by Teri Wilson
Good God, he had to stop thinking about it. He clenched his teeth and expelled an exasperated groan.
“What’s wrong with you?” Elizabeth asked, breaking the silence, which had become more and more tense during their short journey from the fourth floor to the first.
The lift doors opened.
An opportunity wasted.
Donovan had to stop himself from growling in frustration. “Nothing is wrong with me.”
“You look angry.” She shook her head, sending waves of what Donovan now knew was citrus-scented hair cascading over her shoulders. “I must say, you puzzle me exceedingly.”
“You find me puzzling? How is that?” he asked as they approached the champagne bar.
“One minute you’re charming and the next you’re brooding.” She rolled her eyes, then turned away from him to smile at the hostess.
The champagne lounge was operated by the French winery Veuve Clicquot. The bar itself was a mod-looking white affair, with orange-and-black accents. It overlooked a mirrored display of various bottles of Veuve. Donovan, however, had something more intimate in mind than sitting on a pair of stiff, albeit stylish, bar stools in plain view of the shopping public.
He handed the hostess a twenty-pound note, and she escorted them to a banquette in a private corner of the lounge area, obscured by a glass partition of alternating orange-and-gray panels.
“Thank you,” he said after she placed two drinks menus on the slick white coffee table facing their banquette sofa.
“Je vous en prie, monsieur.” She nodded at both him and Elizabeth and returned to her place at the front of the bar.
Elizabeth watched her retreating form and swiveled her gaze back to Donovan. “What was that?”
“French.” He wrapped his arm around Elizabeth’s waist and guided her to the sofa. He was unprepared for the way a simple touch spurred a craving for her. One touch wasn’t sufficient. The feel of her hip against the palm of his hand was enough to drive him to the brink of insanity. “It means ‘you’re welcome.’”
Elizabeth settled herself on the tangerine sofa and tucked her legs up beside her, giving Donovan an even better view of her skin peeking through the rips in her jeans. “You speak French?”
“Some.” He shrugged and sat next to her, suddenly remembering his earlier urge to pull her into his lap. He picked up the menus instead and handed her one of them. “Is that one of the things you find charming about me?”
She slapped her unread menu down on the low, white-lacquered table in front of them. “When did I say I found you charming?”
“Just now,” he answered with a self-satisfied grin. “You said one minute I’m charming and the next I’m brooding.”
“And your takeaway from that comment was that I find you charming?” She crossed her arms. “Unbelievable.”
“Aren’t you the same woman who just thanked me for bringing you here?” Donovan opened one of the menus, grateful for the distraction of something cerebral to get his mind off his most out-of-control libido.
He’d never had this problem before. If anything, Donovan Darcy was civilized. Restraint had never been an issue—with either his emotions or his body. Until recently.
“Yes, but for some reason my feelings about you tend to vary widely from one minute to the next.”
“I see.” He gave her a frosty look before turning his attention to the waiter and ordering fresh strawberries and clotted cream, paired with a bottle of the Veuve Clicquot Rosé. Once the waiter was gone, Donovan turned to her again. “Perhaps you can elaborate.”
“You want an example?” She grinned rather dangerously.
“Please. Enlighten me.”
“As nice as this outing has been, I still haven’t forgotten how you laughed in my face when I told you I’d been fired.” Her grin dimmed somewhat, and there was a glimmer of pain in her soft brown eyes.
And for a moment, Donovan felt as though he’d just kicked Bambi. “Don’t pay any attention to that. I barely qualify as employed, remember? What could I possibly know about such matters?”
The waiter returned, popped a bottle open and poured a modicum of rosé into Donovan’s champagne flute for him to taste. It was difficult to concentrate on the nuances of the champagne with Elizabeth watching his every move. He imagined he could be drinking from Figgy and Finneus’s water bowl at the moment and wouldn’t have a clue.
“Very good.” He returned his glass to the table.
The waiter nodded, filled both their flutes and situated the bottle in an ice bucket custom-built into the table. After he’d left, Donovan handed one of the slender glasses to Elizabeth.
