by Lucy King
*
Ten minutes later, during which he’d pulled on a pair of pajama bottoms and then prowled round the darkly silent house with increasing impatience, Seb found her.
She was standing at the door to the basement, wrapped in his dressing gown, one hand on the handle, the other clamping her cell to her ear, and as all thoughts of apologizing vaporized, he didn’t know which to react to first until she laughed softly, throatily, sexily, and then it couldn’t have been more bloody obvious.
Who the hell was she purring down the line to at this hour of the night?
“Stop it, Raf Quartermaine, really,” she murmured, and he thought, Raf? Who was this Raf? And what did he want with her? “Oh, you are wicked.”
What the hell? His hands balled into fists although what he was going to do with those he had no idea.
Silence, while she listened for a moment, then, “Well, how about this for an idea? I have a friend who has a pub here in New York… No, it’s in Brooklyn but it’s great, just your sort of place. Faith’ll take your lagers. I’m sure she will. She’ll hear your pitch, at least. Want me to put you in touch?… OK, I won’t mention it just yet. You let me know when it suits.”
Seb felt the tension gripping every muscle he possessed ease a little. OK. So. Business. But still. At a quarter past four in the morning?
Mercy stopped. Nodded. “Will do,” she murmured and laughed once more before hanging up.
She’d never laughed like that with him. Not that he’d noticed. And not that he gave a damn who this wicked, beer-flogging Raf who made her laugh was.
“Who was that?”
Shit.
Giving a little shriek, Mercy whirled round, clutching at the robe, her eyes wide. “What the –? Jesus, Seb, you scared me half to death.”
“My apologies.”
“That was just an old friend.”
How old, he wanted to know. And an old friend? Or old friend? “An old friend with insomnia?”
“Raf lives in Australia. Sydney. It’s this evening there. Summer. And hot, apparently.” She stashed her cell in the pocket of her robe and looked at him closely. “Are you all right? You look a little, I don’t know, unhinged. And you’ve been acting all weird ever since I got here.”
No, he wasn’t all right. And he wouldn’t be until she was back upstairs and in his bed.
“What are you doing down here?” he growled, eyeing her warily because she was dangerously close to the door to the basement and she was not going down there.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“So you decided to go walkabout?” And what, now he was Australian?
“Yes. That a problem?”
“You should have asked.”
She rose her eyebrows. “Why? Would you have offered me a tour?”
No. Their arrangement didn’t include tours. “Would you have wanted one?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve been in this house maybe half a dozen times and I’ve seen, what, a third of it? I’m curious. Zel told me once that it was built by a champagne magnate. I figure it must have the most beautifully designed cellar.”
Yes, well, it did, but there was no way in hell she was going to find that out. “Where else have you been?”
“Everywhere.”
“Outside?”
“I did take a quick look at your roof terrace if that’s what you’re asking.” It was. And he didn’t like it. That space was private. “I had no idea it was there,” she added. “It’s beautiful. Peaceful. Especially in the moonlight. If kind of chilly. Roses?”
“Yes.”
“All yours?”
He nodded. “All mine.”
“I imagine the display must be stunning.”
“It is.” When he wasn’t taking his shears to them like a madman.
“Why roses?”
“I like them. My mother liked them. Our house in London had a rose garden. She’d take cuttings from here and replant them over there. She spent a lot of time on them.”
“Ah,” said Mercy with a slow nod and a warmth that made her eyes shine and meant who knew what. “Well, after that,” she continued, “I took each storey as it came. Obviously your floor didn’t need much exploring and I didn’t go into the staff wing or Zel’s apartment, but the five storeys I have checked out are impressive.”
“They are.”
“Did you know Zel calls this the Madison Mausoleum?”
“It is pretty dark and gloomy.”
“Do you like it?”
He shrugged. “It’s home.”
But that wasn’t true, really, was it? He didn’t have a home. He never had had one. Various ambassadorial residences across Europe didn’t count. Nor did barracks and tents in godforsaken parts of the world. This place certainly wasn’t it, even though he’d been living here for years now. It was merely convenient. Citizens of the world, both he and Zel, and that had always been fine with him.
“So what’s down here?” she said, turning to the door to the basement which sent a stab of alarm shooting through him.
Too much. “Nothing.”
The look she shot him was assessing. Thoughtful. “What are you hiding down there, Seb? Bodies?”
No. Just his past. His hang-ups. His memories. Very much not for Mercy’s or anyone’s consumption. “I’m not hiding anything at all.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
The problem was him. And her. The problem was huge. “There’s no problem,” he said, because what else could he say?
She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes seeming to see far too much. “OK,” she said eventually, removing her hand from the door handle which should have made him relax, but didn’t. “If it’s that big a deal, forget it.”
“It’s not a big deal,” he heard himself say. “Go on down.”
And while one half of his brain was demanding to know what the hell he was doing the other was telling him that this – his hand on the handle, turning it, opening the door and drawing it back to expose his deepest fears to her – somehow, had been inevitable from the start.
