“You’re still here.” Could he sound any more bored? And where else would she have gone? Back downstairs to those leering men? He, at least, was clean, and there was only one of him. “Come in,” he said.
He turned around and went back inside without waiting for her. She followed, kicking the door shut with her foot.
“Sit down.” He gestured toward the bed.
Mary made her way over to the small, rickety-looking chair in the corner and perched on it, tucking her feet under the rungs. She didn’t want to return to that bed—it reminded her of her shame. He shrugged and sat down on the mattress, placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forward.
“Tell me. I can wait as long as you like. Trust me, I’ve nowhere to go.”
A spark of the spirit Matthias deplored flared up. She shrugged. “What do you want me to say? I’m a duke’s daughter on the run from a marriage with a lecherous old man? An heiress whose evil uncle has imprisoned her, and I’ve had a run of bad luck? I wish it were that simple.”
He paused for a long moment before speaking. “So how is it complicated?” His gaze, while still focused on her, was less intense than it had been before he’d shoved her out of the room; he had a slightly dreamy smile on his face, which was at odds with his previously autocratic mien. Although he was less intimidating than before, he also seemed—different. Odder.
Was he insane? It would explain why someone of his obvious station would be in a place like this. Why he’d kissed her so unexpectedly. And why no one was taking care of his collar.
He rose and walked over to her, reaching her before she could react. He knelt to the floor and lifted her gown. Mary pulled her feet up in response, but not quickly enough.
He slid his hand—his large, elegant hand—over her shin. She flinched where the bruise was. He glanced up at her, his verdant eyes intense.
“Who hit you?” His voice was soft. As though he cared. “Why are you here?”
Her mind scrambled through what she could tell him. Something close to the truth, but not quite—she could always tell when her charges out-and-out lied, but if they just obscured a few of the details, she was much less likely to figure it out.
Why she felt the need to lie to him was something else entirely.
She’d had enough of trusting men. Any men, no matter how beautiful they were, or how much they’d paid for her.
He still had his hand on her leg. It felt shockingly good, sending tiny sizzles up her spine.
Well,” she said, biting her lip, “my father was a vicar. He died a month ago.” Her throat tightened at the thought. “My brother ran up quite a lot of debt, so”—she spread her hands out, palms up—“I am here.”
Here because she had no choice. Matthias had made certain of that—her reputation was destroyed. Her only hope was to get to London. And there was no guarantee the woman who was her mother would want to have anything to do with her.
She longed to tell him everything, to confide the truth to someone, anyone, but she’d already said too much to her half brother. She couldn’t trust someone else so soon, not before she’d seen her mother for herself.
His lips thinned. He took his hand away. She felt the loss, the sudden chill where his skin had warmed hers. “You mean you and your brother decided the best way for him settle his accounts was to sell your virginity at auction?”
She suppressed a rueful smile. If by decided you mean that he threatened me until I agreed, then yes, decided would be the word.
“Yes.” It would not do to reveal the extent of her weakness. She knew he knew the truth, he had to, but her pride wouldn’t allow her to share it. To trust him.
Now his eyes were half-closed, and he looked as though he were about to fall asleep. What was happening? Mary wondered. Was he ill?
He rose, awkwardly, so different from the authoritative, powerful man who had marched her out of the pub just a few hours before. He flopped backward onto the bed. Mary leapt out of her chair to help him, but stopped short when he began to laugh. No, giggle. He sounded like the girls at church when the handsome vicar from the next parish came to preach.
He sighed and went silent. “You never said who hit you,” he murmured after a few minutes. His voice sounded like it was coming from far away. His eyelids dropped down over his eyes and she didn’t bother responding. He began to snore.
Shaking her head, Mary returned to her seat and folded her hands in her lap. She wasn’t quite sure what to do—he had bought her, and she couldn’t get anywhere without money.
And she was so tired. Of course that meant sleeping with him. In that bed. She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep on the floor, and honestly, after today, it wouldn’t matter. She was ruined. The damage was done, in all eyes but theirs. Also, he was still wearing his clothes, and she doubted he was in any shape to remove them even if he wanted to.
She rose and crept toward the bed. His eyes rolled frantically underneath the lids in the throes of a dream.
As she gazed down at him, it was hard to believe her nightmare had only started a month ago.
Why did her father have to confess everything on his deathbed? He’d held the secret for so long already. Would she truly wish to have remained ignorant of the truth, though?
If it meant not going through this, then, yes. “Sleep well,” Mary muttered as she nudged him over to one side. She lifted the sheet, trying not to think about its state of cleanliness, and got underneath, keeping her body at the absolute edge of the bed.
He rolled over and flung his arm over her, nestling his head in her neck. Mary felt a rush of yearning to be held like this forever: Even if this wasn’t hell, he was definitely the devil.
Tempting, sinful, and totally wrong.
Read on for an excerpt from Lauren Layne’s
After the Kiss
Chapter One
Julie Greene had built a career out of falling in love. Staying in love? Not so much.
Julie’s boss apparently hadn’t gotten the memo.
“I’m confused,” Julie said slowly, leaning forward with a placating smile. “You want me to write what?”
