by Renee Roszel
His knowing hand searched a path down her side, along her thigh, the easy massage sending currents of desire through her as the sweetness of his kisses grew deeper, more demanding. He slid atop her, and the feel of his skin against hers was exhilarating, making the blood pound in her brain and leap in her heart.
His kisses moved downward, warm and sweet, to tantalize her throat, her shoulder, nipping, exciting. She mirrored his actions, stroking, tasting. She was becoming a different Emily from the one she’d known an hour ago. A feeling Emily—for the first time in her life—and she rejoiced in her burgeoning wisdom.
Except for their swimsuits, they were body to body, man touching woman. His lips reached the edge of her suit and a groan from deep in his throat startled her. She had no idea he was feeling the same wild desire as she, and that stilled her heart. She caressed the length of his hard back, loving the rigid yet supple feel of him against her tingling palms.
He slipped a finger beneath the strap of her suit, dragging it off her shoulder, then kissing the spot where it had been. Sliding his hand down, he brushed the rise of her breast, murmuring huskily, “It’s time for lesson four, sweetheart.”
One questing finger dipped below the confines of her suit, making shocking contact with softer flesh, and she gasped with the unaccustomed touch. Her body cried out that he go on, hold her intimately, make full and complete love to her, but her mind pleaded desperately for reason. Emily, just last night he was with another woman! The reminder was cruel torture for her, and she whimpered.
The frightened, frail sound brought his head up, his eyes clouding with disbelief.
“Please,” she cried. “I can’t do this.”
He stared at her, his brows dipping. He seemed almost disconcerted. “Don’t say that, sweetheart.” His voice was rough with passion, and she could tell he was having a hard time with her decision to back off this late in the deed.
She was so shaky, her bones so insubstantial, she couldn’t push him away. She had to rely on his honor—pray that he was honorable. “I—I’m sorry. I know it’s hard for a man to stop...”
His jaw worked for a long minute, but he didn’t speak. Emily had no strength to do anything but stare into his hawkish face as the last, pink remnants of the sunset tinted his features, highlighting a smoldering inner fire in his eyes.
Or was it merely the sunset that burned in his gaze? Frowning, she searched the dark depths, watched them spark with exasperation and something else. Some secret struggle. Was it frustration? Probably. She knew he was upset. What man wouldn’t be? But he said nothing. Didn’t try to intimidate or cajole.
After a strained silence, she was amazed to see a rueful smile edge onto his lips. “If you want me to admire your morals, Miss Stone, give me time.” With that, he rolled off her and stood. She was further startled when he offered her a hand.
Wordlessly, still in an odd state of shock, she accepted, and he tugged her to her feet. She swayed unsteadily, but decided she had bones after all, and could support herself, though she wasn’t as stable as she’d like to be.
While she stood there feeling dizzy, Lyon shook out the blanket and folded it. Once it was under his arm, he nudged her. “You okay?”
She came out of her stupor and nodded, taking a step away. He took her arm, pulling her back. “Wrong way, Columbus.”
She couldn’t help but peer at his face. He flashed a cavalier grin. She was upset not only by the way that grin made her tremble, but by the fact that he could so quickly put aside what had almost happened between them. He indicated the other direction. “Try this way.”
“My cover up...” She found it peculiar that her mind would leap to such an unimportant subject.
“We’ll pass by it.”
She scowled at him, confused. “Why are you being nice to me? I thought you’d be mad.”
It was dark now but for the rising moon, and when he turned away toward the sea, she couldn’t guess his expression. For a second, she thought she saw his square jaw clench. “You catch more flies with honey, sweetheart. If I’m nice, you might change your mind about lesson four.” Checking the luminous dial of his watch, he added, “Right now, I have to get back for a late meeting in Miami” He looked at her. “Do you know where you’re going?”
A sudden, unreasoning fury choked her. How dare he be so casual about what almost happened! Maybe it was merely another tumble in the sand to him, but to her, it had been...