*
Why had Seb not wanted her to come down here? Mercy wondered as she hit the lights, slipped down the steps and gazed in admiration at the sight before her eyes. Just as she’d suspected the cellar beneath the Madison townhouse was magnificent.
Brick walls stretched out in front of her, rising up to form an arched ceiling high above. The floor was stone, smooth and cool beneath her feet although dusty. Lining the walls were the racks that stood perhaps ten feet high and extended from where she stood right to the far end of the cellar and in between, halfway down was a round table, to be used, she supposed, for tastings.
Lovely space, lovely proportions, and above all, some seriously lovely wines.
“Wow, Seb,” she murmured, walking a little further into the cellar, her gaze roaming over the thousands of bottles laid on their sides, all dusty, clearly untouched for years. “This must be worth millions.”
She glanced back to see he’d folded his arms over his bare chest and his expression back to tonight’s default setting of grim neutrality. “Possibly.”
“Your collection?”
“My father’s.”
“How much of it have you drunk?”
“None.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “None?”
“I don’t drink.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like the taste.”
“What a waste.” She ran her fingers over some of the bottles and watched the traces she made in the thick dust. “This section in particular should be drunk now, Seb. If you aren’t going to drink it, you should sell it. It would be a shame to see it ruined.”
“Probably.”
But he wouldn’t. The past still held him too tightly in its grip, that much was obvious.
“Oh, look,” she said, ignoring the ache that took up inside her at the thought of that, and instead bending
down and dusting off a label. “Here’s a Faith.”
“Here’s a what?”
“A Faith. Or technically a Riesling.” This one a 1990 from Germany. “Beautiful, graceful, yet under-appreciated, underrated and very much undervalued.” Moving down the racks in search of a Dawn, she dusted off another bottle. “And here’s a Dawn,” she said. “A Barossa shiraz. Australian. Bold, clever, challenging.”
“Do you have wines for all your friends?”
“Of course. Although Zelda’s not actually a wine. She’s absinthe.”
“Guaranteed to drive you mad?”
Mercy smiled. “Highly spirited.”
“What am I?”
She stilled. Straightened. Thought she should probably tell him he wasn’t a friend, especially not with tonight’s moodiness, but that wasn’t strictly true now and she couldn’t bring herself to lie. “An Islay whisky, I should think,” she said casually, as if she hadn’t really given the matter much thought.
“Scottish?”
“Smooth, delicious, layered, complex, difficult.”
His eyes darkened as he approached her. “And what are you?”
“Me?” she said, blinking at him in surprise since strangely she’d never given any thought to what she might be. “Oh, I’m nothing.”
“You are far from nothing, Mercedes,” he said, his expression losing some of its harshness as his gaze roamed over her. “Are you done down here? Because I’m thinking bed would be good place to explore next. Mine’s been getting cold.”
Yes, yes, there would be plenty of time for that later. Right now, though, she was more interested in what else he had stashed away down here, which said a lot for the degree of her curiosity. “What’s through there?” she asked, keeping her eyes away from the broad, muscled chest that nevertheless could easily distract her.
Seb frowned. “Through where?”
“That door.”
“Which door?”
“That one.” Honestly.
Seb shoved his hand through his hair and sighed, and it sounded like resignation, weariness and a whole lot more besides.
“The garage.”
“Full of cars you don’t drive, I imagine,” said Mercy with a dry smile that she expected him to return. When he didn’t, when he carried on just frowning down at the floor, her smile faded as it dawned on her that that might actually be the case.
“Don’t be absurd,” he muttered, and she realized with a twist of her heart that there was no ‘might’ about it.
“May I see?”
“Why not?” said Seb, and she didn’t know what to make of the faint bitterness in his tone. “You’ve seen everything else.”
He led her towards the far end of the cellar. Through the door that he’d had such trouble identifying. Down a passageway and through another door, and then they were in the garage, full, as he’d implied, of the most gorgeous cars she’d ever seen.
There had to be a dozen of them, she thought, dazzled by the sight. Some vintage, some modern, all highly polished, the metal and chrome gleaming beneath the dim light that spilled down. She was no expert, she had to admit as she walked further into the garage and looked round, but even she could recognise an Aston Martin, a Porsche and a Ferrari when she saw them.
“This is quite a collection, Seb.”
“I like beautifully constructed things,” he said, stroking his hand over the gleaming red hood of a Mustang although he was looking at her.
“But you don’t actually drive them.”
“Not often.”
“Why not?”
“It isn’t practical in Manhattan.”
Nonsense. These weren’t ‘practical’ cars. “Do you drive at all?”
Seb shrugged. “I can.”
“But you don’t.”
“I don’t need to. I have a driver.”
Right. “Ever sit at the wheel of one of these things?” she asked casually.
He winced at that, although whether it was in response to the idea of it or her reference to ‘these things’ she didn’t know. “Not recently.”
Or ever, she surmised. “Want to try it?”
“Mercy,” he said warningly.