Translation: You’re confused. I don’t write that shit.
Camille Bishop leaned back in her chair and studied Julie with puzzled eyes. “I’d have thought you’d be jumping at the chance to have such a simple assignment after last month.”
Julie pursed her lips together and considered. Last month’s assignment had been exhausting. Documenting the seven kinds of first kisses had required a lot of research.
Pleasant research.
But this? A two-page spread, to be called “How to Take Relationships to the Next Level”?
What was Camille thinking? This was Stiletto magazine, not Dr. Phil. Stiletto was sex and high heels, not companionship and freaking clogs.
The rocky post-honeymoon period just wasn’t Julie’s scene. Which is not to say she didn’t have plenty of other skills.
The first date? She had men begging for it.
The first kiss? An art form she’d long since mastered.
The first time you lost your panties in his sheets? Soooo not a problem.
This wasn’t to say that Julie had perfected only the major, most obvious dating milestones, however. She also knew how to finesse the subtler moments—those key moments where the breath caught and you thought, Yes, this. Julie could explain every single nuance, from the toe-curling euphoria when his hand brushed yours to the tingle when eyes held for just a beat too long. And then there was her personal favorite moment: the bone-deep satisfaction when you made him laugh for the first time—a real laugh.
Most women thought these moments just happened. Julie Greene knew better. These moments were created.
As for what happened after all that good stuff?
Julie couldn’t care less. She had no need for the first fight, no desire to meet the parents. No interest in finding dirty boxers in her hamper or making room in her bathroom for a man’s razor. That was all a one-way
trip to Julie’s personal vision of hell: couples movie night.
Julie had found that the women of New York City erroneously used movie night as a yardstick of how close to the altar he was. After all, if he was satisfied to spend a Friday night at home instead of at a strip club, he must be whipped, right?
Wrong. So wrong.
Movie night was just another way of saying that you didn’t want to bother dressing up for him and that he didn’t care. Julie lived in fear of the moment when fancy dinners and cocktail parties would be a thing of the past, and the highlight of the weekend would be lounging in yoga pants and watching car chases or beautiful people making out on-screen.
The sexiest part of that scenario was the butter on the popcorn.
She shuddered. Julie Greene didn’t do movie night.
“Camille, look,” she tried again. “It’s not that I don’t respect your suggestions …”
“Oh?” Camille tilted her head, making her chemically straightened bob sway ever so slightly, and Julie froze. Over the years, Julie had come to think of Camille’s usually immobile hair as her “tell”—when it moved, someone’s life was about to get really messy.
Up until now, it had never been Julie’s life.
In the six years that she’d been working for Camille as a full-time columnist, this was the first time Julie had received a direct order on a story topic. Even when Julie had been fresh out of college with nothing but a handful of internships under her belt, Camille had given her wide latitude on what to write about.
Julie knew that Camille trusted her judgment. So what was with the sudden power trip?
It didn’t make sense. Julie was one of Stiletto’s best columnists, and they both knew it. And Camille had always encouraged her writers to play to their strengths. Julie’s niche was the single readers with the dream of falling in love. After that, they were on their own.
Julie sat up straighter. Wait, no. That wasn’t entirely true. Readers did have someplace to go once they got past the fun part of dating.
Grace Brighton.
“Why not have Grace do it?” Julie asked excitedly. “She’s your relationship guru.”
“And here I thought you and Grace were both my relationship gurus.”
“We are,” Julie agreed quickly. “It’s just that we each have our own expertise. Anything having to do with long-term relationships is Grace’s.”
Camille pursed her lips, painted today in a rather shocking coral. “And how would you describe yourself?”
Julie’s heel jittered beneath the desk in frustration. Camille knew full well what Julie’s expertise was. Everyone at the Stiletto office did. Heck, half the women in Manhattan knew Julie by name. Knew what she stood for. Stiletto was the magazine to work at. The Dating, Love, and Sex department was the department to work in. And Julie, Grace Brighton, and Riley McKenna were Dating, Love, and Sex, respectively.
Julie answered slowly. “I’m all about butterflies, first kiss, getting him to call. You know, dating.”
“Mm-hmm, and how is it that a woman goes from those giddy first few dates to the comfortable, committed stuff that Grace writes about?”
Julie’s mind went blank. There was really no good way to tell the editor in chief of the country’s largest women’s magazine that you’d never bothered to think about what happened after. And sure, maybe some people might think Julie a little insubstantial. But she was willing to bet those same people were perpetually dateless. Or entrenched in yoga pants and movie nights.
“Um, well … I guess it sort of evolves?” Julie replied finally.
“How?”
“With the right person, it just happens. That’s the mystery of what makes true love so special.” Gawd, I almost made myself vomit.
Camille shook her head. “Not good enough. You’ve seen the letters from our readers. They want to know the specifics. These are women who’ve already had the third date. They’ve even been on the seventh. But then what? How do they move forward?”
Julie’s sleeveless Kate Spade turtleneck dress suddenly felt a little tight around her throat.