She didn’t want to think about what it had been. But she had a feeling she would never be quite the same after tonight. “I know exactly where I’m going, Mr. Gallant! And it’s away from you!”
His brows lifted in surprise, which upset her even more. Was he so much the unfeeling lecher he couldn’t conceive of why she was hurt? “One more thing!” she blurted. “Don’t—don’t come near me with that—that...” She poked a finger toward his mouth, unable to say the word, for her lips still tingled from his mindaltering kisses. “Or—or those—those...” She gestured broadly at his shoulders. “Is—is that—am I making myself—” Her voice broke. Too upset to speak, she glared at him.
There was hesitation in his eyes as he watched her, clearly baffled.
Frustrated beyond words at his lack of penitence, she stalked away from him, feeling stupidly forsaken. It had been such a wrong, dumb fantasy to want to have a fling with Lyon Gallant. Even though she’d stopped herself before things went too far, she knew the encounter would take its toll. She was afraid that, for her, at least, it had been a life-changing experience, and her heart lurched with regret.
How could he be so nonchalant about it? The answer was painfully obvious by the puzzlement in his expression. Lyon Gallant had escapades like this every day of the week. They were never important to him—and probably never cut short by a panicky virgin, either. He must think of her as a silly child.
She broke into a run to further distance herself from him. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she faced the awful fact that she was falling for a man who was sexually accessible, yet emotionally, utterly inaccessible.
How could a sensible biology teacher be turned into a blubbering half-wit by a playboy with nothing more substantial on his agenda than a few sex lessons?
Emily was reading by the pool when she heard the big helicopter approaching. Ivy came rushing outside, looking uncharacteristically flushed. “My dear.” She motioned frantically. “I’m afraid Mr. Gallant has come back today specifically to speak with you and Meg.”
Emily jumped up from the lounge chair, her magazine dropping to the tile deck. “To see Meg and me?” she echoed, fright slithering through her. “Why?”
Ivy shook her head, obviously distressed. “About the west wing.” Her tone was dejected. “I have no idea why he’s suddenly developed a personal interest, but...”
Emily was already dashing past Ivy. “I’ll change and get in there. Where’s Meg?”
“Panicking.”
“Tell her I’ll meet her in the west wing.”
“Oh dear,” was all Emily heard.
Her heart thudding, she swiftly changed into a summer dress and sandals and grabbed her notebook and a ruler, since she couldn’t find her tape measure. She hoped Meg had one, for she didn’t think many interior designers measured with a twelve-inch stick.
When she reached the west wing, Meg was waving for her to hurry. She was wearing a minidress of red knit. Emily decided it probably looked more like what an interior designer might wear than her knee-length empirestyle dress. More important, her friend was carrying a tape measure.
Once inside the nearest room, Meg indicated a stack of fabric and wallpaper books. “You pretend to be going over this stuff. I’ll shout out measurements.”
Emily nodded, hating herself but fearful for Ivy’s job. She dropped to her knees and picked a book at random while Meg flew to the nearest window. “Okay,” she called. “I’m measuring.”
Emily swallowed, her heart pounding as Meg went to work.
�
��Write down seventy-four inches by thirty-three inches,” she called after a few awkward minutes while she figured out how to work the tape.
Emily flipped open her notebook, then grimaced. “I don’t have a pencil!”
“Will this do?” came a deep voice at her back. Her heart dropped. How had be .sneaked up on them so silently? Apparently he could do it even without moonlight.
Trying to appear nonchalant, she turned and forced a smile. “Oh, Mr. Gallant.” He was holding out a gold pen. “Oh—thank you.” Taking it, she mumbled, “I—I must have dropped mine somewhere.” Since the room was bare, it was a feeble excuse. Even a pencil would be visible in the vast, empty chamber.
Feeling a blush creep up her cheeks, she turned back and drew a blank. “What were those dimensions?”
Meg’s eyes went wide, and it was clear she’d blurted out the numbers and didn’t remember them. “Uh—”
“Seventy-four by thirty-three,” Lyon helped.
