Clay’s eyes blazed, but his lips were twitching. He clearly didn’t know whether to be angry that she’d lied to him, or amused by her attempt to keep him at bay. This was going to be very interesting. He decided to let her think he was angry. “To whom?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing to mere slits.
“To Uncle Ev—um, I mean Mr. Burke—you know, your employer, Everett Burke.” She spun away from him so he wouldn’t see her eyes roll heavenward. Oh, my God, what a stupid thing to say! How could I have dragged Uncle Everett into this?
“Everett Burke! He’s an old man!” Clay protested in disbelief.
She squared her shoulders, determined to see this fiasco through with as much aplomb as possible. ‘He’s only sixty-three,” she said caustically. “A man his age is really considered quite young these days.”
“Only sixty three.” Clay raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And you’re what—twenty-two, twenty-three?”
“I’m twenty-eight,” she replied stiffly, “not that it’s any of your business.”
“I’m making it my business. The man’s old enough to be your grandfather.” Without warning, he seized her left hand, tightening his fingers painfully when she tried to snatch it away.
“Owww!” She winced and he loosened his grip, but didn’t release her hand. He just turned it over and stood staring at the back of it as if expecting to find the answers to the mysteries of the universe written there.
It was several seconds before she realized the significance of his action. No ring! There was no engagement ring! And the tell-tale mark left by her wedding band, which she had just recently removed and thrown in Richard’s face the last time he’d had the audacity to demand that she give him money, was vivid against the new tan of her fingers. Color stained her cheeks, but when he raised his head in inquiry, she was able to make herself meet his eyes boldly. “We haven’t made a formal announcement yet,” she lied with a trace of defiance in her voice. “I wanted to wait—just to make sure we were doing the right thing.”
“What’s the matter, Ms. Stanhope?”
“Doctor Stanhope.”
He shrugged. “Wasn’t your first husband rich enough to suit you?” Christ, what was the matter with him? Why was he pushing her like this? Because she’s lying to me. Because I don’t want to start any relationship with lies between us.
Her face went white, her hand flew to her throat. “I-I—“”unable to speak, she jerked her head away from him, so he wouldn’t see the agony mirrored in her eyes. Actually, it had been the other way around. She hadn’t been rich enough for Richard. He’d married her mainly because he expected she would inherit Everett Burke’s millions. The night Uncle Everett had had his first heart attack, Richard had been hard put to hide his elation. He’d even started talking about how they were going to spend her inheritance money. When she’d told him the truth, that Uncle Everett was leaving the bulk of his fortune to his life partner, Daniel Rayburn, with only a small bequest to her, he’d become incensed. Accused her of tricking him into marriage. Accused her of a lot of other vile things, too, none of them true, but hurtful just the same.
“What are you saying?”
He shrugged. “I should think that would be fairly obvious. You’re marrying a man more than twice your age. And it’s clear, from the way you responded to me just now, that you’re not marrying him for love. So it must be his money you’re after.”
She gasped. “How dare you say such a thing!” she cried, fury making her voice shrill. “You know nothing of my relationship with Everett Burke and you have no right to make such a judgment!” Inwardly she groaned. How could she have let this situation get so completely out of hand? What had seemed like such a good idea—keeping Clay Knight at arms’ length—was rapidly turning into a nightmare. He’d stay at arms’ length, all right, but only because he thought she was an unscrupulous fortune hunter who used her body to seduce wealthy older men.
“Are you telling me you’re actually in love with a man nearly three times your age?” Clay asked quietly, pushing her deliberately.
“He’s only twice my age. And I’m telling you nothing,” she bit out icily, “because it’s none of your damned business. Now please get out of my room.” She spun away from him and strode over to the massive four-poster bed, pulling her suitcase behind her, her heels clicking sharply on the handmade tiles of the floor. She swung her suitcase up onto the silken bedspread and unzipped the zippers with sharp, angry movements. She started to raise the lid when she was grabbed from behind and spun sharply around. She cried out as his fingers gouged into the soft flesh of her upper arms.