Her gaze followed the trail of pink bubbles rising from the bottom of the champagne flute. She took a sip, closed her eyes and licked her lips. “Delicious.”
Unnerved, Donovan nearly drained his glass.
“So, have you ever been fired before?” she asked. “I’m guessing not.”
“No, I can’t say that I have. Although it’s not out of the realm of possibility.”
“Why do you say that?” Her lips turned down in a slight frown, a move Donovan was acutely aware of since he couldn’t seem to take his eyes off them.
He forced himself to look her into the eyes. “My boss is an ass. Incorrigible, really.”
She narrowed her gaze at him. “It’s the Darcy Family Trust. Aren’t you the boss?”
“Exactly.” Donovan plucked a perfect red strawberry off the platter and dipped it in the clotted cream.
“There you go again.” She twirled her champagne flute between her fingertips.
“Pardon?”
“There you go again...seeming almost charming.” Her eyebrow lifted, and she pinned him with a spirited look.
He scooped a dollop of cream on his fingertip and dabbed it on her nose. “Almost? That’s a bloody shame.”
Elizabeth’s fine eyes turned serious, and she reached out and touched his face, her fingertips barely grazing the underside of his bottom lip. “Did I say almost?”
Donovan swallowed, with great difficulty.
If that wasn’t an invitation to be kissed, and to be kissed thoroughly, Donovan didn’t know what was. Knowing that she wanted it, he had a mind to make her wait for it.
“Let me get this for you.” He scooped the cream off her nose and offered it to her.
Without breaking their gaze, she licked his fingertip. At the sight of that tongue...those lips...all thoughts of making her wait flew right out of Donovan’s head. In one swift movement, he took the champagne flute from her hand and leaned in, pressing his mouth against hers.
Her lips were sweet, cold from the champagne. She tasted of strawberries and rosé. He groaned in satisfaction as he felt her body shiver in delight and her mouth curve into the subtlest of smiles.
She wrapped her arms around his neck, anchoring herself to him. He pulled her hard against him, and she kissed him back with an intensity that he should have expected, given her feisty demeanor, but still caught him unawares. Donovan had one final thought before his mind and body were completely lost in a heady swirl of pleasure—At last.
Her lips were generous, and when they released the softest of sighs, an unprecedented surge of heat shot through Donovan. That sigh carried him away as never before.
He’d become undone.
Untethered.
Unleashed.
12
Upon waking the next morning, Elizabeth found she couldn’t breathe.
Or swallow.
The breathing she attributed to the weight of a certain Blenheim ball of fur sitting square in the middle of her chest. Her dry cotton-mouth, on the other hand, couldn’t be blamed on Bliss. That was purely her own doing—the result of an excruciating hangover.
However, she
wasn’t quite sure whether to attribute the condition to the copious amount of champagne she’d consumed the night before or the intoxicating experience of kissing Donovan Darcy.
So much for the oft-proclaimed English Reserve. There had been nothing restrained, nothing understated and certainly nothing bumbling about that first kiss. Or the one that came next. Or the one after that.
She smiled to herself as she drifted down the stairs and strode into the kitchen. Even the steady fall of drizzle outside—on another dog-show day when she’d have to contend with wet coats and muddy paws—couldn’t get her down.
The dogs were all groomed and ready to go. There had been such frenzy over the past few days getting everything ready that the calm atmosphere downstairs came somewhat as a shock. Elizabeth found Sue and Jenna, both still clad in their pajamas, enjoying a leisurely breakfast in the dining room.
Jenna sat nibbling on a slice of toast, looking as comfortable as if she’d lived with the Barrows her entire life. “Good morning.”
“Hello there, dear,” said Sue from behind her newspaper.
“Good morning.” Elizabeth slid across from the two of them at the dining table.
She cocked her head and read the headlines from the back of Sue’s paper. There’d been a riot somewhere called Ealing. The London Fire Brigade was threatening to strike in seven days, which was particularly notable since that was Bonfire Weekend. And because Sue read the Daily Mail, Kim Kardashian’s psoriasis also made the front page.