Emily grimaced, but since her back was to him, he wouldn’t know. “Um, thanks.” She scribbled.
“And what was the fabric for those drapes?”
Emily felt sick. She gave Meg a helpless look but Meg had ambled to the next window, pretending to measure it, though it looked exactly the same size as the other five along that wall. With a despondent exhale, she jabbed at a book. “It’s in here.” She started thumbing through, then belatedly realized she’d pointed out a wallpaper book. Oh, lord!
He knelt beside her. “Daring concept, using wallpaper for window draperies.”
She shrugged, trying to smile. “Oh, this book looks so much like the—the other one.”
“Ah.” He nodded, his gaze nailing hers. She saw skepticism glittering there, though neither his tone or his expression gave it away—yet.
“This window’s the same,” Meg reported.
“What a surprise.” This time Lyon allowed a tinge of sarcasm into his words.
Emily felt like a criminal as she scribbled, “The same on window two.”
“What about that fabric?” Lyon prodded.
Emily eyed the books. One had the word fabric on the cover, so she grabbed it. “This is the book I meant to get.”
“Yes. This green one is a dead ringer for that pink one,” he said.
She cast a nervous gaze his way, but tried to pretend he hadn’t spoken. “Well, let’s see now—”
“Miss Stone,” he interrupted as she nervously thumbed through the book with absolutely no idea what to do next.
“Yes?” she asked, deciding one damask, off-white material seemed quite nice. She wasn’t sure how much original input he’d had on the decorating. If he knew very much, he’d know this was wrong. If he didn’t, she’d be safe and so would Ivy’s job. But she wasn’t a risk-taker, and even lying about a relatively nondescript square of cloth was more of a gamble than she was comfortable taking. “This is nice,” she tried lamely.
“Yes.”
She chewed on the inside of her cheek. His monosyllabic answer hadn’t been much help, and neither was his nearness. He seemed to loom almost all around her.
“Window three is the same,” Meg chirped, apparently having a wonderful time, not even noticing the grilling Emily was being put through.
Fumbling again for her notebook, she wrote falteringly, “Window three, same.” Lyon’s after-shave was invading her senses, and it was hard for her to deal with his ominous closeness. He’d laid a hand on the page to help keep it down, brushing her fingers with his. Though she’d quickly shifted away, she experienced his touch all the way to her chest, where she felt a heaviness that made her breathing difficult. “Are you sure this is right, Miss Stone?” he queried near her ear.
She swallowed. Agitated, she cast a glance at Meg, who’d moved on to window four. Emily was afraid if she sang out “The same,” one more time, she’d start giggling from pure hysteria. Pulling herself together, she offered, “Well, I—I could check my printout.”
“I thought you said your computer fouled up. What good would that do?”
He had made a troubling point. “I mean—I believe this is the one Ivy decided on. I’ll just go check my notes.” She struggled to her feet, intent on making an escape, but he was faster, standing and blocking the exit.
“Window four, the same,” Meg announced with a smile.
Both Emily and Lyon turned to face her. Emily couldn’t keep from shooting her friend a help-me look. Meg’s triumphant smile faded. “Something wrong?”
“I’m going to borrow your partner for a minute.” He took Emily’s elbow. “I’d appreciate her expert advice about something in my suite.”
“Do you need me?” Meg called, and Emily was sure her friend was dying to see Lyon’s private quarters.
“You’re too indispensable here,” Lyon said without turning back.
Emily was herded down hallways she’d never seen before and never even wanted to know existed. Lyon’s hand at her elbow was insistent, though painless. She clutched her notepad and his pen for dear life, praying she could get through whatever this was without giving away their lie. She also found herself issuing up a new prayer—pleading that he didn’t intend to ravish her in the privacy of his quarters, calling it lesson four. Well, she didn’t actually think it would be a ravishment. All he had to do was grin that irresistible grin and kiss her a time or two.
She was only half resisting when they got to a foyer with a black marble floor and white marble walls. Even as stark as the vestibule was, it seemed strong and tasteful, making a statement about its occupant.
