Switching on a nearby lamp, Zoe curled up on the sofa among the plush brocade pillows. It was a very masculine room, with a globe as big as a beach ball mounted on a brass stand, and antique crystal liquor decanters locked in a glass cabinet behind the massive desk.
Stretching languidly, she reached to adjust a pillow behind her back. She knew and femininely enjoyed the fact that she looked racy, lying about in these refined surroundings in the midnight-black satin undies, her still-damp hair pulled up on her head in an oldfashioned topknot, drying tendrils fluffing about her face. The soft glow from the lamp lent a peachy fire to her skin. Lying there she looked petted and pampered… she looked a mistress.
Was it her imagination, Zoe wondered, or were all the characters in the books on the library shelves gossiping about her in hushed whispers?
“Yes… you are.”
“But…”
His look silenced her.
“Why are you dressed like that?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously. He was dressed rather formally. His shirt and pants, even his shoes were white. The sea of white flannel set off his tan and made him look nineteenth-centuryish; poetic, even.
“I’d like some tea,” he said, his imperious manner indicating he not only wished to be served, but fully expected it.
“I’d like some clothes,” Zoe countered, sliding into a sitting position on the sofa, adjusting the pillows about her in a bid at concealment. The brocade pillows and the brevity of her dress made her feel like a pasha’s concubine—captive and cosseted. The effect excited her, but she had come to Paris to become a modern woman, not an old-fashioned one. How had everything gotten so out of control?
“You’ll find the silver tea service and china cups and saucers in the dining room. I set them out on the oak sideboard. Tea and biscuits should be in the glass kitchen cupboards,” he informed her, ignoring her request.
He smiled at her childlike pout, but his eyes widened at the adult malice in her eyes as she glared at him.
“Run along now and be a good little mistress. When we’re through with tea, you can go up and dress in the new clothes I bought you.”
“You’re enjoying seeing me squirm, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “That is the general idea of having a mistress, isn’t it?” he answered, purposely playing the double entendre she hadn’t intended.
“I’m going up now and dressing.”
“Zoe…” he called after her softly, stopping her in midstride. Turning, she saw he still retained control; in the palm of his hand lay a key.
“You’ll only find your bedroom locked,” he explained. “You may as well abide by my wishes.”
She stood hesitating and looked at the key.
“The tea,” Grey insisted, pocketing the key.
“But I’ll look pretty silly, serving you a formal tea, barely dressed.”
Rising, he strolled toward her, then walked around her, pursuing his prurient study. He took his time viewing the charms so enticingly displayed in the skimpy black satin. Finally, when she thought she might scream, he faced her once again, Lifting her stubborn chin with his long forefinger, he smiled wickedly. “Not to me,” he answered.
She swatted his finger away. “Of course not to you, you’re perverted.”
“Really…?” he asked, clearly amused.
“Quite.”
He nodded as if considering her assessment of his character, then returned to the wing chair. “I’ll have the tea anyway,” he insisted.
Any way, was it? In that case, his lap was taking shape as a good place to serve it, as soon as she got the tea to the same boiling point she’d already reached.
“And if I refuse?”
“I suggest you don’t,” he answered. Picking up the journal from the table, he began reading, effectively dismissing her.
She wasn’t to be dismissed so easily.
“Really? What is that, some sort of threat you’re making? What? Will you send me to my room without dinner—no, wait, without my clothes, perhaps? Are you going to spank me… or maybe take away my nonexistent privileges?” she demanded, all sass and fire. Indignantly raising her hands to her hips, she nearly upset the applecart that was her skimpy French bra and spilled her apple-firm breasts. She quickly lowered her hands before her breasts tumbled at his interested gaze.
“You choose,” Grey said seductively, appearing to be completely unaffected by her tirade.
“Oh! Never mind, I’ll get your tea and crumpets, master,” she said with all the sarcasm she could muster, turning away from his continued amusement.
“Now you’ve got the hang of it,” he said, chuckling when she slammed the door on his chauvinist remark.
In the dining room she found a glistening Sheffield silver service and a set of matching teacups and saucers, china, hand painted with pastel nosegays. Setting everything upon a silver tray, she carried it off to the kitchen, where she found a well-stocked pantry. “Everything I need but the rat poison,” Zoe muttered.
As the water heated, she thought about the situation she’d found herself in; it mirrored her marriage. Once again she was being domesticated, waiting on a man… seeing to his comfort. Once again the man was in control.
It had been thus all her life. She’d been raised by her aunt in a male-dominated, ethnic family. Her cousins had all been boys. The experience had had its plus and minus side. On the minus side was the catering to male needs and ego, on the plus side benign neglect. Since she was a woman and her aunt was older and tired, no one had bothered to indoctrinate her with beliefs.
Other than the day-to-day upkeep of the males in the household, she’d been pretty much left to fend for herself and to develop her own ideas about things. Before her marriage she’d been a pretty independent young woman. Alas, she’d traded that independence for affection. She hadn’t realized it at the time, but her husband had expected her to behave in a certain way or he’d withhold his affection.