Elizabeth took a slice of warm bread from the toast rack and took a bite off the corner, marveling that the Kardashians were famous on this side of the pond. She still wasn’t sure why they were celebrities in America.
Sue folded the paper and peered at Elizabeth over the top of her glasses. “You seem cheerful this morning. I trust you had a delightful time with Mr. Darcy last night?”
Last night.
A variety of lovely sensations vied for attention in Elizabeth’s memory. The feel of Donovan’s hands as he cupped her face. The rush of sweetness that spilled through her when his lips first touched hers. The warmth of his breath dancing across the most sensitive curve of her neck.
A shiver ran up her spine.
Then she realized something was amiss. “Wait a minute. How do you know anything about last night?”
“I assure you, I wasn’t snooping. But it’s hard not to notice a fine-looking man like Mr. Darcy carrying an unconscious woman up the stairs of my house.” Sue spread a thick layer of marmalade on her toast. Her eyes danced. Clearly she was enjoying this. “It’s certainly not something that happens every day around here.”
Unconscious?
Donovan was certainly a fine kisser, but from what she remembered, Elizabeth had managed not to faint or anything.
She ticked off a mental inventory of the evening—Donovan appearing at her door, then taking her off to Harrods, the Pet Spa, the champagne bar and all the yummy things that had happened there, followed by the ride home in Donovan’s Aston Martin. Her body had been humming with pleasure, but pleasantly relaxed from the champagne and exhausted after all the extreme highs and lows of the previous twelve hours. She remembered yawning and Donovan stroking her hair as he pulled out of the car park at Harrods. The purr of the engine and the warmth of the heated leather seats had been enough for her eyes to drift closed....
Elizabeth groaned. “I fell asleep on the ride home, didn’t I?”
“It certainly looked that way.” Sue filled teacups for Jenna and Elizabeth. “Unless Mr. Darcy drugged you. Funny, I didn’t think to ask him that last night.”
“Donovan didn’t drug me.” Does kissing me senseless count?
“I know, dear. I was only teasing. He’s so delightful. We had such a nice evening. Alan and I enjoyed him very much. It’s such a pity Jenna was out with Mr. Robson and missed all the fun.”
“Yes.” Jenna nodded and speared a slice of melon with her fork. “A pity.”
Elizabeth drained her teacup. There wasn’t any amount of caffeine sufficient to wrap her mind around this. “Let me get this straight. Donovan brought me home, carried me upstairs and then what happened? You all had a little party?”
Sue shook her head. “It wasn’t a party. He just stayed for an hour or so and watched Strictly Come Dancing with us.”
She tried to picture Donovan sitting in the living room watching reality television with the Barrows, likely being the subject of a matchmaking interrogation. It seemed more humorous than mortifying. And now that she thought about it, a little sweet.
“Well, I’m glad you had a nice time.” Elizabeth sighed. “I wish I hadn’t slept through it.”
“It’s perfectly understandable. You were probably exhausted from all that making out you two did at Harrods.” Jenna dropped a sugar cube into her tea, and her lips twitched into a smirk.
Wait a minute.
Elizabeth was willing to suspend her disbelief long enough to imagine Donovan watching reality TV with the Barrows, but she was certain he wasn’t the type to kiss and tell.
She narrowed her gaze at Jenna. “And how exactly do you know about that?”
“I was so hoping you’d ask that question.” Jenna held her hand out to Sue. “May I borrow your paper?”
“Oh, dear.” Sue placed her newspaper in Jenna’s open palm.
“We read about it. As did the rest of London, I imagine.” Jenna flicked open the Daily Mail with a flourish and spread it out in the center of the breakfast table. “Right here.”
“What are you talking about?” Elizabeth rolled her eyes, until she spotted what looked like an uncanny likeness of herself right there, smack-dab in the center of the paper. “Oh, God.”
