Besides, naked she wasn’t going anywhere, passport or no.
Her passport… She looked around the room again. Sure enough, her handbag, containing her passport, was missing, as well.
Her eyes lingered on the armoire in the corner, admiring its rich veneer. Perhaps there were clothes inside she could borrow.
Tugging the sheet closer around her, she went to retrieve a hairpin she’d seen in the bath alcove. The armoire was locked, she knew, from her search for her clothes.
Working impatiently—patience never having been one of her virtues—she managed, with a few well-chosen adjectives, to pick the lock. Pulling open the large, intricately carved door, she found an array of delicate articles hanging inside.
She fingered the exquisitely detailed lingerie arranged on a row of padded pastel hangers. A pretty antique-white cotton Victorian gown with a lace trimmed bodice, tiny buttons and a flounced hem caught her eye.
Dropping the sheet she was wrapped in, she removed the gossamer cotton gown from the hanger and slipped it over her head. Thus dressed, she continued looking through the treasure trove of femininity she’d uncovered. Every item was in her size.
The garments ran the gamut, all the way from a wicked pair of black satin tap pants with demi bra, decidedly kittenish pale pink hipster panties and matching cropped tank top to a frankly provocative flip of sheer white garter belt with matching bra and panties.
Stacked below in the bottom of the armoire were tissued boxes of stockings in all colors and styles, socks and an antique wooden box with a tiny lock.
For a moment she considered trying her luck at picking that lock, as well. In the end she decided against it— picking the armoire’s lock had been justified by her need for something to wear—picking the lock on the wooden box would be nothing more than giving in to her nosy streak.
She’d just closed the door on the armoire when she heard movement outside the bedroom and Grey stepped inside. “Time to rise and shine, sleepyhead,” he called out cheerfully, crossing to the tumbled bed.
“Where are my clothes?” Zoe demanded.
Turning to face her, his eyes roamed over the Victorian gown appreciatively. He grinned ruefully and shrugged his wide shoulders. “I see you’re resourceful.”
“Where are my clothes?” she repeated, standing her ground, straightening ever taller, her action thrusting her breasts against the filmy gown that fluttered around her with feminine enticement.
His gaze grew soft and seductive, the room airless.
“I asked you a question,” she blurted, willing to try anything to destroy the encroaching mood of intimacy.
“So you did,” he agreed, shaking his head. “Your clothes, wasn’t it? Let me see….Yes, I remember. I sent them to be cleaned.”
“Oh.” She stared at the floor, momentarily lost for words. Looking up finally, she asked, “Do you intend to keep me locked up?”
“That’s up to you.” He crossed to her, rubbing the back of his hand along her jaw, his eyes trying to penetrate her reserve.
“I hardly see how,” she objected, pulling back from his touch. “After all, you’re the one with the key.”
“A mere physical device. You have a more mystical key that circumvents my physical one.”
“I do?”
“Yes. Pick the right outfit from the armoire and we’ll see.”
Zoe’s stomach picked that inopportune time to growl insistently.
“Good, you’re hungry. Come, I’ve prepared breakfast for us.”
“Like this?”
“Why not? You look lovely.”
“But…”
“I’m afraid, I insist.”
Taking her hand possessively, he led her downstairs. The slate floor was cool beneath the soles of her bare feet as he guided her past the living room, through the dining room and out the tall French doors to a small terrace.
She was charmed in spite of herself, her spirits lifted by a bird singing in the rose garden. It was impossible to remain angry in such beautiful settings with a man who’d gone to the trouble of laying out an exquisite repast for her pleasure.
After seating her in one of the antique, twisted blue metal garden chairs, which looked as if it had come from an old-fashioned ice-cream parlor, Grey took his seat opposite her. His eyes held a pleased-with-himself look.
Zoe surveyed the white-linen-covered round table between them laid out with vintage china. Warm croissants lay wrapped in an embroidered cloth in a small basket, fresh strawberries sparkled dewily in a glass dish alongside a pitcher of cream, a bowl of sugar and a silver pot of melted dark chocolate.