And since she’d so desperately craved being held—loved—she’d sacrificed her freedom. She’d thought there might be freedom in total submission to this dark stranger, but now she wasn’t so sure.
The aroma of spicy tea wafted through the kitchen as she filled the teapot, then placed the tea biscuits on an Edwardian cake stand. Adding a pot of honey and white linen napkins to the tray, she carried it back to the library where the large rat waited.
“See, you can be quite domestic when you put your mind to it,” he said, putting the diary aside.
Feeling like a Playboy bunny, she held her tongue, dipped her knees and rested the heavy tea tray on the coffee table between the sofa and the wing chair where Grey continued to sit.
“I’ll pour,” he offered to her surprise.
“You’re sure it wouldn’t be too much of a bother?” she asked ungraciously.
“I think next we need to work on your manners.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my manners—besides, I don’t imagine there’s anything in Emily Post on how to behave while having tea in one’s underwear,” she said, taking the cup of tea he offered her.
“Nonetheless, a real lady should be able to balance her teacup and saucer on her knee with or without clothes,” he countered.
Rising to the bait, she tried, unsuccessfully, then set her cup of tea upon the coffee table after taking a sip.
Glaring at him, she said, “I guess I’m not a real lady.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he observed, stirring a spoon of honey into his tea; infuriatingly, he managed to balance his cup on his knee. “Now, about my plans for this afternoon.”
6
ZOE DESCENDED the stairs with trepidation. She was dressed all in white, as Grey had been earlier. The clothes he’d bought and laid out for her were decidedly old-fashioned: a flowing silk blouse whose buttons matched the strand of pearls at her slender neck, a long chiffon skirt that swirled at her pale-stockinged ankles, flats with grosgrain bows slippere
d her feet. She looked as innocent as the young girl in the gilt-framed painting in the hall, she thought upon passing it.
Standing just outside the library, she fidgeted nervously with a straw boater, then placed it atop her head, tucking a few fluttering tendrils of long curls behind her ears as she resettled the hat. Taking a deep breath, she entered the library where Grey waited.
She was making a conscious choice to continue playing out the game she’d willingly entered into with him.
Where would it end?
“Grey?” She didn’t see him at first.
“So you’re ready, then,” he said, looking over his shoulder from where he was replacing the diary among the books on the shelf.
Ready? She didn’t know about that. If someone had told her six months ago that she would enter into this bizarre liaison, she would have told them they were crazy. But then she wasn’t the same person who had left her husband.
In fact she wasn’t quite sure who she was. Or even why she was doing what she was doing.
When her unwed mother had died in childbirth, her course in life had been set. She’d grown up no one’s child. When she’d met her husband, she’d reacted to his affection like a wilting flower to water. Living alone for the past six months had been lonely, so perhaps that was why she enjoyed Grey’s obsession with her.
Whoever she was, she was allowing him to dominate her in the process of exploring her intimate boundaries as a woman. Boundaries she had repressed during her marriage.
“You haven’t said where we’re going,” she said as he thumbed the spines of the matching diaries on the shelf before him.
“Going? We aren’t going anywhere,” he said, pulling another journal from the shelf and turning to face her.
“Then why am I dressed like…why are we dressed like this?”
He shrugged casually. “I thought you’d like it, that it would lend a certain atmosphere to our afternoon….”
“You mean you like it—the playacting, the costumes, all of it. Don’t you?”
“Don’t you?”.
She looked down at her attire. “Well, yes, it’s very pretty, but—”
He stopped her, placing his forefinger to her lips. “Hush, you think too much. Just this once, don’t think, okay? Just allow yourself anything. Grant yourself permission to yield to temptation.”
His eyes—how would she ever be able to deny them anything?
Anything at all.
She nodded her acquiescence.
“Good. Come along then.”
“Why are you bringing that journal along?” she asked.
“I thought we could read aloud to each other.”
“From that!” Zoe exclaimed, her voice cracking.
“Don’t be such a goose,” he said, tweaking her nose. Taking her hand, he swept her along beside him through the hall and on outside. “I’ve got a surprise to show you,” he promised, leading her down the path beyond the château.
She averted her eyes from the carved wooden bench and the garden hose still lying beside it like a sly serpent. She could feel color stain her cheeks as the scene replayed in her mind and was relieved Grey didn’t appear to notice as she trailed along beside him.
“Have you no curiosity at all?” he asked.
“Curiosity?”
“About my surprise….”
“I’m not sure I even like surprises,” she objected.
“Well then, humor me and try to pretend you like mine,” he suggested when they came upon a hedge of tall cedars.
“Close your eyes.”
“Why? What’s this?”
“Just close your eyes and trust me.”
Reluctantly she did as he wished and allowed him to lead her through the cedars.
“Okay, you can open your eyes now.”
Zoe blinked, adjusting her eyes to the bright sunlight and saw a long rectangular grass court. The reason for the tall cedar hedge was explained: the cedars stood sentry, keeping wayward croquet balls from sailing into the nearby woods.