“Let me go,” she demanded angrily.
But he didn’t let her go. Instead, he pulled her against him with one steely arm, while lifting his other hand to caress her cheek with a touch that was so gentle, it was difficult for Leah to reconcile the conflicting sensations. “You’re lying to me, little girl,” he said softly, almost crooning the words. “That is unacceptable.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but he just placed his finger over her lips and moved his lips across her cheek. “Do you know what happens to little girls who lie?”
I’m not a little girl, she wanted to say, but her brain had short-circuited and she couldn’t summon the words.
“They get a spanking.”
Holy crap! Her body jerked as if in protest at the very thought, but he just kept on holding her easily with one arm, replacing his finger over her lips with his mouth in another devastating kiss that stifled her protests and drowned her will to resist. Everything about him swamped her senses. Everything he said. Everything he did. Everything he was.
“I would love to spank your ass,” he went on, lifting his mouth just enough to speak against her lips. “I would love to see my handprints blossom on your creamy white skin, watching it turn a bright, beautiful red.”
“No,” she moaned.
He lifted his head. “Then stop lying to me!”
“I’m not lying to you!”
“You are not marrying Everett Burke.” His voice was an angry rasp.
“I am too!” she cried, her fury matching his own. God, this was getting worse and worse. Why had she ever started this? And how was she ever going to get out of it? By hoping to avoid being a target for Clay Knight’s sexuality, she had left herself wide open for his hatred and contempt. “Everett Burke happens to love me very much.”
That much, at any rate, was true. He did love her…like a daughter. . And she loved him as dearly as she’d loved her own father.
“And you?” Clay snarled, his eyes hard and glittering like black diamonds. They bore into her anguished green ones as if he were trying to see into her very soul. He recognized that she was scared of her visceral reaction to him. But he needed her to face what was between them and accept it. “Do you love him very much?”
“Of course.” She lifted her chin, but her eyes faltered under the piercing challenge of his gaze. Suddenly angry, she pushed her hands violently against his chest, twisting her body in a frantic struggle to get free. “You have no right to question me like this. Let me go!”
Surprisingly, he released her. She bowed her head and stood, arms crossed over her chest, rubbing her upper arms where the marks from his fingers were beginning to show. She bit her lip, willing him to leave.
But he didn’t leave. “Have you let him make love to you?” Clay pressed on, his voice raw with some unnamed emotion. He seemed oblivious to her distress. “Have you let him touch you…kiss you…caress you?”
“Please…” It was a low moan, choked with tears. “Leave me alone. Just…leave me alone. I don’t—I can’t—”She sank down on the edge of the bed, wiping at her eyes with trembling hands.
And then her phone rang.
“Please go.” She turned her back on him and fumbled around in her purse on the bed, looking for her cell. It was Uncle Everett. “I have to take this.”
Clay’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides as he stood look
ing at her, an unfathomable expression on his dark, masculine face. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then turned on his heel and left the room.
* * * *
“Damn!” Heaving a sigh of frustration, Leah tossed back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the Italian Renaissance bed. The clock on the nightstand said 2:45 A.M. What was the matter with her? She’d never had trouble sleeping before—not even during the worst of her problems with Richard. In fact, during those years, she had slept more than ever. It had been a refuge from the mounting torment of her marriage and divorce.
So, why couldn’t she get to sleep now? She was certainly tired enough. In fact, she was exhausted, but just couldn’t seem to relax. Her mind refused to shut down, replaying every moment of that day’s encounter with Clay Knight. Revisiting very word, reliving every caress.
She groaned. She could still smell him on her, still feel the heat of his skin where he’d touched her. Not even the long, steamy shower she’d taken before dinner had been able to wash his scent away.