“I thought we’d talk,” Grey said, pouring tea from a matching china teapot.
“Talk?”
He nodded, spooning sugar into his tea.
Zoe looked out over the garden filled with pastel roses, their fragrance carried on the occasionally stirring gentle breeze to where they sat on the terrace, warmed by the sun’s morning rays. She was more aware than she wanted to be of how the sun kissed his bare torso. He too was barefoot and wore nothing more than the familiar ancient jeans.
Lifting her teacup, she took a sip, then looked at him over the rim. “Is that what you usually do with your mistresses—talk?”
“I’ve told you, I’ve never had a mistress before,” he vowed, setting down his teacup with force enough to rattle the matching saucer.
She set down her teacup as well. Reaching for a plump strawberry, she dipped it into the warm, melted dark chocolate and popped it into her mouth. Her eyes closed in delight at the slick, rich taste. When she opened her eyes a few moments later, Zoe gazed searchingly at her companion.
“What did you want to talk about?” she asked, taking another sip of tea.
Grey broke apart the flaky croissant he’d taken from the basket, then looked directly into her eyes.
“I’ve been wondering….”
He hesitated, the apparently made the decision to continue. “Did you…did you enjoy your husband’s lovemaking?”
Zoe coughed, nearly choking on the tea. “What?” she asked, unable to believe what she’d heard.
“I was wondering.…Was that the reason you left—because you didn’t feel fulfilled sexually?”
“I…ah… I told you I left because…”
“He didn’t love you enough.”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
Grey spooned chocolate from the silver pot and drizzled it in a lazy pattern over his warm croissant. “As you wish,” he agreed with an amiable shrug. Lifting the croissant to his lips, he licked at the chocolate before taking a bite of the flaky pastry.
Zoe swallowed dryly.
“Why did you lock me in?” she asked, finding her voice.
“I wanted to be sure you would be here waiting when I returned from fetching breakfast. You see, I wanted to surprise you, not the other way around.” His eyes studied her. “You do have a history of running.”
“I agreed to be your mistress for a week, you can trust me”
“Can I? How long did you promise to be your husband’s wife?”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. He broke the vows.”
“Which… love, honor or cherish?”
“Most especially cherish… he left me in spirit long before I left him physically. I loved… I told you I don’t want to talk about this,” she said, and after wiping her lips with her napkin, fled to the rose garden.
Grey swore and hurried after her.
The gravel path in the rose garden hurt her bare feet. When she stepped on a sharp bit of gravel, she dropped onto a carved wooden bench with a cry.
“Did you hurt yourself? Let me see,” Grey said, reaching her side and kneeling before her. “Here, I’ll make you feel better,” he promised, taking her bare foot in his hands. He began rubbing his thumb gently over the angry pink spot the bit of sharp gravel ha
d scratched. Lowering his head, he kissed the spot, then continued planting soft, sweet kisses upon the tender arch of her foot.
“Don’t,” she said, pulling her foot away.
Grey reached for something beneath a rose bush. He stood up, holding a garden hose and turned on the faucet to send the water through the hose. “Here, this will soothe the sting,” he said, letting a trickle of water spill over her bare foot.
“That tickles,” she said with a girlish giggle.
“Mmm…” Grey murmured, his eyes growing mischievous as if with a provocative idea.
Turning the nozzle at the end of the hose until he got the fine spray he wanted, he gave her no warning. Aiming the hose at her, he raked the spray of mist across her thin cotton gown, wetting it. Within moments it was as transparent as cellophane.
When she would have covered herself from him, he turned the spray toward her face. Shrieking, Zoe placed her hands over her eyes. His laugh was rich and deep.
He turned the spray once again onto her gown, sweeping it back and forth over the bodice until her nipples puckered into hard pebbles erotically outlined by the wet cloth.
