by Nora Roberts
He closed the distance between them and, taking the bracelet, circled it around her wrist. “And we both know you will.” He fastened it with a quiet click that echoed in her head.
“I suppose we do. I’ve a hard time resisting the beautiful and extravagant.”
“Why resist?” Firmly, possessively, he laid his hands on her shoulders, ran them down the arms of her robe. “I don’t intend to.”
It wasn’t the way he’d planned it. He’d imagined it all very civilized. Drinks, then the sort of elegant dinner she’d enjoy, a quiet ride home, then a smooth, practiced seduction that would please them both.
But here she was, in that long robe, her skin warm and fragrant from her bath, her eyes wary and watchful.
Why resist?
His gaze held hers as he loosened the tie of her robe. He watched the heat flicker in that deep, deep blue, heard the quick and quiet catch of her breath. Lowering his mouth to hers, he captured that breath, skimmed his hands under the thin material to trail his fingers up and down her sides.
“Now.” He murmured it, surprised that he had to fight off a shudder at just the touch of his fingertips to her flesh.
“Well, then.” She let her body have its way, lifted her arms around him.
He meant to go slowly, to savor, to take them both up level by level. But the moment her mouth answered his, the instant her body pressed to his, greed swallowed him. It was as if he’d been waiting his whole life to taste this, to touch this, to have this.
He jerked the robe off her shoulders and set his teeth on her.
She gave a muffled cry, both pleasure and shock. In that flash of heat, she forgot all about role playing, motivation, consequences. Desperate for more, she tugged at his jacket, yanked and pulled until it was in a heap on the floor. His mouth was savaging hers, her hands dragging at his tie as they stumbled to the bed.
Light going dim with evening poured through the windows, and the busy sounds of London traffic swished and coughed on the street below. The grand clock in the hall struck the hour of five. Then the only sound in the room were gasps and murmurs.
She rolled with him over the luxurious duvet, sinking in, sliding over. Her fingers fought with the buttons of his shirt, and his pulled her robe aside. The weight of him pushed her deep into the covers, like sinking into clouds of silk, she thought, then he took her breast in his mouth and she didn’t think at all.
Fire and light and the sharp saber points of desire, the wild, unsteady roll of sheer lust. It filled her, and burned in the blood, and pushed a raw cry of delight from her throat.
“Hurry.” She all but chanted it. “Hurry, hurry, hurry.” She’d die without him inside her. Frantically she struggled with the hook of his trousers.
His fingers shook. The roar in his head was a thousand waves pounding on a thousand rocks. All he knew was that to wait a moment longer would destroy him.
Her hips arched toward him, and he drove into her in one violent thrust.
Their twin groans rippled the air, and their eyes met— shock mirroring shock. For a heartbeat, then two, they stared at each other.
Then it was all movement, a frantic mating driven by hot blood. Flesh against flesh, the ragged strain of quickened breath, the low cry of a woman at peak. Bodies plunged together in a slick and sensuous dance.
She came again, staggered that there could be so much, so very much. As her hands slid limply onto the rumpled covers, she felt him fall with her. And thought he said her name.
She lay still, wrecked, wonderfully wrecked, with his face buried in her hair and his long, lovely body pressing hers into the bed. Now she knew, she thought, just what happened when his control snapped. And oh, it was a wild and marvelous thing.
His heart still hammered, she could feel it knocking against hers. Drifting on that gilded plateau of contentment, she turned her head and skimmed her lips over his shoulder.
That one gesture had him opening his eyes, struggling to clear his head again. She seemed soft as water under him, limp as melted wax and nothing like the frenzied woman who’d urged him to hurry. He knew he’d have taken her fast and hard in any case. He’d never needed anything, anyone, the way he’d needed Darcy at that moment. As if his very survival depended upon it.
A dangerous woman, he thought. And found he didn’t give a damn. He wanted her again. And again.
“Don’t go to sleep,” he murmured.
“I’m not.” But her voice was thick and rough and at the sound of it his blood heated once more. “I’m just considerably relaxed.” She opened her eyes and pondered the plasterwork of scrolls and stars on the ceiling. “And enjoying the view.”
“Late eighteenth century.”
“Isn’t that interesting?” Amused, she stretched under him like a cat, then ran her hands over his back, more for her pleasure than his. “Would that be Georgian or rococo? I never can keep my historical periods straight.”
It made him grin and lift his head to look down at her. “I’ll give you the full tour with a lesson later if you like. But just now . . .” He began to move inside her again.
“Oh, well, now,” she murmured. “You’re a healthy one, aren’t you?”
“If you don’t have your health”—he lowered his head, bit her lip—“you don’t have anything.”
He was a man of his word and took her to dinner. French food served elegantly enough to soothe, fussily enough to amuse, with wine designed to turn golden on the tongue. The surroundings—gilt mirrors, quiet colors, candlelight glowing in crystal—suited her, Trevor thought. No one looking at the stunning woman in the sleek and simple black dress would imagine her waiting tables in an Irish pub.
Another skill of hers, he decided, a chameleon’s ability to alter her image at will. The sassy barmaid, the heartbreaking singer, the sexy delight, the breezy sophisticate.
