by Monica Burns
“Because you’ve not been able to tell me that my plan won’t work.” Julia eyed Catherine with irritation. “I’m taking every precaution, and it’s something I have to do.”
She wasn’t altogether sure why this latest scheme of hers was so important. It just was. The only real risk with having Peebles painting her had been trusting him not to show the canvas to anyone. The man had an impeccable reputation for discretion, and she’d paid him well to keep the portrait a secret. As there had been not the slightest hint of rumor regarding her sittings, she was certain the man had kept her confidence.
But the entire time the man was painting her, she’d experienced an exhilaration that had been intoxicating. Maybe that was why her plan to steal St. Claire’s handkerchief was so important to her. She wanted to experience that sensation again. The pleasure of doing something wicked and getting away with it.
The portrait had been a simple adventure. Taking a handkerchief from St. Claire’s room was much more risky. Frighteningly so, but she wanted to test her newfound courage to be even more daring. Of course, she wasn’t sure how courageous it was to undertake what was a rather foolhardy venture. But she’d made up her mind and refused to back down now.
“But how will you prove that it’s really Mr. St. Claire’s handkerchief?” Alva’s brow puckered as she was clearly trying to find holes in Julia’s well-laid plans.
“His monogram. We’ve all heard the story of how he gives a handkerchief to each of his mistresses as a parting gift when he breaks with them.” Julia grimaced at her words. “Supposedly for the woman to dry her eyes.”
She had no idea if the story was true or not, but she wouldn’t put it past the man’s arrogance. The man was a well-known womanizer, and she could see why. As much as she hated to admit it, St. Claire had a dizzying effect on the senses.
“Oh that sounds so romantic.”
“Don’t be a ninny, Alva. It’s not romantic at all.” Catherine turned her glare on Julia. “As for you, cousin, I think you’ve gone mad. You’ll cause a sensation if you’re caught, and there’s the distinct possibility of being ostracized. You know how the Queen is about circumspect behavior. Although as far as Prince Edward is concerned, the man would probably applaud you. Still, polite society won’t overlook an outright discretion of this sort.”
Julia waved her cousin’s concerns aside. “I won’t get caught. I have it all planned out. Dinner is being served in St. Claire’s private dining room at the Clarendon tomorrow night. I’ll simply ask to refresh myself then run upstairs and retrieve the handkerchief from the man’s room. I’ll be back at the dinner party before anyone is the wiser.”
“What is that old adage? The best laid plans go astray?” Catherine mouth was tight with disapproval, but there was concern in her gaze too.
“My maid knows the maid on St. Claire’s floor. The girl is quite trustworthy. I promise you. Nothing will go wrong.”
Julia smiled at both of her friends with a sense of extreme satisfaction. Nothing would go wrong. She was certain of it, and she was going to enjoy auctioning off one of St. Claire’s handkerchiefs. She would be the first woman to own one that hadn’t been given in a moment of pity.
Chapter 2
Morgan St. Claire caught the faint aroma of citrus on his left as he reached for his wine glass. Every muscle in his body was tight with expectation. A sensation he’d not been able to rid himself of from the first moment he’d seen Julia Westgard’s portrait. His head tilted to one side, Morgan listened half-heartedly to Edward Parkinson drone on about his racing horses as he studied Julia out of the corner of his eye.
The rich-colored blue of her gown enhanced the warm peach tone of her skin. She was like a tempting dessert he wanted to keep all for himself. His gaze lingered on the rounded top of her breasts and the dark cleft between them. Although he couldn’t see them, he knew her nipples were a deep mauve color.
His cock stiffened slightly at the thought of Julia’s portrait. Ever since his first glimpse of the painting, it had kept him awake more nights than he cared to admit. Particularly when Peebles had snatched the cloth from him and hidden the nude from view before Morgan had barely had time to appreciate the artwork or its subject.