Beside a set of white enameled doors, ten feet tall, stood a towering bronze statue of a Pompeian wrestler. It was striking in the sparse, contemporary setting. A skylight illuminated a lush tropical plant that spread its fronds in welcome before the shiny marble wall on the opposite side of the doors. She knew at once this was the entrance to Lyon’s private lair.
When he led her through the doors, her senses reeled with the stark elegance of the place. Dramatic lighting seemed to ooze from the very walls. And everything she saw screamed money and taste.
Her stomach knotted. She was so far out of her element, she wanted to die. But he led her on, through the living room that emphasized a Roman marble torso and a white leather seating area, before smoked glass doors that led onto a courtyard that looked like a piece of Eden.
Artwork was strategically placed on the white marble walls, all bold lines and geometric shapes. But Emily noticed there were no faces in the pictures, no photographs, either. She shivered inwardly. No matter how exquisite the place was, it seemed cold and somehow lonely.
Her mind blurred and stumbled. What in heaven’s name was she thinking? This suite probably cost a million all by itself, and the brightest, most sought-after designers had used all their talents to make it what it was. How dare she have the nerve to think of it as cold and lonely. What was she even doing here? It was painfully clear she could never fool this man into thinking she knew anything about decorating.
They went through another door, and her heart tripped and faltered. She knew which room this was. Just as in the other rooms, understatement and studied elegance characterized Lyon’s bedroom. It was immense, and also sparsely furnished, one wall filled with arched window groupings. There were three windows to a group. Outside she could see his private pool and more enchanting landscaping. About six feet in from the wall, in front of the outer two window groupings, stood white stone columns. The floor was the same black marble as everywhere in his suite, its white and silver veining giving the surface a deep, liquid look.
Between the columns, almost in the center of the room, lounged a huge bed set in a heavy, white enameled frame, the bedspread made of a shimmering white fabric. The thing seemed to float there on a field of indirect lighting. Emily was amazed at the mysterious sensation it gave her—as though she’d entered an exotic world that celebrated pleasures of the flesh. She was sure her expression showed her fearful awe.
The only b
lot on the erotic magnificence of the place was an undulating blue smudge on one marble wall. Every so often the smudge seemed to depict bits and pieces of female anatomy, and she blanched to realize a buxom, nude woman had rolled along the surface to make that lewd blemish.
“What do you think?” he asked.
She jumped, though he’d spoken softly, and her glance swept the grand room again. “I—I think it’s all so—so unreal,” she breathed. “I’ve never seen a bedroom like this. It’s like sleeping on a stage or in outer space.”
He chuckled. “I meant the blue paint on the marble.”
Her glance slid to the pornographic smudge, and she frowned. “That’s awful. What are you going to do about it?” She looked at him, concerned.
He laughed, a deep, rich celebration, its echo warming and humanizing the vast space. “I thought I was asking you that question, Miss Stone. You are the decorator.” He paused and a brow rose almost as though in challenge. “Aren’t you?”
CHAPTER SIX
EMILY was shaken by his low question and guarded scrutiny, but forced herself to remember Ivy’s predicament. The housekeeper had taken a great chance in letting Meg and her come here under this guise. Even though she hadn’t known about the ruse until it was too late, that didn’t absolve her of the responsibility if Ivy lost her job. Clutching her notebook, she cleared her throat, taking pains to look like a professional.
Dodging Lyon Gallant’s gaze, she marched over to the wall and gave it a close inspection, trying to think what an interior designer might suggest. New marble came to mind, since the paint had webbed outward from the larger stain, making tiny blue streaks in the natural veins. The paint was so deeply insinuated into the wall it didn’t look like any cleaner could get it out without ruining the marble completely.
She shrugged. “It’s pretty bad, isn’t it?”
He made no comment, but she could hear the click of his heels as he drew near.
She put a fingernail against the paint and scratched lightly. “Why did your—guest—do this?” She bit the inside of her cheek. That was none of her business, for heaven’s sake!