And which, he wondered, was Darcy Gallagher, at the heart?
He waited until she was sipping champagne with her elaborate dessert before he touched on business.
“One of my meetings today involved you.”
She glanced over, momentarily distracted from her debate of whether eating every bite of that fancy and extraordinary concoction on her plate would be bourgeois.
“Me? Oh, you mean the theater?”
“No, though I had some dealings regarding that, too.”
She decided she could safely eat half of it without looking like a complete bumpkin, and spooned up a glorious combination of cream and chocolate. “What other business might I be a part of?”
“Celtic Records.” He gauged his rhythm. One more aspect of her was the businesswoman, and he didn’t underestimate that side of her.
She frowned a little, lifted her glass. “For the recording of Shawn’s music, and the performance at the opening. That’s a family decision and a family enterprise, I suppose you’d call it. I think we’ll be willing to come to terms on that.”
“I hope you will.” Casually, he sampled a bite of her dessert. “But that isn’t what I meant. I’m speaking of you, Darcy, specifically, exclusively.”
Her pulse jumped, so she set the champagne down again. “Exclusively, in what way exactly?”
“I want your voice.”
“Ah.” She squashed the hard jolt of disappointment. It had no place here, she told herself. “Is that why you brought me here, Trevor?”
“In part. And that part is totally separate from what happened this evening.”
When his hand covered hers, she glanced down, studied the way they fit. Then, because that was too romantic a notion for comfort, she looked back up at him. “ Naturally such matters must remain separate, or they’re altogether a mess, aren’t they? You wouldn’t be a man who usually pursues, what would it be, clients, in this sort of way.”
He drew back from her, his eyes going hard as stone. “I don’t use sex as a lever, if that’s what you mean. Being lovers has nothing whatsoever to do with any of our business dealings.”
“Of cou
rse not. And if we could only have one or the other, which would it be?”
“That,” he said stiffly, “would be up to you.”
“I see.” She managed a faint smile. “That’s good to know. You’ll excuse me a moment, won’t you?”
She needed to gather herself, to give her head and heart a chance to settle. Leaving him frowning after her, she walked to the ladies’ room, where she could lean on the pretty tiled counter and get hold of herself.
What was wrong with her? The man was offering her a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, one that was hers to take or discard as she pleased. Why should it hurt? Why did it leave her feeling not just unsettled but unhappy as well?
Somehow she had come to weave romantic notions around Trevor Magee without even being aware of doing so. And those notions, those imaginings, had him caring for her. Caring for who she was, with all her many flaws. Caring with no strings attached, no outside interests connected. Just caring, she thought, and closing her eyes, she lowered herself to sit on the padded stool in front of the mirror.
Her own fault, of course. He stirred something in her that no one else ever had. And he’d come very close, dangerously close, to touching something so deep in her heart that she had trouble recognizing just what it was.
But she thought she could fall in love with him, with very little effort. And perhaps no encouragement at all. Then what?
Steadying herself, she looked in the mirror. Face the facts, Darcy. A man like Trevor didn’t tie himself permanently to a woman of her background and limitations. Sure, she could present herself well, play the game skillfully, but under it all she was and would forever be Darcy Gallagher of Ardmore, who worked the family pub.
Another type of man she could twist around her finger and make him forget such mundane matters. And hadn’t she always planned to? Hadn’t she hoped to find a fine, wealthy man one day who would fall under her spell and give her a life full of luxury? She’d have been willing to fall in love, or at least to have a great fondness for the man who fit the bill. She’d have wanted to respect him and enjoy him and would have given him all her affection and her loyalty in return.
That wasn’t shameful.
But Trevor wasn’t a man who would see only a pleasing face. He’d just given her proof of that. Business was very much a part of what he wanted from her, and a deal for mutual profit marched alongside the attraction.
Passion, she thought, such as they’d found in each other, would flame high and fizzle out. She didn’t have to be a romantic like Jude to know that passion without love was short-lived.
So . . . it was best to be sensible and to take as much of both parts he offered her as she pleased. She rose, squared her shoulders, and went out to join him.
He’d ordered coffee and was brooding into it. He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or baffled that the sorrow he was certain had been in her eyes when she’d risen wasn’t there as she sat across from him again.
“I’m not sure I made myself clear,” he began, but she shook her head, smiled easily.
“No, you did. But I wanted a moment to think.” She picked up her spoon, had another taste of dessert. “First, tell me about Celtic Records. You said, on the plane, the company is six years old.”
“That’s right. I had an interest in music, traditional in particular. My mother’s fond of it.”
“Is she?”
“She’s fourth generation. You’d think she’d been born in a crofter’s cottage in County Mayo. She’s fiercely Irish.”
“So you started the company for your mother.”
“No.” Then he found himself fumbling, frowning. Of course he had, in a very real way. Why hadn’t he realized that before? For God’s sake, he’d even named it for her. “Partly. I suppose.”
“I think that’s a lovely thing.” And made her want to stroke his hair. “Why does it befuddle you?”
“It’s business.”
