by Moriah Jovan
She put her glass on a passing waiter’s tray, then turned without warning and sashayed, not toward him, but across Kirkwood Hall to Sculpture Hall. She disappeared behind the Christmas tree, then reappeared, her steps slow and studied, her back straight and head high, as if she had all the time in the world and nowhere in particular to go. He watched her progress across the marble floor, deftly and graciously weaving through clumps of chatters without fanfare.
He followed her at some distance through the grand hall, then through the sculpture room that was littered with clusters of chatting people who stilled slightly as she glided by. A couple of men started to follow her but happened to glance up at Bryce; he merely had to raise an eyebrow at their impudence to send them scurrying back to their cliques.
A corner of his mouth turned up, grateful for his scarred face for the first time ever.
Then his eyes narrowed as he tracked her with a hunter’s skill. Sebastian Taight had just become mistressless. He’d deal with Knox Hilliard later—and Knox would lose.
Finally she reached the staircase that led down to the Bloch building, the hideous modern addition that marred the landscape and lines of the original gallery. She smoothly descended to the wide landing, but instead of going down the next set of stairs to the new building, she turned right to go up the dimly lit stairs to the European exhibits. Those collections were not on display at this time of day and technically, people were not allowed to go wandering the gallery at will, although they often did.
She unhooked the velvet rope that blocked off that section of the museum, which didn’t surprise him. A woman who was so sure of herself that she’d kiss a man she didn’t know and then be surprised when it got turned back on her would do exactly what she pleased, regardless of the obstacles.
She stopped then and looked over her shoulder at him, that same not-smile-not-smirk on her face. She raised one eyebrow and deliberately dropped the rope on the floor. He ached in ways he hadn’t since before the fire and his breath caught.
Bryce stood transfixed as she ascended the staircase step by deliberate step, her white skirt held in her right hand. Her hips swayed. The short train of her black skirt slithered behind her. Her delicate hand slid up the copper banister and though half the room watched, as riveted as he, no one tried to stop her.
His feet moved of their own accord. He absently excused himself through the crowd, irresistibly drawn after her as if she were Calypso, ensnaring him with his own lust—
—then found himself detained by some policy wonk who not only didn’t notice that Bryce had other plans, but felt entitled to the contents of his brain.
Left or right? A few more of the terminally clueless gathered around him. Which way would she go and would he see her with all the people suddenly demanding his attention? How would he find her? His jaw ground at the thought of losing her to the labyrinthine hallways and myriad exhibits because people he didn’t know wanted a piece of him.
“Excuse me,” he barked, interrupting someone who purposely stood in his way to spout drivel, then plowed his way out of the committee of vultures around him to find her and catch her.
She had turned left.
* * * * *
11: CHECK
Over a fifth glass of champagne, Sebastian watched Giselle walk across the room. Kenard had a hunger, a raw lust, in his face that was unexpected, given what little he knew. Sebastian studied the room’s male occupants as a full half of them turned to watch her cross the floor.
Perhaps he’d underestimated Giselle’s appeal. On any day Sebastian thought about it and felt generous, he would classify Giselle as passably cute.
He saw two men start out after her, tongues dragging the floor. Kenard’s snarl quelled them instantly and it hadn’t gone unnoticed by the milling partygoers. Sebastian pursed his lips. The man had marked Giselle as his territory like the alpha wolf he was reputed to be, though his reputation with women could most kindly be described as . . . nonexistent.
Better than Sebastian’s, anyway.
He followed the two of them into Sculpture Hall to see what would transpire next and he leaned against a wall somewhat out of the way, his arms crossed over his chest.
Kenard got caught in a web of moochers who gathered around him, clamoring at him for his time, his attention, his money. It took a great deal of rudeness and strength for the man to break through that to follow her. He clipped down the first staircase, bounded up the next one three steps at a time, then disappeared in a flash around a corner, his tux coat flaring out after him.