It had been quite by accident that he’d even seen Julia’s provocative portrait. Morgan had visited Peebles studio to view a painting of a friend. As always, Jonathan had been late, and while waiting, Morgan had inadvertently dislodged the material over Julia’s portrait. The partial view had been so entrancing he’d exposed the rest of the portrait despite Peebles’s outrage.
The fact that the artist had refused to offer up any information regarding his subject had been frustrating. Morgan had even hired a street urchin to watch the artist’s studio, but the boy had provided him with nothing useful in his attempts to find the woman in the portrait. It made him think Peebles had warned the lady of Morgan’s interest and other arrangements had been made with regard to her sittings.
Morgan had been stumped as to how to find the subject of Peebles’s painting, and when Julia had walked into his shipping office near the docks, he’d been rendered speechless. He was never at a loss for words, but it had taken him several minutes to gather his wits when she’d arrived with her lawyer to discuss investing in his company. The woman in the portrait had been that of a sensual, sultry woman accustomed to pleasing a man and enjoying the same in return. But the Julia who’d entered his office was vastly different from the woman he’d imagined.
In fact, she was a challenge. With her cool exterior and impervious resistance to his flirtations, she only managed to increase his determination to reveal the woman he’d seen in the portrait. With an understanding nod in Parkinson’s direction to indicate he empathized with the man’s problems, Morgan turned his head to look directly at Julia.
She was still engrossed in conversation with another of his investors, and it afforded him the opportunity to study her profile for a moment. She wore her auburn hair up, leaving her slender neck exposed while revealing the delicate shape of her ear. His mouth went dry at the thought of nibbling at the spot where her neck met the gentle indentation of her shoulder. A wisp of hair had broken loose from her upswept hair and brushed against her soft-looking skin. He almost reached out to touch it, but caught himself in time.
Damnation, he needed to control his fascination with her. One way or another he intended to have Julia Westgard in his bed, but he wasn’t about to let his cock lead him about like a dog on a leash. His lust for the woman had already made him break one of his most important rules. Never mix business with pleasure. Until Julia, it had never been an issue. He knew it had been a serious error in judgment to agree to let her invest in St. Claire Shipping, and yet before he could stop himself, he’d agreed to sell her shares in his company.
His jaw tightened. His agreement to the contingencies she demanded as part of her investment had been even more egregious. It was one thing to consider indulging in a liaison with the woman, but to open up his office doors to her was altogether a different matter. And yet, he’d done just that. He’d agreed to let the woman experience his company’s operations first-hand. A fact that illustrated how fascinated he was with the woman. And he’d do well to remember where enthrallment generally led.
It was a well-known fact that his mother had supposedly captivated his father in the beginning, and Morgan knew how well their marriage had turned out. His throat closed up slightly. It hadn’t taken Morgan’s father long to stray from his wife. Embittered by the man’s blatant affairs, his wife had come to hate the sight of Morgan because he was a younger version of his sire. Between his mother’s distaste for him and his father’s indifference, Morgan’s childhood had been less than pleasant. And the experience had done little to recommend the state of matrimony to him.
Julia reached for her wine glass, and the movement interrupted the unpleasant retrospection of his childhood. Beneath his gaze, Morgan saw the pulse in the side of her neck flutter. The delicate movement
indicated she was aware of his stare, and from the rigid set of her shoulders to the way her fingers curled around the stem of her wine glass her tension was plain to see. He liked knowing he unsettled her. It meant she wasn’t immune to him.
He stared at her lips for a long, drawn out moment. It was a tempting mouth. The wine had stained her lips a dark red, and a sudden urge to taste her latched onto him with all the force of a charging bull. He fought the desire clamping down on every inch of his body as he watched her take a bite of her salmon. Despite her attempt to present a calm composure, he knew she was anything but.
“You seem distracted, Mrs. Westgard.” He bit back a smile as she quickly looked away from him.
“Do I?” There was a catch in her voice before she regained that serene composure she’d consistently presented him with since their first meeting. “Forgive me. I’m simply savoring this delicious salmon. The hotel’s chef has outdone himself. Do you suppose he would send me the recipe?”
