by Leslie Kelly
She would do it. Would leave Mr. Smooth quaking and humiliated by the time she got through with him.
Or she’d go down trying.
Go down. The image hit the wicked half of her brain with a vengeance and her legs started to shake again.
Stop it, Jade. Get your mind out of his pants!
All the muscles in her body tensed as she strove for control.
“You’re stiff again,” he said.
“Stiff. Yes,” she murmured, still more than a little unsettled with the undeniably erotic direction her thoughts had taken. Pretty bad to have those kind of thoughts about a man she’d hated before laying eyes on him. It had obviously been way too long since she’d had sex.
“Relax. You’re all tense because of silly Mrs. Brandywine.”
“She deserves to be taken down a peg.”
“Wasn’t it enough for her to be told that her dress looked like a dead bird?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.
Jade bit her lip, still unable to believe she’d given in and done exactly what she’d sworn to Tally she wouldn’t do. The cutting insult had just fallen off her lips, as naturally as could be. She hadn’t given it a moment’s thought.
“I guess I do have a bit of my mother in me.” Then, remembering what Mamie had said, went on to add, “Mrs. Brandywine hates my mother because Mama’s first husband was Mamie’s high school boyfriend.”
“High school. Long time to hold a grudge.”
Jade shrugged. “Long grudges aren’t unusual down here. Go bring up the Civil War to some of the old-timers.”
“No, I’m not that daring,” he said with a laugh.
The small band segued into yet another slow, dreamy melody. As they moved together, his leg slid between hers in a move too perfectly aimed to be accidental. She gasped at the contact, not expecting him to be so deliberately bold again so soon.
He tried to claim otherwise. “I’m not the best dancer.”
She sucked in a shaky breath. “You’re doing okay.” Then she repositioned herself and shot him a warning look, telling him she knew he’d done it intentionally. “But don’t try it again.”
He didn’t even apologize. Not that she’d expected him to. Instead he remained just out of reach, a breath separating them, so only the fronts of their bodies touched from shoulder to hip. The near-contact was driving her out of her mind. Her earlier curiosity returned in full force.
Long. Thick. Hard. And more…hot.
He radiated heat and energy, from the intensity in his green eyes to the strength in his hands to the breadth of his impossibly wide shoulders. The man screamed masculine, sexual, powerful and untamed.
And she was really going to try to tame him? No, not tame him, punish him?
Yet another feeling of uncustomary uncertainty flashed in her brain, which really irked her. She hadn’t been uncertain about anything related to sex for a long time. Not since deciding to lose her virginity to her college-age neighbor when she’d been in high school.
“Where are you?” he asked softly.
She shook her head and forced a smile and a trill of light laughter. “Right here. Can’t you feel me?”
He nodded, slowly, and pulled her tighter. A little too tight for propriety’s sake. Warmth built inside her. She felt a trickle of moisture on her upper lip. And elsewhere.
“Has this happened to you before?” He nearly whispered in her ear, his voice husky.
“What?”
“Something this instant?”
He didn’t have to elaborate. They both knew what he was talking about.
She answered with complete honesty. “No.” Then, because she didn’t want him getting too cocky, added, “Not this quickly, anyway. I think it usually takes at least a half hour and a glass of wine for me to determine compatibility.”
“So, should I be scared or glad that you’re drinking soda?”
“How did you know that?” she asked in surprise.
“I’ve been watching you very closely. All evening. Now, answer the question. Am I not worthy of wine yet?”
She chuckled, unable to resist his teasing expression, though she did worry about how observant he was. “I haven’t quite decided yet,” she said, needing to regroup and remind herself that the man was a pig and a creep and a despoiler of innocent young girls. Supposedly.
Jenny wouldn’t lie.
No, her sister wouldn’t outright lie. But she was something of a drama queen, which suited her desire to be an actress. Her tendency to exaggerate was well-known in the family, as well as to the Savannah police. Jade had gotten her sibling out of several scrapes, even stepping in to keep Mama in the dark when Jenny’s outrageous behavior got her into serious trouble.
But she couldn’t have lied about this. Jade had even seen a picture of them together. Though it had been poor quality, so his face was slightly blurred, she believed this was the man who’d been in the picture. He’d had his arm laid casually over Jenny’s shoulders, she looking exquisitely happy—as any woman would when being held by a man who looked like pure sex wrapped in an Armani suit.
Jenny hadn’t lied. Maybe he hadn’t meant to hurt her. Probably he hadn’t, given that even during their very brief acquaintance, she’d already realized that though he was a flirtatious, sexy playboy who turned on the charm with anyone female and breathing, he didn’t seem the type to abuse his power over women.
Unfortunately, he’d turned that charm on a young woman unable to handle it, and broken her heart. He was a grown man, thirty at least. Old enough to know better than to mess with a twenty-one-year-old kid. So whether he’d done it intentionally or not, Ryan Stoddard had to pay.
He would pay. And he would definitely know better by the time Jade finished with him.
“Now, we haven’t been properly introduced, have we?” he whispered, his breaths brushing her hair and tickling her ear. “Your name is Jade?”