“Don’t,” she said, knowing her cheeks were stained crimson.
“Don’t?”
“I don’t want…”
“Oh yes,” he disagreed. “I think you really do.”
“Please.”
“I want you to do something for me,” he said, turning the hose away from her and adjusting the nozzle once more, this time to a much harder mist. He lowered his head and took a drink.
“What?”
“I want you to raise the hem of your gown for me.”
“You what?”
“Now,” he said, his voice firm and unyielding. “I want you to raise the hem of your gown now.”
“You’re not serious.”
“Do it.”
“But…”
“Do it.”
She followed his command, lifting the gown a tentative few inches to midcalf.
“Higher.”
She inched the gown slowly to her knees.
“Higher.”
“I…”
“Do it.”
She followed his direction, lifting the hem of the gown to midthigh.
“Come on…. You know what I want you to do,” he coaxed, his whispered urging hoarse and sexy.
“I don’t want—”
“Yes,” he interrupted. “Yes, you do. You know you do. Come on, show me how pretty you are. I want to see.”
Taking a deep, tremulous breath, she shook her head, keeping her knees clamped tightly together.
He laughed then, a rich, wicked chuckle as he perversely rained a mildly stinging mist across her knees.
“Come on, chérie...move them apart for me…pretty, please,” he whispered as a cloud momentarily hid the sun, throwing them into shadow.
She continued to refuse and he shook his head in mock sorrow. “My, my—you’re much too shy for a proper mistress. We’re going to have to work on that.” His voice was low and full of sensual promise as he added with a wink, “After all, I did promise to make you feel better, didn’t I?”
5
HE’D GONE AND DONE IT again!
Zoe tugged impatiently at the locked bedroom door. It didn’t budge, not a fraction. Kicking it, she let loose a very imaginative combination of Anglo-Saxon words about Grey’s unmitigated, colossal, not to mention macho nerve.
This was too, too much.
No way was she about to let him get by with locking her in the bedroom of the château a second time. Where had he gotten the idea that she was malleable, wanting only to please? He certainly hadn’t gotten it in the rose garden, though she’d been almost tempted.
He was charming, of that there was no question. But charm was one thing, arrogance quite another.
Frustrated, she sat down on the bed, glaring at the locked door that was her host’s handiwork.
When her temper had cooled a bit, she noted the Victorian gown she’d peeled from her wet body and left lying on the floor was missing. He must have slipped upstairs when she’d been toweling off in the bath alcove, taken the gown and locked her in with the stealth of a cat burglar.
She didn’t know what kind of game he was playing, but she didn’t intend to follow his rules—or to spend her days dressed in a towel. Going to the window, she looked down to find the Porsche missing. He’d gone off and left her locked away until he returned. Well, the days when she waited for a man’s return were over. Not that she’d ever waited all that patiently. But she had waited. One time too many.
First she’d see about something to wear. Then she’d set to picking the lock on the bedroom door. After all, she’d gotten into the locked armoire, hadn’t she?
The armoire…She remembered suddenly about its contents. No wonder he’d gone off unconcerned about her freeing herself. The only things she had to wear were the things in the armoire, and while they were exquisite, one could hardly call them… Well, she couldn’t wear them outside!
Moving to the armoire, she slid the padded hangers back and forth, looking at her choices.
She settled on the black satin tap pants with demi bra. Stepping into the tap pants, she found their tulip wrap sides hit her hips provocatively. The matching demicup bra lifted her breasts, but only partially covered them.
The shimmering black satin material came to just below her nipples, displaying their lush pink tips like some courtesan’s court gown of long ago. It was impossible not to be intensely aware of her sexuality while wearing the black satin that flaunted her body’s sensuous curves. She felt certain it was the very reason the frothy wisps of satin had been selected.
The contents of the armoire must have come from the pile of packages she’d noticed when they’d arrived at the château. After all, he did have the key to the bedroom, enabling him to come and go as he pleased.