They had eaten dinner in the kitchen with Mrs. Murdock, listening to her talk about growing up during the London blitz, then Clay had left to skim the pool, leaving Leah feeling oddly bereft. She had spent the rest of the evening exploring the treasures in the library, the study, and both sitting rooms. The library was a treasure trove of rare first editions, as well as several dozen one-of-a-kind, leather-bound, hand-written, magnificently illuminated Books of Hours dating as far back as the twelfth century. The paintings, furnishings, and decorative items in the study and the two sitting rooms alone would fetch handsome sums at auction. The entire house was a treasure trove and she could hardly wait to begin her appraisal.
But right now she needed to unwind and relax. Her flight had been precipitous, almost as if Uncle Everett had taken this commission at the last minute and decided to send her instead of sending Daniel or coming himself. She slipped out of bed. The uneven tiles were cool beneath her feet as she shrugged into her lacy robe and padded silently across the floor and out into the private garden. According to Mrs. Murdock, it was the previous owner’s favorite place on the entire estate, and Leah could well understand why.
Passing beneath a pair of drooping bottle brush trees, she lifted her hand to let one of the fragile, feathery red blossoms brush softly across her palm. She went down the stepping-stone path to the grotto at the north end of the garden. The moonlight gleamed softly on the ornamental tiles of the Moorish fountain, silvering the jets of water splashing into the pool. She sank down on one of the wrought iron benches, hoping the soft music of the water and the scented warmth of the summer night would soothe the strange restlessness that gripped her.
She tried to empty her mind of all thought, but it was impossible. The persistent image of Clay Knight refused to be dislodged, making her thoughts seem fragmented and scattered.
“Damn!” She sighed, rubbing her forehead wearily. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? He was nothing to her. A stranger. In spite of his soul-destroying kisses and her unresisting response to them. In spite of his certainty that they’d been lovers before in past lives. In spite of the way her body ached for the ecstasy promised by his touch.
Good God! She had to stop thinking about him. Had to stop caring about him. He was nothing to her—nothing but a temporarily employed local, and as soon as Julio was out of the hospital, Clay Knight would be through with this job and on his way. She’d never see him again.
Good, she thought with a brisk nod of her head. The sooner the better. But even as she thought that she was swept by an agonizing sense of loss and she felt frustration returning. Thanks to the lies she’d told in her attempt to shield her emotions from his undeniable appeal, he now thought she was a shameless gold-digger No wonder he’d left her alone after dinner. Probably couldn’t bear to be in the same room with her.
Heaving a sigh, she rose from the bench and moved over to sit on the edge of the fountain, trailing her fingers through the warm, moon-dappled water. If only I’d never met him. If only I’d never discovered just how vulnerable I am to men. She shook her head. No, not men. Man. This man. Clay Knight. She gave a small, sad smile. She’d never reacted this way to any man before, never experienced this wild singing of her senses, this total abandonment of herself.
Shaking off her feeling of vulnerability, Leah stood abruptly. She did not want to think about Clay Knight and her responses to him. Hugging herself and rubbing her arms briskly, she walked over to one of the bougainvillea-draped arches that opened onto the vast Atlantic, black and sparkling in the silver moonlight. Ornamental wrought iron grilles kept out intruders while admitting the cool, salt-tanged ocean breeze. She lifted her head and closed her eyes, letting her arms fall to her sides as the moist night air glided over her heated skin through the thin silk of her nightgown.
Like a lover’s touch. The thought came unbidden from nowhere. Clay’s touch.
Startled, she opened her eyes and turned back toward the garden. She didn’t want to think about Clay. But his persistent image was difficult to banish. She remembered everything about him, the hard, warm feel of his body against hers, the pressure of his hands stroking her, lighting fires wherever they touched, his hot breath mingling with hers as he’d claimed her mouth—
Okay, that’s enough! Her mind shrieked it at her. Shutting her eyes, she pressed shaking fingers against her temples. But she could not blot out the look of him, the masculine smell of him, the feel of…With a groan, she turned and walked swiftly back through the garden into her bedroom. Obviously she wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight, so she might as well put her excess energy to good use.