“If not Grace, Riley could write it,” Julie said, grasping at straws. “You know, I actually think she’s been looking for a way to broaden her focus and take a break from the sex stuff for a while. Can’t you just see it? ‘Outside the Bedroom’ or something like that.”
“Julie,” Camille said with a sigh, “Grace and Riley have their stories figured out for the next few issues. I’ve already okayed them.”
“If you want a schedule of my future story ideas, I’d be happy to—”
“My mind’s made up.”
Okay, so Camille wasn’t going to be persuaded with reason. Time to go for the editor’s soft spot: Stiletto itself.
“I’m not sure this is what’s best for the magazine,” Julie said demurely. “I just don’t have any experience with the … you know … long-term stuff.”
But Camille wasn’t biting. “So? You think every writer in this office has personal experience with everything they write about?”
I do, Julie thought. Or at least I did.
“Julie, look around. What does this look like to you?”
“Um, an office?” More accurately, a high-tech, state-of-the-art, killer corner office with a view of Central Park South.
“Exactly. It’s an office of a magazine company. This is journalism, not your pink fuzzy diary,” Camille snapped. “If you haven’t been there yourself, talk to women who are going through that stage. Do what you always do—dive into our readers’ heads and answer the hard stuff for them.”
Julie bit back a sigh, knowing the battle was lost. Temporarily. Camille was one of those scary women who had made her way to the top of the food chain by having steel ovaries and a penchant for making people cry. Julie had always figured that if they’d made a movie about Camille’s life she’d be played by either a stern Katharine Hepburn type or an intensely scary Robert De Niro on crack. She was about as soft as a hammerhead shark and half as friendly.
Still, Camille was right about one thing: this article could be done with a little bit of strategic networking. A major in journalism from the University of Southern California had taught Julie that media was more about whom you knew than what you knew. But Julie had developed her own type of journalism over the years, one that involved a distinctly personal voice. And she hated the idea that she couldn’t speak personally to a topic.
“So we’re good?” Camille asked, standing to indicate that the conversation was over.
Not even close. “Definitely,” Julie replied with a confident smile.
Camille had already picked up her cellphone and was yelling at her dry cleaner. Something about white stains on a black dress. Awwwwwwk-ward.
Julie slipped out the door and was immediately surrounded by the sounds of Stiletto on a Friday afternoon. The mood in the Manhattan office was crackling even on a slow day, but by the end of the week the vibe was positively electric.
The office staff was made up almost entirely of women, with a handful of fashion-forward men. Everywhere she looked, there were skinny hips perched on a colleague’s desk, gossip about evening plans, and lip gloss exchanges over cubicle walls as office makeup transitioned to happy-hour makeup.
Normally Julie would be making the rounds, figuring out if anyone had heard of something happening that she hadn’t. It was more of a habit than anything else; Julie couldn’t think of a time when she’d been the last to hear about a party. Being at the top of Stiletto’s ladder also meant you were at the top of New York’s social ladder. The girls of the Dating, Love, and Sex department didn’t have to fish for an invitation.
Julie made a detour into the kitchen, where Camille kept a few bottles of champagne stocked for celebrations and promotions.
Today Julie had another need for it—therapy.
If she had to write about taking things to the next level, she at least needed a drink first. And Riley and Grace were always game for a little in-of
fice happy hour.
“Oh, Julie, I’m glad you stopped by.”
Julie made a silent gagging motion at the fridge. Kelli with a freaking i. Julie should have hit the bottle sooner. Much sooner.
Julie had often marveled that fate had blessed her with a nemesis-free childhood. There was no schoolyard bully, no junior high rival, no high school drama. But all fate had really done was help her preserve her energy to deal with her adult nemesis: Kelli Kearns.
Although Julie and Kelli’s sordid history belonged in the tabloids, for the most part they tried to keep it out of the office and ignore each other at all costs. But every now and then Kelli’s size negative-two body seemed incapable of containing all of its venom, and some spewed out—usually in Julie’s direction.
“What’s up, Kelli?”
“First of all,” Kelli said, holding up a skinny finger, “is that company wine? I was always under the impression that consumption had to be authorized by Camille.”
Julie glanced down at the bottle in sham regret. “A valid point, Kelli. How about this: you go tell Camille my secrets, and I’ll tell her yours. Sound good?”
Kelli’s lips pressed together in disdain, and Julie resisted the urge to gloat. Kelli wouldn’t breathe a peep about the champagne. Not that Camille would care, anyway. All she wanted from her employees was that they meet deadlines and keep their columns sassy and snappy, all while fitting the stylish Stiletto mold. Camille didn’t care if they needed a little wine to get there.
“Was there something else?” Julie asked. “Other than your concern over my liver and company funds?”
“Actually, yes,” Kelli said, flicking her long blond ponytail over one bony shoulder. “I’ve been asked to clean out the fridge—”
“You know that you’d be a lot less on edge if you actually ate the food, right?”
“—and as I was cleaning I noticed this funny-looking sandwich. It has your name on it.”
Julie glanced down at the plastic-wrapped sandwich in Kelli’s hand. “Yup, mine from last week. I ate half and forgot about it.”
What Not to Bare Page 28