She went round, pulling gently on the handles until one of them gave. The car was a silver one. An old one. A soft-top. A Mercedes, she noted, spying the badge on the front as she walked over to the driver’s side. Appropriate. “Come on,” she said, looking over her shoulder at him and seeing that he was standing just behind her, unnaturally still.
“What are you doing?”
“Playing.”
His face darkened. “This isn’t a game.”
“No,” she said. “It isn’t.”
Because a game wouldn’t be tearing at her heart like this. Seb was in trouble and he was hurting – he had been for years – and she hated to think of him in pain.
Especially when she might be able to do something about it, because ‘just sex’ arrangement be damned, she wanted to. How could she not?
“Let me help you, Seb.”
His jaw set. “I don’t need help.”
“You have a wine collection you’re hanging on to when it should be sold and a garage full of cars you never drive.”
“So?”
“Do you really not see the problem with that?” Of course he did. He had to.
“Maybe I like having a garage full of cars I never drive,” he said, his eyes glittering with resolve and behind that, something bleak and sad and infinitely more distressing. “Like I like having these.” He pointed to the scars from the accident that marred his torso. “Maybe I like having the reminders, Mercedes. Maybe I need them. Ever think of that?”
No, she hadn’t. But that couldn’t be good for him. It wouldn’t be good for anybody. “So you won’t get behind this wheel?”
“No,” he said roughly. “I can’t.”
“OK, then,” she said, not entirely sure where she was going with this, although suddenly it seemed imperative that she got him to take this step, because if she could just get him to do that then maybe he might start letting go and surely that had to be a good thing. “Would you mind if I did?”
“Go ahead.”
She opened the door and slid in. “This is nice,” she said, releasing the catches of the roof, lifting it up and pushing it back. Then she sat back down and snuggled into the seat.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting comfy.”
“What for?”
“This car is very cool,” she said, choosing not to answer that in case he ran a mile and instead running her fingers along the shining walnut dashboard. “The leather is so soft. All this classic luxury and old glamor… it makes me feel, you know, kind of sexy.”
She shifted again and this time Seb’s dressing gown, too big for her anyway, slipped off her shoulders. She did nothing to right it, although she did pick up and replace the condom that had fallen out of a pocket because while she hadn’t known it was there, it might come in useful.
Sitting up and knowing now exactly where she was hoping to go with this, Mercy closed her eyes and let her head drop back. She breathed in deep and let hot, erotic images of Seb and the many things they’d done together drift into her head.
Desire began to sweep through her, making her tingle from her head to her toes. Her blood heated, her heart cantered, her nipples tightened, and Mercy could no more stop herself sliding her hand down, beneath the robe, to try and ease the ache that throbbed between her legs than she could stop wanting him.
Feeling how wet she was for him, she groaned. Unable to help herself she slid further down the seat and spread her legs as much as she could. As she circled her fingers around her clitoris and then dipped them inside she lifted her other hand to her heavy aching breast, pinched her nipple and moaned again at the sensational wave of pleasure that rocked through her.
“Mercy,” said Seb, and his voice was rough, tortured, anguished.
Stilling, she opened her eyes, too
k in the torment etched into the harsh lines of his face and the blazing heat in his gaze, and sent him a slumberous, smoldering look. “If you want to touch me, Seb – and I really hope you do – you’re going to have to get in.”
*
Blackmail. That was what this was, thought Seb, desire pounding through him, his erection so hard it was painful. Blackmail. Pure and simple. Except there was nothing pure or simple about what Mercy was doing. It was wild. It was wanton. It was driving him out of his mind.
He ought to turn on his heel and get the hell out of here. He didn’t want to get in the car. She had the right of it. He hadn’t sat behind the wheel of one of ‘these things’ since the night of the accident. He had no intention of doing so now.
So why couldn’t he move? Why couldn’t he take his eyes off her? Why the hell had he followed her down here in the first place? He could have left her to it, but he hadn’t.
Had he wanted to show her the wine cellar and now this? It was the only explanation, but it didn’t make any sense because why would he want to do that? Then again, with his blood pounding in his ears and his brain falling apart nothing made sense right now.
He wanted to touch her so badly. Desperately. He was burning up with the need for it.
Mercy moaned. She caught her lip between her teeth and her breath hitched. And then she trembled and sighed and that was as much as Seb could take. He couldn’t stand not touching her any longer, whatever came with it.
“Move up,” he growled and when she did, threw himself into the driver’s seat.
The convertible was an import. From Britain, and therefore a left-hand drive. Same as the last car he’d driven. Automatically he put his hands on the wheel. Automatically he froze. And then it was all flooding back. The conversation his parents had been having about the evening ahead, the run-down on who was going to be at the dinner and why. The stupid, stupid pride he’d felt at being able to drive them. That feeling of being oh-so-grown up, oh-so-responsible. The minute depression of the accelerator. Then the flash. The roar. The panic, the fear, and a heartbeat later, the awful, sickening silence.
His heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to escape his chest. His stomach was twisting. Something was clawing at him, wanting to get out. His vision was blurring, greying.
