces upturned. Their eyes widened in awe as his hands suggestively followed the lines of their bodies without making contact. Mother and daughter looked too awestruck to even breathe as this man held their gazes…wielded total control with his penetrating gaze and an expression that bespoke sexual superiority. Irresistible charisma.
To prove to him—to herself—that she would not be led astray by his staged behavior, Maria leaned back in her chair and pressed her lips into a thin, humorless line. She lifted an eyebrow, resisting the urge to slap the smug smile that made his square jaw and chin appear so powerfully male.
Polinsky’s lips flickered and he moved on. Although he’d touched no one, she still suspected he was hoodwinking his audience: as soon as he turned from her, Maria’s hand fluttered to the butterfly pendant. The cool texture of its pronged jewels gave her something real to hang onto as he continued to perform for his mesmerized guests.
For this was the realm of Franz Anton Mesmer, credited with controlling his patients by mentally reaching into their minds, following the cues of their bodily reactions to ascertain how best to direct them. She would not become this man’s example because she was Rubio’s sister! Nor would she allow speculation about Jason to divert her attention—and others’—by pursuing that subject further today.
“Again I shall say it,” Polinsky stated in a stage whisper. “The beauty in this room dazzles me! Nothing I can say or do will eclipse it, so I shall be your humble manservant…a slave to your vibrations and light. Now—” With a sly grin he reached into his suit coat pocket. “To whom does this lovely piece belong?”
Every other woman in the room gasped as her hands flew to her neck. Maria bit back a grin: why did all of these gullible mice already dance to this pied piper’s tune, even though the necklace could only belong—or even look familiar—to one of them?
Lady Martha MacPherson shot up from her seat with a bewildered cry. “My lord in heaven, how did you—my dear Chester gave me those opals! On the occasion of our twentieth anniversary! Mere months before he…passed from this world.”
“And I congratulate you for making him the happiest man on earth during your life together,” Polinsky replied in a sonorous voice. He concentrated on a spot just to the right of her plump, flushed face. “Did your Chester often wear the MacPherson tartan, either as a vest or a kilt?”
The other ladies at her table sucked in their breath, steadied her with their hands, as Martha looked ready to faint dead away. “Yes, sir, he did,” she rasped. “How could you possibly know—”
“He’s hovering above you, my dear. Smiling down on you from the spirit plane.”
Every jaw dropped. A few reached for their hankies. Martha pivoted quickly, then gazed at the music room’s ceiling. “Chester? Is it really you, my darling?” she bleated. “I’ve missed you so!”
“And he wants you to know he is happy and at peace. Watching over you.” Polinsky’s low, resonant voice filled the room. “He wants you to pursue your dreams now, Martha. To fulfill the…desires that burn deep within your soul.”
Lady MacPherson’s face flickered between deep pink and white. “How dare you presume that I—my heart shall always belong to Chester! We pledged our love eternally—”
Someone snickered: Chester MacPherson was notorious for womanizing, while mollifying his wife with enviable clothing and jewels. She remained standing, still as a statue, while Polinsky reached around to fasten her opal necklace with a quick flick of his fingers.
He’s had a lot of practice at that, Maria mused. He’d had plenty of chances to plumb the female psyche—among other areas, she surmised as she observed his polished, suave manner. Was it her imagination, or had his Russian accent disappeared?
“And your late husband shall indeed be with you forever, my dear,” he intoned before stepping back to the piano. “We all live many lifetimes, coming and going with other souls we knew in previous incarnations,” he stated in a mystical voice. “My mission, while I’m here among you, is to penetrate your resistance to those lessons…to help you grasp the unerring, cyclical nature of endings and new beginnings. Life and love, entwined through the ages as we perfect ourselves with each other’s…assistance.”
Penetrate. Grasp. And just what sort of assistance did this persuasive man have in mind? Maria saw various answers to that question shining in these ladies’ eyes as they awaited his next demonstration. When Polinsky’s gaze lingered just above Dora’s plumed lavender hat, Lady Darington held herself more erect, subtly thrust her breasts toward him as her breathing made them rise and fall.
“And what do you see?” she demanded in a sinuous whisper. “I’ve watched many a medium perform, so—”
“Your full name is Pandora, after the goddess. Is it not?”
Maria thought she’d be sucked into a vacuum, the way every woman around her suddenly inhaled. If Polinsky was right, it was more than she had learned about Jason’s mother during the months of her engagement. Even Jemma seemed surprised: her blue eyes widened and she shivered. “Mumsy! You never told me—”
“Hush! Mr. Polinsky is speaking.”
The medium’s nostrils flared. “You chose your name well as you were born into this lifetime, Lady Darington,” he remarked in a low voice. “For if you opened your soul, as Pandora opened that box filled with wicked little intentions, you would set loose a multitude of secrets. But of course, I won’t press you for those.”
Not here, anyway. Maria nipped her lip. The man was a smooth operator, she’d give him that. And by alluding to incidents Dora had apparently hidden, along with her true name, Polinsky had left opportunity’s door ajar as surely as the Greek goddess had flung open the lid to her box filled with the world’s evil.
Sexual Hunger Page 11