Sebastian was very pleased. Not only had Giselle neatly mapped out the next phase in their war with Fen, she’d caught Kenard’s attention as he’d asked her to and with wild success. For the rest of the night tonight, Kenard wouldn’t be thinking about campaigns, money, or politics and from the look of things, Kenard’s mind was the last thing he wanted fucked.
He wondered if perhaps he’d gotten Giselle into a wee bit more trouble than she could handle herself, but she had her Glock and she loved a challenge. On the other hand, considering her desperation to hold onto her oh-so-precious virginity(however inefficiently), her behavior surprised Sebastian. Giselle had never had talents toward seduction, so where that femme fatale had come from tonight, he didn’t know. Further, considering he’d specifically told her not to use it as a diversionary tactic and why, it completely confused him.
Unless . . .
. . . she wanted whatever Kenard would give her.
Would you fuck him if you got the chance?
In a heartbeat.
Sebastian’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened.
The man dresses more expensively than you do . . . He’s a warrior. You can tell. He’s bigger than you.
Kenard?!
Now, that man would give Giselle exactly what she thought she wanted and a whole host of other things that would blow her little virgin mind. Stunned for a moment, Sebastian could only look at the now-empty staircase and turn that over in his head.
He was contemptuous of me . . . It made me mad and then we had an argument and then I— I . . . kissed him.
Giselle had unintentionally made her thirty-second pitch in a fit of anger and Kenard had bought the store.
He called me Lilith . . . It wasn’t a compliment.
Then Sebastian began to smile. Whatever else he could say about Giselle’s half-baked philosophies and inability to choose between the sacred and the profane, she did her best work by instinct—and her instincts had led her straight to Kenard.
He turned to see if Fen had observed this vignette and as he expected, Fen hadn’t missed a second of anything. His jaw worked in his cheek. Though he mingled and smiled and shook hands with everyone who grabbed his attention, he watched Giselle lure Kenard, his biggest chance at campaign funding and support, away from the party that he’d intended as a four-hour thirty-second pitch. He had no way to salvage that without making a complete fool of himself and ruining his credibility by begging. Trudy Hilliard murmured something to Fen and he nodded, his lips tight.
Fen caught Sebastian watching him. The subtle anger in Fen’s face made Sebastian grin and salute. Then he burst out laughing, startling most of the people there who knew him only as a dour and self-contained corporate raider.
* * * * *
12: GRIMM REALITY
Where would she go? On a hunch, Bryce followed his nose, her perfume as distinctive as she. He turned to take another set of stairs, hitting two landings in quick succession. The gallery, immense and only very dimly lit, had innumerable nooks and crannies in which to lose oneself by choice or by accident.
As he gained the top step, he turned immediately right to go into the Asian collection, then left, but stopped. He knew she’d passed by here; her scent lingered and drove him mad. He would not leave this museum tonight without a piece of her, if not all of her.
The trail stopped at the immense Chinese Temple room, two stories high, and, as always, even during exhibition hours, dimly
lit. A section at the farthest end of the room was nearly closed off by a richly carved mahogany wall that looked Moorish in design. He could see the bodhisattva prominently displayed on the back wall, framed by the threshold of the wooden partition. As his eyes adjusted, he saw her silhouette where she sat on a Barcelona ottoman the size of a twin bed in front of the statue, very still, her back to him.
Then she turned her head and spoke over her shoulder. “Gorgeous, isn’t he?”
He started at the sound of her voice, so smooth, so calm, so . . . fragile. How could a woman who brimmed with such decadent sexuality have such a fragile voice?
“Not sure I’d use that term, no,” he murmured vaguely as he began his trek toward her.
She chuckled, then looked up at him once he reached the bench. “This is my secret place, where I come to get away from the world and meditate.”
Her humor pulsed through her voice and radiated from her like a shimmering silvery heat wave off hot asphalt.