“Actually I have a personal chef who prepares all my meals, and I’m afraid Henri refuses to share his secrets.” He deliberately paused and offered her a secretive smile. “Even with me.”
“What a pity.” She took another bite of her dinner, and his gut tightened as he watched her mouth and suddenly wished they were alone. Her throat flexed slightly as she swallowed. “This salmon is a dish I could eat quite often.”
“Then come back for dinner again, next week,” he said as he leaned toward her, his voice dropping a level so that his invitation reached only her ears. The startled expression on her face made him smile, and he saw her hand tremble as she quickly laid down her fork.
“I think that would be unwise. One should never mix business with pleasure.”
He bit down on the inside of his mouth at having his own rule thrown back in his face. She was right, but it was too late to go back now.
“Perhaps.” He reclined back into his chair and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Although I’m sure it would be quite—pleasurable.”
She immediately took another drink of her wine, this time more a gulp than a sip. If possible, her confusion made her even more beautiful. What would she be like tipsy? Relaxed and uninhibited with no barriers between them. He liked the idea.
“I’m glad to see that my Bordeaux is to your liking.” He grinned as a pink flush crested in her cheeks. She shot him a baleful look, which only made him chuckle as he lowered his voice even more. “You blush quite charmingly, Julia.”
“I don’t recall giving you permission to call me by my given name.” Her back ramrod straight, she attempted to stare him down with a haughty expression. It did little good, and he flashed another wicked smile in her direction.
“No? Forgive me, I thought you had.”
There was nothing remotely apologetic in his response, and they both knew it. She toyed with the necklace at the base of her throat before she tightened her mouth and met his gaze directly.
“Well, I didn’t, and I prefer to keep our relationship strictly a business one.”
“And if I don’t?” he challenged with a smile.
∫
Julia swallowed hard at the way the man almost purred the words. Sweet mother of God, the man’s reputation was well earned. His gaze was a sensual caress as he scanned her features before moving downward to her bodice. The warmth of a flush filled her cheeks at the blatant stare of interest. No, not interest—insolence, that’s what it was. He was being insolent.
He’d been far from happy with her demand to observe his shipping operations. Even the suggestions she’d made for improving different processes in his offices had been met with little more than a dark frown or grunt of irritation. She’d been a thorn in his side for the past few weeks, and now she was paying the price for daring to challenge the great St. Claire.
His gaze held hers as he reached for his wine glass, and the knot in her throat thickened at the way his fingers stroked the stem of the crystal goblet. Taking his time, Morgan drank from the glass, and all the while, his movements kept her mesmerized. A secretive smile curved his mouth and he arched an eyebrow at her.
Flustered and embarrassed that she’d been staring, she jerked her gaze back to her plate and resumed eating. With her head bent she didn’t see him lean forward, but she felt him and drew in a quick breath. Dark and spicy, his male scent tickled her nose. An unfamiliar sensation streaked across her skin and sent her heart skidding out of control. Irritated she was acting like all the other women who’d fallen for St. Claire’s charms, she clenched her jaw. Fixing a neutral expression on her face, she met his mocking gaze with her steady one.
“As I said, Mr. St. Claire, I prefer that we keep our relationship on a firm business footing.”
“You’re far too exquisite for any man to think of you as simply a business associate, Julia.”
The honeyed tone of his voice made her feel as if she were the only woman he’d ever found beautiful. She gave a slight shake of her head. That was ridiculous. This was Morgan St. Claire, the man who gave away his handkerchief whenever he parted company with a lover.
“Are you flirting with me, Mr. St. Claire?”
“Would you like me to?” There was a dark note in his voice, and she shivered.
“No.”
“As you wish.”
The enigmatic smile on his lips evolved into one of dry amusement as he sat back in his chair. She tried to avoid drawing blood as she bit the inside of her mouth. God, he was an arrogant bastard. Did he really think he had but to crook his finger and a woman would come running? Of course he did. And the terrifying thing was, a small part of her wanted to do just that.