Without bothering to turn on the light, she removed her nightgown and groped around in the top drawer of the massive armoire until she found her faded green bathing suit, a modest two-piece. Donning it swiftly, she grabbed a thick towel from the bathroom and padded silently through the darkened house.
She didn’t bother turning on the pool lights, either, not that she knew where the switch was. She just dropped her towel onto one of the chaise longues scattered about the deck and walked down the steps into the shallow end of the pool. The water slid silkily up her bare legs, cool and wonderfully refreshing. With a powerful forward thrust, Leah jack-knifed below the surface and skimmed along the bottom until her fingers touched the wall at the deep end. Lowering her feet to the smooth, tiled bottom, she propelled herself upward, surfacing with a throaty laugh and a spray-splattering shake of her head. God, this water feels good!
Clinging to the edge of the pool, she lifted her feet until they were flat against the side between her arms. She gave herself a gentle push, floating out into the water on her back. She lay motionless, staring up at the charcoal gray sky.
The sky was so beautiful—amazingly light, as if the sun were still hovering just over the horizon. Stars were tiny, twinkling lights pinned to the velvet backdrop of the night, alternately revealed and obliterated by the billowy clouds floating silently overhead. Too bad she didn’t have an air mattress to float on, she mused. She’d just spend the rest of the night out here.
Where is Clay Knight spending the night? The thought ambushed her from behind. Is he upstairs in his bedroom, sleeping peacefully? Or was he, too, awake, gripped by the same restlessness which robbed her of her own sleep?
She came up sputtering and coughing, angered at her inability to control her thoughts when it came to that man. Then, pressing her lips together in a grim line, she set the water churning with her feet as she surged forward in a steady, determined forward crawl.
* * * *
Clay stood in the shadow of the gazebo, watching Leah swim back and forth across the pool, her body glistening pale ivory in the moonlight. He longed for a cigarette, even though he’d stopped smoking over ten years ago and even though he couldn’t have lit one without alerting her to his presence. Instead, he remained immobile, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, fighting the surge of desire that had hardened his
cock as his eyes followed the graceful movements of her lush body. What was there about this woman that called to him so? Called to him with a force unlike anything he’d ever experienced before in his life. A force that was linked solely to Leah Stanhope—the sound of her voice, the scent of her skin, the feel of her body against his.
He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since he’d seen the photo Everett Burke had shown him. She’d haunted his dreams for three years. And now she dominated his every waking thought. Shit. He was like an adolescent schoolboy in the throes of his first crush. Only this was worse, much worse than a mere crush. This was desire, at its most basic, most urgent, most primitive. The desire to claim her body with his, to own every inch of her, to subjugate her to his will and master her pleasure.
Desire. It raged through him like a forest fire, nearly out of control. And that one word—nearly—was the most important part. That was the part that kept him in check. The part that tempered his natural desire to possess her body by another, deeper desire to protect her, to keep her safe, not only from Richard Gordon and all the rest of life’s unexpected dangers, but also from himself.
He was a sexual dominant, and Leah Stanhope was a natural submissive, or he would sprinkle salt and pepper on his Stetson and eat it for breakfast. Never had he been so affected by any woman before, and there had been plenty of those over the years. He’d spent a lifetime availing himself of the casual sexual liaisons that were such an integral part of the club scene he belonged to. But none of the Club submissives had ever appealed to him beyond the odd scene or two. He’d never connected with any of them outside the Clubs. In fact, he’d never had a long-term relationship with any woman, especially not for the past ten years. Not since he’d joined the SEALs. He’d been sent to hell-holes all around the world, to rescue hostages being held by Taliban and Al Qaeda jihadists. The prospect of his coming home all shot to pieces or in a body bag had made him a bad risk. A risk he’d felt he had no right to ask any woman to take on.
Passion's Dream (The Doms of Passion Lake Book 1) Page 7