He sat next to her, throwing one leg over the ottoman, then turning so he, too, faced the bodhisattva and knew he would never reach that state of enlightenment. He searched for words and felt her steady gaze on him as he did so. He didn’t know what to say to a woman he resented for her sexual relationship with Hilliard and possibly Taight, but still wanted for himself. He couldn’t rid himself of the sudden visual of actually stripping her naked and laying her down on the ottoman right then and there.
Behold, I say unto you, wickedness never was happiness.
Whatever. Righteousness sure as hell hadn’t been a picnic. Wickedness couldn’t be any worse.
He hooked one heel on the edge of the upholstery and laid his arm over his flexed knee. He leaned into her just enough so that his lapel touched her bare shoulder. Watching her, daring her to say a word or make a move, he planted his left hand on the leather behind her, sliding his fingers underneath her, his thumb caressing her backside. She sucked a sharp breath in through her nose and her eyes widened slightly, but she held his gaze and stayed right where she was even though he continued to caress her fabric-covered buttock and made it clear he had no intention to remove his hand.
She reached out. The pad of her right thumb just brushed his forehead between his eyebrows, a gesture that startled him. He wasn’t used to a woman’s touch. “I apologize for nearly killing you,” she murmured.
She laid her warm palm flat on the scarred half of his face, nearly covering his eye, and her fingers furrowed into his hair. She continued to stroke the spot where she had bored the barrel of her gun the night she’d kissed him. He had never received a touch so intimate—an intimacy far beyond sex—from any woman, not even his wife.
“I was very tired that night and you startled me.”
“I doubt I was in any imminent danger,” he murmured as she took her hand away. He wished she would continue to touch him. He wished she hadn’t touched him at all. “You seem to be a woman who’s almost always in control.”
Miss Cox smiled then, a wide smile that made her amusement more than clear. The corners of her eyes crinkled merrily. “Oh, always. And some people think that’s a bad thing.”
“I suppose it depends on context.”
That comment hung in the air as he began to inspect her face, her straight nose and full mouth, her throat, her breasts, her—
“What’s this?” he breathed and touched a quarter-sized round indentation puckering the skin below her left shoulder. On her back, just over her shoulder, was another puckered scar, much larger and jagged around the edges. He looked into eyes that had darkened from ice blue to gunmetal gray. “Someone shot you.”
She flashed him a wicked grin. “Two someones, actually.”
He opened his mouth to ask the next logical question, but—
“Why did you follow me up here?” she asked in a rush, her gambit clear.
“Why did you want me to?”
She laughed then, a laugh that sparkled with delight. He reached for and gripped her chin in his palm, bringing her to him. His mouth captured hers, startling her into opening for him. Her eyes were wide for a moment, then he felt her sigh into his mouth and fall into his kiss. Her eyes closed, her mouth followed his lead; he felt her hand on his face again.
His thigh brushed a metal-hard bulge along hers, through a layer of fabric, and at that moment, he knew exactly what he wanted to do to her and how.
* * * * *
Kenard’s strong hand, huge, rough, heavily calloused, held her jaw with just enough force to keep her where he wanted her. His hand lay perilously close to her throat; she didn’t know whether that terrified her or excited her. But his kiss . . .
Ohhh.
Giselle had never been kissed so thoroughly, so expertly, so without inhibition.
Harshly exquisite, his mouth took hers with a confidence and experience that intimidated and exhilarated her beyond all reason. She touched his face again, felt the burn scars. Her arousal increased. Nearly painful sensation rolled through her when his tongue found hers, and the feel of his hand almost right there bordered on sensory overload.
She wanted more.
She opened her eyes to find him watching her while he kissed her. With a little shake of her head, she easily dislodged his hand to wrap her arms around his neck. Her fingers in his silky hair, drawing him close, she kissed him heatedly, but she couldn’t direct it. He overpowered her too easily.