It made Morgan St. Claire a dangerous man. Even men gave way to his persuasive charm. She’d observed him conducting business enough over the past few weeks to realize that. And if the man thought Julia Westgard was going to succumb to his sensual charms just like everyone else, he was wrong. She wasn’t about to let any man control her again, no matter how devastating he was to her senses.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for her wine glass again then stopped. She’d had enough to drink already, and she needed to keep her wits about her. The sooner she secured the item she’d come for, the sooner she could leave.
Without waiting for him to speak again, she turned to the man on her left and started a conversation. Anything to avoid conversing further with Morgan St. Claire. Although she couldn’t see him watching her, the blast of heat warming her skin told her the man’s gaze was still pinned on her.
The effect of St. Claire’s intent gaze was nerve wracking, and she barely managed to focus on her conversation with the man next to her. Being only one of two women investors in the small party of twelve was enough to strain even her own daring. And she found herself wishing Lady Falkenhouse was not at the opposite end of the table.
For the first time she wondered why St. Claire had placed her on his left. She frowned at the thought. That would imply he’d deliberately chosen her seat. No, she was reading too much into the seating arrangements.
With the meal complete, she and Lady Falkenhouse left the gentlemen to their port. As she left the dining room, the warmth on the back of her neck told her that St. Claire was watching her leave. Immediately, it felt as if hundreds of butterflies milled in her stomach.
Lady Falkenhouse smiled mischievously at her as they entered the sitting room that was part of Morgan’s extensive suite of rooms at the Clarendon Hotel.
“I think you’ve captured St. Claire’s attention, my dear Mrs. Westgard,” Lady Falkenhouse said with amusement.
“He was being polite.” Julia’s stomach lurched at the thought of others seeing St. Claire might be interested in her. Might be? The man had made it quite clear he was.
“Bah, the man is besotted with you. He could barely keep his eyes off you all evening”
“I’m sure he was simply being polite,” Julia murmured before she sought to make her escape. “If you’ll excuse me, Lady Falkenhouse, I woul
d like to freshen up.”
Julia didn’t give the woman a chance to invite herself along and turned to hurry out of the sitting room into the hall that connected all the rooms of the St. Claire’s suite. Once in the corridor, she saw a young girl waiting at one end. Aware that the moment of truth had arrived, Julia hurried forward.
“Please hurry, ma’am,” the girl whispered as Julia reached her. “I don’t want to get caught.”
“Neither do I,” Julia replied and pulled a pound note from her reticule. The girl glanced furtively over Julia’s shoulder before taking the money then pointed to the door behind her.
“I’ll watch the door for as long as I can, ma’am, but I mustn’t be gone from the kitchen long. Henri will wonder where I am.”
With a silent nod, Julia quickly slipped through the doorway into a darkened room. The first thing she saw was a painting of the Calcutta, one of St. Claire’s prized ships. She paused to admire the framed artwork. If there was one thing she liked about the man, it was the pride he took in his company and fleet of ships. He might be a seducer, but she knew he had integrity as well. He always dealt fairly with his customers and his staff. She frowned. She wasn’t here to consider Morgan St. Claire’s good qualities. She had a handkerchief to find.
Closing the door behind her, she exhaled the pent up emotions that had been building inside her since she’d left the dining room. For all her bravado, she idea of being caught in St. Claire’s bedroom was a terrifying thought. There would be too much explaining to do, and she didn’t think Morgan St. Claire would find her explanations amusing. Despite her trepidation, she experienced the familiar rush of exhilaration that always flowed through her just before she was about to take a risk. It was still quite a new sensation, and she relished it.
Blood pumped its way madly through her veins as she stared about the masculine room. It was as sensual in nature as the man who slept here. Heavy drapes framed the large canopied bed, and it was difficult to tell if they were navy blue or black. Gold tasseled cords held back the material, and a spread that matched the curtains covered the bed. The overall impression was an elegant decadence, if it were possible to describe debauchery in such a way.