“Don’t you mean ‘Oh, Mr. Darcy’?” Jenna snickered.
“Let me get a closer look at that.” She snatched the paper from Jenna’s hands.
It was a photo of her, all right, midkiss with Donovan. And that wasn’t the worst of it. Elizabeth was horrified to see that not only had someone photographed the two of them engaged in a serious lip-lock, but they’d managed to do it at a moment when her limbs had turned liquid—molten, really—and were draped over Donovan’s in a most provocative manner. She was practically sitting in his lap.
Had things really gone that far? In a public place?
Yes, she realized, her head throbbing with fresh agony. They had.
She stared at the photo in disbelief. God, it was mortifying—Donovan looked as though he were feasting on her. “I don’t understand. Why is this news?”
Sue cleared her throat. The poor woman looked almost as embarrassed as Elizabeth felt. “It’s the Society section, dear. Mr. Darcy is very well-known. What he does is news.”
My photo is in a tabloid. How can this be happening?
Elizabeth felt a sudden pang of sympathy for poor Kim Kardashian.
“You haven’t seen the caption yet, have you?” Jenna asked.
“There’s a caption?”
“I’m afraid so.” Sue gnawed on her lip and cast a worried glance back and forth between Jenna and Elizabeth.
So there was a caption. It couldn’t be any worse than the photo. Could it?
Elizabeth read the small print out loud. “‘Donovan Darcy spent last evening at the Veuve Clicquot bar at Harrods in the company of an unidentified female companion, casting doubt on the rumors of his reported engagement to Helena Robson. See photo below.’”
“Engagement?” The newspaper shook in Elizabeth’s hands. “Engagement?”
“Rumored engagement.” Jenna wagged a finger at her.
“Reported,” Elizabeth corrected. “That sounds far more certain than rumored.”
“Whatever. You know you can’t believe everything you read in the papers. Henry hasn’t said a word to me about his sister and Donovan.
”
Sue nodded vigorously. “Honestly, I haven’t heard a peep about Mr. Darcy being engaged to be married. And that’s the sort of thing that would make headlines around here. Don’t pay any attention to it, Elizabeth.”
Elizabeth’s gaze dropped to the photo below the one of her and Donovan. It was a snapshot of Helena from the fashion show at the Bridal Market. In fact, Elizabeth could see the tip of her own Jimmy Choo knockoff peeking into the frame of the photo. She’d been sitting right next to Helena when the picture was taken.
She studied Helena’s image. Blond hair, stick-thin arms and those crazy eyelashes. Her Jimmy Choos certainly looked real, but if Elizabeth’s instincts were correct, there was plenty fake about this woman.
“Oh, my God, I can’t believe this.” Elizabeth shook her head. “It says here Helena was at the Bridal Market because she was shopping for a dress for her rumored spring wedding to Donovan.”
“Rumored wedding.” Jenna took the paper from Elizabeth’s hands. “I’d like to keep this, if you don’t mind. I mean, unless you want to put it in your scrapbook or something.”
“Be my guest.” Elizabeth took a bite of toast. It was like sandpaper in her mouth. Donovan couldn’t be engaged. Especially not to that catty woman. Could he?
Although Helena Robson did seem to be the type of glorified sorority girl who ran in Donovan’s circles. He would never have to talk her out of a car at Harrods. High-end stores were likely her natural habitat.
Elizabeth struggled to swallow. “Why in the world do you want it, anyway?”
Jenna folded the paper into a neat square, with a razor-sharp crease splitting Helena Robson in half. “I don’t know. Something tells me we’ll be seeing Helena again.”
With an unsteady hand, Elizabeth returned the remains of her toast to her plate.
Something tells me we’ll being seeing Helena again....
Precisely what she was afraid of.
* * *
Unlike the dog shows Elizabeth had attended in the States and the one the previous Saturday at the hotel in Mayfair, most shows in England took place outdoors in parks or the parklands of manor homes, estates or even castles. As Sue had explained during the hour-long drive into the country, today’s show was being held on the grounds of a grand country home.