“It’s lovely.”
“Isn’t it?” Grey agreed, as he set about putting up the game. “Imagine having a private croquet court tucked away like this.” In short order he had the wickets all set up for a game.
“I bet they held family tournaments here with grand lawn parties,” Zoe said, taking a practice swing with a wooden mallet.
“Do you know how to play?” Grey asked, striding over to select a red ball and its matching mallet with a red stripe near its base.
“Do you?” Zoe asked in return. A warm, gentle breeze swayed the tall cedars, bringing their scent to her as she selected the blue ball to match her mallet.
“Piece of cake,” he bragged with a broad wink. “I’ve been reading up on it. You don’t stand a chance, chérie. I’m going to wipe you all over the court.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I might be pretty good. I grew up with boy cousins.”
“Yeah, but you’re still a woman.”
“What?”
“You’re a woman,” Grey repeated with a careless shrug. “That’s why I’m being a gentleman and letting you go first,” he said, stepping back and motioning her toward the double iron wicket one had to hit the ball through to start the croquet match.
She shot him a look of supreme annoyance, then gritted her teeth. Lining up her mallet, she hit the ball true.
“Well, I’ll be damned, you are good.”
“I told you,” she said, missing her second shot.
“But not that good.” He laughed at her miss.
“Want to bet?” she countered, wanting to take her impulsive words back the minute she’d said them.
“Do I get a handicap?” he asked, missing his shots.
“Only if you beat me,” she muttered, smiling with sweet malice as she swung her mallet wickedly.
“But you’re so much more advanced than me, you said so yourself.”
“I am, aren’t I?” she said, pleased as she passed her ball through the next wicket, only to set up an impossible position for the next shot, which she missed.
Upending her mallet, she leaned at an angle to the grass, using it as a makeshift chair.
Concentrating, Grey made his shot. “Okay, I’ll take the bet without a handicap.”
“Done,” Zoe agreed when his next shot went wide of the wicket.
Leaning against his mallet, watching Zoe as she set up her next shot, Grey said, “Loser of the match grants the winner one wish.”
“I’ll be thinking on what my wish will be,” Zoe said, not putting enough English on her swing, so that her ball rolled short of the wicket.
“I won’t,” Grey said to himself, pleased the afternoon was going to go as planned. It was time to resort to unscrupulous trickery. Dispensing with the chess aspect of the game, he stepped up to his ball and swung, sending Zoe’s ball rocketing.
“You can’t do that!”
“Oh, but I can. Care to have a look at the rule book?”
“But that’s crooked.”
“And where do you think the name croquet comes from, chérie? It means little crook… You know, as in by hook or by crook. The original mallet was a shepherd’s crook and there has always been a crooked element to the game… it’s part of its appeal. You can play the game and get someone’s goat… so to speak.”
“All this was in that book of instructions you read?”
He nodded smugly. “Want to know more about the history of the game?”
No, she didn’t. What she wanted… what she really wanted was to take off her straw boater and sail it through the air at his head, like she’d seen one of the villains do with his steel-rimmed top hat in a James Bond movie—but it would be such a shame to lop off such a lovely head.
In short, she wanted to beat him at his own game. She wanted to win so she could gloat—childish though that might seem.
She didn’t win.
&
nbsp; Even though she mounted a diabolical chase, she was outmalleted by Grey.
She wasn’t a good loser, stalking off the croquet field to where he stood at the edge, holding his mallet over his head in victory.
He looked down at her sardonically. “Did you ever think your husband might have had some reasons for what he did?” Grey asked. “Or are you the sort of woman who insists on having things go her way?”
She took the thermos of lemonade he offered. “I wouldn’t know what my husband’s reasons were…he didn’t talk to me.”
“Perhaps he wasn’t any good at talking. Most men aren’t,” Grey said, watching her sip from the thermos.
“This is good.” She licked the corner of her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Where did it come from?” She handed the flask back to him, wiping her brow with the, back of her wrist. “It’s gotten warm, hasn’t it?” A healthy color bloomed on her cheeks from the competition of the match.
“I brought it over with the croquet set earlier,” he explained. “I didn’t want to put you out after you’d gone through the ordeal of making me tea already today. Anyway, you’re changing the subject,” he observed, chugging down gulps of lemonade.
Zoe saw his throat working as a trickle of the tart drink slid down his jaw and dripped to mingle with a slight sheen of sweat on his tanned neck. She found herself wanting to lick off the trickling juice. “Stop it!”
“Okay, okay, if you don’t want to talk about your marriage…”
“It’s not that….” She couldn’t believe she’d voiced her thoughts. “Oh, never mind,” she said, forcing her eyes away from his lips, which were still damp from traces of the citrus drink. “I’m going back. These clothes are hot.”
He caught her wrist. “Not just yet.”
“What?” she demanded, pulling her wrist free of his grasp.
He folded his arms in front of his wide chest and studied her. “There’s the matter of the little debt you owe me.”
Forbidden Fantasy Page 6