She cleared her throat and replied, “Yes. Jade.” She didn’t offer her last name.
“I’m Ryan Stoddard.”
Definitely no mistake then. A stab of regret dashed through her as an unspoken wish that he might not be the rotten man she’d thought he was—that she’d made some colossal mistake and some other amazing architect had shown up at the party tonight—disappeared. She looked into his eyes, so clear and honest-looking. Any woman could get lost in them. Including a very young, impressionable woman.
She was once again forcibly reminded of the reason for tonight’s interaction. Revenge.
The crazy, sexy spell she’d been under dissipated. She finally managed to dig deep and reinforce her wavering determination by picturing Jenny in this man’s arms. That mental picture hurt. Badly. Maybe not for the right reasons, but it worked anyway. She didn’t pause to evaluate those reasons, sensing they could be based more on jealousy than family loyalty.
Family loyalty. It was all that really mattered when one grew up as she had. The name Dupré was associated with both power and loss, sadness and ancient scandal. The family had become adept at dealing with whispers and innuendo, envy and tragedy, until the Duprés had become almost a world unto themselves. That world was a safe haven where loyalty and love were valued above all. It was especially comforting to Jade that she was related to so many people here in Savannah.
One thing was sure, the Dupré women had withstood worse than playboys like Ryan Stoddard.
Back in control at last, Jade widened her lips into the smile perfected by generations of Southern women. Warm but not effusive. Friendly but not precisely welcoming. With a bit of Dupré woman thrown in—purely seductive.
“Well, welcome to Savannah, Ryan. I’ll try my best to make your stay as…memorable as possible.”
3
FOR THE NEXT HOUR, Jade concentrated on the plan. She put herself as a barrier between Ryan and any of the other women at the party who’d been giving him the eye. Tally, for some reason, seemed to want to help. She ran interference once or twice, including saying something to Ma
mie Brandywine that made the woman’s face turn as red as her long, fake fingernails.
While standing in a shadowy corner, nibbling on canapés and sipping her drink, she leaned forward and touched him as often as she could. Laughed at the appropriate moments. Batted her eyelashes like a stupid twit and all in all did whatever one did to try to attract a man. It had been a long time since she’d wanted to.
She didn’t want to consider whether or not she’d have been trying to attract Ryan Stoddard if she didn’t have to bring him down. Because the answer would probably be yes.
“So how do you like our town?” She pursed her lips a bit, inviting him to stare and remember their kiss. “And its people?”
He tilted his head and arched his brow, staring at her mouth for a long moment—as he was meant to. Finally, he shook his head and tightened his jaw before coming up with a reply. “How do you know I’m not from here?”
“I know,” she replied, certain she’d affected him. Men—they were all so utterly predictable. She gave him a warm laugh, inviting him to join in a gentle jibe at her hometown. “This is a small town for a modern city.”
She didn’t bother going into detail about how long her family had lived here, how many local families had ties to hers, and how her great-aunt was the local voodoo priestess who could name nearly every pureblooded Savannah resident.
“It’s interesting,” he said. “Different from New York.”
“Are you from there?” she asked, wanting to know more of his background, in case she needed to use it against him. She knew he’d met Jenny in New York City, but wasn’t entirely sure that was where he lived.
“Yep. Born and raised. Now I live in Manhattan.”
Manhattan. So he probably had money. He carried himself like a man completely comfortable with his finances.
She’d been to New York last month on one of her treasure-hunting trips, when she’d recovered an Impressionist painting from a very nice elderly couple who lived upstate. The painting had already been returned to the original plantation from which it had been stolen during the Civil War. The place now operated as a tourist destination outside the city and they were utterly thrilled to have the portrait back where it belonged.
For a second, she wondered if perhaps she’d spotted Ryan during her trip, and if that was why he’d seemed familiar to her when she’d first seen him tonight. Maybe her subconscious remembered him.
The picture, stupid.
Yeah, the picture of him with Jenny. No, it hadn’t been a great one, and she’d only seen it briefly. But it’d obviously made an impression. As did the man.
“Let me know when you decide you want that glass of wine, okay?” he said, eyeing her empty soda cup.
She knew what he meant. It had already been more than half an hour. No wonder he was getting confident. There’d been no hesitation, no doubt in his voice. He thought he had her. Hell, maybe he did. At least for an hour or so.
Until she could get him naked.
“All right,” she replied. “But for now, maybe we should just dance again.”
“Suits me fine.”
Suited her fine, too. Especially because, when they returned to the dance floor, he moved his cheek close to her hair and inhaled. She knew his head was filled with the special orange-blossom-and-almond conditioner Aunt Lula Mae made for her. His murmur of appreciation told her he liked it. He liked all of it.
Good. The man was making it incredibly easy. He’d sought her out—she hadn’t even had to make a move on him. When he looked back on things later, he’d have to remember that much, at least.
“You truly seem to fit in here,” he murmured as the music continued and they moved as carefully as possible amid the crush of people.
“You don’t.”
He chuckled. “Why not?”