“So’s the pub, but it’s family as well. I like your Celtic Records more for knowing it’s both. It’s more important to you, and you’ll take more care of it, because it’s both. I prefer considering dealings with a company that’s well cared for.”
“This one is. And so are the artists we sign. We’re based in New York, but we’ve cracked the international market, so we have an office here. And we’ll open one in Dublin within the year.”
We, thought Darcy, almost never did he say I when speaking of it. She doubted it was modesty, but more a keen sense and appreciation of teamwork. It made her think of the pub again, and she nodded. “What kind of arrangement are you looking for? Business-wise,” she added, pleased when his eyes narrowed.
“A standard recording contract.”
“Well, now, I wouldn’t know what that entails, having no experience in the area.” She studied him over the rim of her champagne flute, and went with impulse. “But it seems wise for me to engage an agent to discuss the matter with you if I decide it interests me. To be frank, Trevor, I don’t know as I want to make a living singing, but I’ll listen to your offer.”
He should have left it at that. Every business instinct ordered him to simply nod and move on to some other topic. But he leaned forward. “I’ll make you rich.”
“That’s a particular ambition of mine.” She scooped up more dessert, offered it to him. “And it may be, in the end, that I’ll let you help me achieve it.”
He took her wrist. “You’ll have everything you’ve ever wanted. A hell of a lot more than you’ve ever dreamed of.” And felt her pulse scramble.
“Christ, you know how to make the mouth water. But I’m not one to leap without looking.”
Relaxed again, he nodded. “No, you’re not. I like that about you. I like damn near everything about you.”
“Are you speaking to a potential client, or to your lover?”
He cupped the back of her neck and brought his mouth to hers, lingering long enough to make a few heads turn. “Clear enough?”
“I’d say that was crystal. Why don’t you take me back and make love with me until neither of us can think about anything at all?”
“Why don’t I?” he agreed, and signaled for the check.
In the morning he rose while she was sleeping. He wanted to clear away the rest of his business as quickly as possible and spend the remainder of the day with her.
Shopping, he thought as he dressed. She’d enjoy that. He’d turn her loose in one of the boutiques and buy her whatever caught her fancy. Take her to tea at the Ritz, then seduce her into a private dinner at home.
If it made him a little uncomfortable, even a little ashamed to realize that he was showing off, trying to dazzle her with what he had at his disposal, he’d just have to live with it.
Damn it, he wanted another day with her. Two. A week. Somewhere they could be alone, without any distractions, any interruptions, any thought of business.
They’d burn each other out, he supposed, but Jesus, it would be a hell of a ride before they crashed.
On a whim, he pulled one of the white roses from the vase, scribbled a quick note and laid it on the pillow beside her. Then he found himself sitting on the side of the bed watching her. That perfect face, serene in sleep. All that glorious hair tumbled from his own hand in the night. The bracelet he’d given her flashed and blinked on her wrist, and he knew she wore nothing else.
But his blood didn’t leap with lust. Rather it ran warm. Affection, he told himself. It was just affection, running alongside the desire he felt for her. He hadn’t been glib when he’d told her he liked almost everything about her. She was a woman who attracted, entertained, challenged, annoyed, and amused. He understood her materialistic streak and didn’t blame her for it.
But for a moment, just one foolish moment, he wished they’d met and clicked just as they had without her knowing the generosity of his bank balance.
She’d told him her mind right at the beginning. She wanted money, she wanted luxury. And she was willing to slide into a union with
the right man, as long as he was willing and able to provide them.
He didn’t intend to be taken for his money. Not now, not ever. Even if he was willing to use it to entertain them both in the short-term.
Shrugging that off, he leaned over to brush a kiss across her cheek, then left her sleeping.
She didn’t stir for more than an hour after he’d gone, then rolled over lazily. The first thing she saw when she blinked her eyes open was the rose.
It made her smile, and it made her yearn. She reached for it, stroking its petals as she sat up and read his note.
I’ll be done by two, and pick you up. I’m hoping you’ll put yourself in my hands for the rest of the afternoon. Trev.
She’d certainly put herself in his hands the night before, she thought now and contentedly settled back against the pillows. What a lovely, lovely way to wake, she mused and stroked the rosebud against her cheek. She considered wandering down for breakfast, or being completely indulgent and ordering it up so she could have it in bed like royalty.
The second picture had such appeal that she reached for the phone. When it rang, she jerked back, then laughed at herself.
She didn’t think she was supposed to answer it, so she climbed out of bed for her robe. The knock on her door came as she was belting it.
“Yes, come in.”
“Excuse me, Miss Gallagher, but Mr. Magee’s on the telephone and would like to speak with you.”
“Of course, thank you.” Darcy picked up the rose again and feeling blissfully romantic and lazy, lifted the receiver. “Trevor, hello. I’ve just read your note, and I’d be happy to put myself in your hands.”
“I’m on my way back now.”
“This minute? It’s a while till two.”
“Darcy, I have to get back to Ardmore right away. Mick O’Toole’s been injured on the job.”
“Injured?” She leaped to her feet. “How? Is he all right? What happened?”
“He took a fall. He’s in the hospital. I just heard and I don’t have all the details.”
“I’ll be ready to go when you get here. Hurry.”