Moving to the decorative dressing table, she studied her reflection in the mirror above it.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the barest one of all?” she asked whimsically, looking dreamy-eyed and indulging in the sensations she felt at seeing so much of her translucent skin on display and in contrast to the black satin. Zoe saw a flush creep over her skin, revealing her embarrassment at being turned on by the way she looked.
So much time was normally taken up with the daily routine of living that one’s sexuality was mostly denied and relegated to a back burner, something to be enjoyed only at certain briefly scheduled times rather than being an integral part of living.
Sighing, she retrieved the same bent hairpin she’d used to pick the lock on the armoire. How much harder could one lock be than another to pick? she rationalized as she set about the task on the solid oak bedroom door.
This lock, however, was much sturdier and a lot more difficult to crack. Compared to the armoire, the bedroom door was Fort Knox. Picking it took a much greater amount of her determined persistence, the utilization of her most colorful verbal adroitness and the sacrifice of a manicured nail. But in the end her perseverance paid off and the bedroom door yielded to her campaign.
As she exited, she felt as if someone were watching her and then realized it was all the animal-head hunting trophies mounted on the wall. She continued to the top of the stairs then stopped, beginning to have second thoughts about exploring the château. What if someone were about? She looked down at her skimpy attire; she was hardly dressed to meet anyone. No, she decided, there wasn’t any danger of that. After all, this wasn’t a house party. This was something else entirely. Just what, she wasn’t yet sure.
Descending the stairs, she peeked into the living room off the entry hall. The room was shadowy dark with small-paned windows and thick walls of stone. She could just make out exposed beams and a large fireplace holding court in the center of the room, surrounded by surfaces of chestnut and oak.
Moving a bit farther down the main hall, she took
little note of the dining room, her curiosity having been appeased when she’d passed through it earlier on her way to the terrace for breakfast. Just ahead, off to one side, she could see a large open doorway to the spacious kitchen and its profusion of hanging greenery, an odd assortment of baskets and gleaming copper pots suspended from a rack over a huge scarred wooden table.
It was two tall carved double doors to her right however, that caught her attention. Going to them, she found the doors unlocked. She’d located the library, as GREY STOOD in the library doorway. A small, leatherbound book lay open beside the sofa; it had clearly slipped from Zoe’s hand when she’d drifted off. She looked alluring, elegant and soft to the touch. Her gentle curves burned a permanent picture upon his mind as he watched her sleep. He had an overwhelming temptation to give in to tactile pleasures, but fought it; he had yet to complete Zoe’s surprise.
Some time later, he showered and changed, then returned to the library and the still-dozing Zoe. He crossed the room to kneel beside her, brushing a whisper-light kiss upon her lips. Indulging himself further, he blew soft gusts of air across the full tips of her blush pink nipples until they hardened. There was a rustle of satin as she shifted in her sleep, smiling at some private delight. He wondered what she was dreaming of.
Picking up the book that had fallen from her hand, he moved to sit across from her in the leather wing chair. Absently opening the diary he began reading the feminine hand that had put some very naughty Victorian fantasies to paper.
Some minutes later he felt someone watching him and looked over to see that Zoe was awake.
“That book… that’s where you got the idea for all this, isn’t it?” she whispered.
“Perhaps,” he answered noncommittally, closing the book and smiling at her without repentance.
“I hope you don’t think—”
“No, I don’t think—I know.”
“I’m not…” she objected further.
was obvious from the row upon row of books inviting her in. Yes, she decided, a book would distract her until her host returned and they had the little talk she had planned for him.
Venturing inside, she began moving along the shelves of books in the dark-paneled room. The walls of built in bookshelves housed an extensive and wide-ranging collection, and she browsed through them for quite some time. A small group of leather-bound diaries tucked away in a corner finally caught her eye. Selecting one, she carried it to the sofa with her.
Forbidden Fantasy Page 5