“Blue suit. Genuine smile. Interested look.”
“That makes me stand out?”
“Like a June bug in a bowl of rice.”
He laughed again, looking down at her, eyes sparkling with interest. Dark green. Long lashed. Crinkled at the corners, probably from casting his wicked smile at any woman old enough to be affected by it.
He’s a heart-breaking reprobate! She struggled to remember that as he continued to smile down at her.
“I like Southerners.”
“We don’t particularly care for you-all.”
That made him laugh out loud.
She nibbled her lip, forcing her eyes to focus somewhere over his right shoulder so she wouldn’t get caught up again in his good humor, wouldn’t lose herself in his twinkling eyes and irresistible grin. Maybe dancing hadn’t been such a good idea. Hard to remember silly things like family honor and vengeance when being held closely by a man as fine as this one.
“Honesty. I like that in a woman.”
Well, darlin’, you’re not gonna like me very much, then.
“So tell me, how can I make myself fit in?”
“Got a few million dollars lying around?”
He shook his head.
“Genteel impoverished, but able to trace your lineage back to before the war?”
“Which war?”
She raised a brow and gave him a wounded look. “Whichever do you think?”
Their eyes met and she saw the laughter in his. He’d been teasing her, just as she’d been teasing him.
“I’m afraid I’m an Irish-English-German mutt,” he replied with a mournful-sounding sigh. “Can’t trace my roots further back than Ellis Island, for the most part.”
“But I bet you have good taste in beer. Irish, English, German?”
He nodded, still looking amused.
“Unfortunately, that doesn’t get you in with this crowd.”
“How about with you?”
“Are you offering to buy me a beer?” she asked, leaping on the opening he’d provided. The time had come to get him alone. Now—before her defenses dropped even further and she forgot she wasn’t allowed to like this man. “I doubt they serve it here.”
“I have some in the fridge up in my room.”
Ooh, cutting right to the chase. Trying to get her up to his room. How incredibly easy he was making this. And his smooth way of trying to get her alone reinforced her certainty that he was the creep her sister made him out to be, even though he’d been nothing but charming and friendly—if a bit flirtatious—all evening.
“I could meet you on the back patio for a cold one.”
Okay, so he wasn’t trying to get her to his room. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.
She’d thought through several scenarios. The original one had involved his hotel room, a bedpost, her long red scarf and a wide-open door. Because he’d moved to the Medford House, she’d have to modify things a bit.
But the scarf was still included.
“How do you know I’m the beer-drinking type?” she asked as he waited for her answer.
His expression screamed confidence, as if he knew all there was to know about her after an hour of conversation.
“Let me tell you what I’ve figured out about you.”
She smirked, daring him to be accurate.
“You’ve been nursing ginger ale all evening. Before I rescued you, you’d done nothing but look at the paintings, the furniture and that old necklace. You didn’t return one glance at one of the rich guys who’d probably love to invite you to bathe in champagne back at their pampered palaces.”
“Champagne bath? Sounds ticklish,” she retorted, though the mental image created a surge of warmth low in her body.
He ignored her. “Your foot was tapping with suppressed energy and your fingers clenched and released about thirty times a minute.”
“You were watching me that long, hmm?”
He didn’t try to deny it. “You had my complete attention the moment I became aware of your existence.”
There was a note of intensity, almost a growl in his voice, which surprised her. Again she wondered, briefly, if s
he’d ever met him before, perhaps on one of her trips to track down and retrieve artifacts stolen from local families during the war.
But she knew she hadn’t. This was one man she would never have been able to forget.
“Your face, your mouth, your eyes, your body, they were all saying one thing,” he continued, uncaring of the open ears surrounding them on the dance floor.
Take me?
“Bored.”
That, too.
“Bored enough to want to do something different.” His voice lowered, and there was an unmistakably suggestive tone in it. “Maybe something crazy. Which is why I decided to shock you out of your boredom during our initial conversation.”
Oh, yeah, their initial conversation. The one that had included mention of her nipples and breasts, both of which were still aching as their bodies brushed against each other.
“I’m still not sure I’ve forgiven you.”
“I don’t think I asked for forgiveness.”
Again that confidence. That suggestive—not salacious—tone. He was a self-assured man who’d noted their instant attraction and was acting on it without games, without the typical steps of flirtation. She liked that about him. Damn, she liked him more and more the longer she remained in his arms.
“Are you sure you’re not a P.I. or something? You’re pretty good at watching people,” she said.
Her tone was teasing, though she was a teensy bit worried. If she didn’t know for certain he was an architect, she might have thought the P.I. thing was nearer to the truth. The man was incredibly observant!
“You’re very interesting to watch,” he said, his voice low and only for her ears. “Fascinating.” Then he lightened up. “Besides, it beats watching the white-haired guy with the ruffled shirt trying to look down the blouse of every cocktail server here.”
She followed his glance. “Mr. Sherman. Disgusting, but harmless, especially since his wife tried to castrate him back in the seventies.”
He stopped dancing, nearly stumbling on his own feet. His eyes were wide and she merely shrugged. The story was an old one.