Giselle sighed when his mouth left hers to explore her cheek, his now-free hand cupping her breast, that thumb caressing the skin at the top of her corset.
Just then, the hand that teased her buttocks swept up her back and curled around the curve of her waist. His mouth kissing, licking, nipping the column of her neck, he pressed her downdowndown slowly, carefully, until she half lay on the bench. He rose then and caught her behind her knees to pull her legs up onto the bench.
He had kissed her again before she realized he knelt over her, his hands bracing himself on the upholstery on either side of her face, his knees similarly situated on either side of her hips.
Bryce Kenard, conquering lord. Conquering Giselle.
An odd and unexpected pleasure at being at this great man’s mercy shuddered through her. He could do any number of wicked things to her right here, right now—and she’d let him.
She closed her eyes again, needing to just—feel—everything he did to her. She wound her arms up and around his forearms to clutch his arms, large and tight, covered by the fine wool-silk blend of his tux coat. He returned his attention to her neck to tease and nip. Her breath came hard and fast, short and ragged when he slowly worked his way over her collarbone, laved the indentation that marked her, then down over the skin of her chest.
She gasped and arched her back when he tucked his mouth in her cleavage, licking, kissing. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe when he began to undo the buttons of her corset with his teeth.
Suddenly embarrassed that she had lost control with a stranger so completely and voluntarily—so much so that she would allow him to undress her—she made a weak move to dislodge him. He ignored her. Four, six, eight buttons down, her corset fell open, baring her to the waist.
He rose up a bit to study her torso, his breathing strained to its limit, and she swallowed. Overwhelmed, saturated with adrenaline and desire, she whispered,
“Let me go.”
Kenard’s gaze met hers then, his emerald eyes hard, an eyebrow cocked. “No.”
Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open and she suddenly didn’t know what to do. No man had ever dared cross her, to completely disregard her wishes.
He took advantage of her confusion and kissed her again, his mouth and tongue hard, pressing her into the upholstery. His hand swept up her ribs to cup her breast, his thumb stroking her nipple until she could only think of what he was doing to her, what else she wanted him to do to her.
“Giselle,” he whispered harshly in her ear, “come home with me. Now. Tonight.”
If this
man was a member of the church, he was most definitely not on the “fast track to bishop.” And if she did what she wanted to do, she’d be on the fast track to a broken heart with nothing to show for it.
Would you fuck him if you got the chance?
In a heartbeat.
Or . . . not.
Pressing her hands against his chest, she shoved at him, surprising him with her strength and nearly knocking him off the wide ottoman. He struggled for balance long enough for her to roll out from under him, desperately clutching her corset, and bolt across the room to one of the glass cases. Her chest, damp from his tongue and brushed by the cool air of the vents overhead, heaved as she looked at him warily, trying to button up her corset, wondering what the hell had just happened.
Her fingers didn’t work because she trembled too badly, and she couldn’t suck in her breath long enough to close it all the way. She watched him rise from the bench and walk toward her slowly, carefully. She was vaguely gratified to note that his breath came as hard and fast as hers, and sweat dotted his brow. He wiped his hand down his face as he approached her.
“This is insane,” she murmured, her back pressed into a corner of the pillar behind her, her hands still struggling with her buttons as she watched him warily. He stopped when he was within an arm’s length and gently brushed her hands aside to button her corset up himself.
“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he asked, gruff though not unkind. “Suck in a breath.”
She somehow managed to do that. “I—” But what could she say? That it was the only thing she wanted at the moment, and she knew she must not have it? That she felt embarrassed at having this sort of intimacy with a stranger, and, moreover, liking it? That she liked the way his knuckles caressed her as he re-dressed her? That she wanted to take him home and keep him forever?
That she felt more powerful at this moment than she had in her life, like a goddess with the world at her feet?
That her purpose was to distract him enough to keep him away from Fen, and therefore, nothing between them could ever come to fruition because it was all a lie?
