No one was paying the least attention.
Charisma was reading something on her e-reader and chuckling.
Caleb held the newspaper in front of his face, turning the pages and grumbling.
Aaron was concentrating on his eggs—he’d been out late the night before, working a job, and needed fuel.
McKenna was picking up the coffee cups John and Genny had left behind.
“There’s no rush, Samuel,” Isabelle said. “When you’ve got a minute, I’ll be working at the computer station in the study.”
Samuel watched her walk out. She was wearing a pink dress, casual and flirty, not too short—she didn’t wear too short—and her butt looked great.
As soon as she was gone, Caleb lowered his paper. “Aaron, what did you get Rosamund for Valentine’s Day?”
“I found a letter signed by Mark Twain and managed to buy it before the owner put it up on eBay,” Aaron said. “It cost a fortune, but you know Rosamund. She wouldn’t know what to do with jewelry.”
Charisma didn’t even look up. “Good one.”
“Thank you.” Aaron looked smug.
“Crap.” Caleb ran his hand over his short hair. “All I have for Jacqueline is a box of those chocolates she likes so much—I’m pretty sure I got the right ones—but last year I took her back to Napa Valley for a long weekend.”
“That was a good one, too,” Charisma said.
“Do you think the chocolates are enough?” Caleb asked.
Charisma snorted.
Caleb threw down the paper. “Fine. What would you suggest?”
Charisma looked up. “She’s a seer. Take her somewhere she’s not likely to have a vision.”
Caleb stared with panicked eyes.
In an exaggerated, patient tone, Charisma said, “There’s a great show off-Broadway she’s been hinting about for three months. It’s a comedy.”
“You are the best, Charisma.” Caleb reached into his briefcase and pulled out a netbook.
“It’s booked,” she said. “There are no seats.”
“I’ve got connections.” Eyes narrowed, Caleb went to work.
Samuel grinned. “You guys are so pussy-whipped.”
“Yeah. So you’re not getting anybody anything for Valentine’s Day?” Caleb asked.
“Not taking anybody dancing or out for dinner?” Aaron asked.
“Nope.” Samuel put down his fork, folded his napkin, stood up, and strolled out.
Behind him, he heard Charisma say, “There goes the world’s biggest fool.”
He wasn’t worried. Isabelle’s wealth and background meant she had every possession she could ever desire. No need to gild that lily.
But he could give her the one thing she couldn’t get anywhere else. . . .
The computer station in the study was nothing but a small utilitarian desk and desk chair tucked into a cramped six-foot-wide nook set in the wall. Pocket doors discreetly hid the monitor and the usual stacks of papers from view.
The doors were open now, and Isabelle was online, looking at train schedules, when Samuel slid his arms around her and kissed her neck.
“Samuel. We’ve been back two weeks. We can hardly say we’re still on Swiss time.” But she didn’t push him away.
“I’ve got a stubborn internal clock.”
“You’ve got a stubborn something.” Reaching behind her, she stroked his cheek.
Encouraged, he stepped in as tightly as he could; he pulled the doors closed.
She turned to him, incredulous. “Have you lost your mind? There’s no room in here!”
“I love a challenge.”
“No, really. I need to talk to you.”
“I need to talk to you, too.” He smiled at her, remembering their days in the ski lodge—and the nights—remembering how she ran from all the things they’d said to each other, knowing it was time to put an end to this farce of not being together.
Her stern expression relaxed, and she smiled in return.
“Later.” He pushed the chair back—the door was only a foot away, so it wasn’t easy—turned it, and pulled her up into his arms.
“We can’t manage this,” she said again.
He slid his hands under her skirt and up her legs. He cupped her butt and realized—“You’re not wearing any panties.”
She plucked at the button on his shirt and watched her hand. “I thought we might have, um, one more farewell, um ...”
His libido, already edgy, came roaring to life.
“But not here!”
“We are so doing it here.” He shoved papers aside, lifted her onto the desk, and stepped between her legs.
She was the woman he had always loved, and if he managed these next few minutes just right, she would be his forever.
“Okay. Here.” Bracing her hands behind her, she tossed her head and smiled up at him, that seductive promise in her eyes.
And he lost it. He needed her. He needed her now. “I can’t wait,” he said.
She slid one bare foot up and down the back of his thigh. “I’m not asking you to.”
He unzipped. Got the condom out of his pocket. Dropped his jeans, his underwear. Applied the condom in record time, then used his fingers to open her . . . and she was damp, ready.
He pulled her onto his cock, worked his way into her tight passage, and when he was in to the hilt, he slid his hands under her rear, picked her up, turned, and pressed her back against the wall beside the desk.
Her wide eyes stared into his, startled and aroused. “Samuel,” she whispered.
“Sh,” he said. “There’s no lock on the door of the study.”
“Oh, Samuel,” she said in dismay.
He didn’t give her time to recover, to think of caution. Bracing himself, he drove into her, over and over, sheathing himself, pulling out, making her feel every inch, every twist and shift.
She clutched him with her arms, with her legs, held helpless by the position, forced to take whatever he gave her. She was slick inside, warmly clasping and releasing. Biting her lip to muffle her moans, she clawed at him, wild with passion.
His balls drew up, ready to finish, but he held himself back.
He didn’t want this to end. Not so soon. Every time with her was like the first time. Every time was the best time.
Yet inevitably, his speed increased, the friction increased—and she was climaxing, spasming in his arms, her pleasure as violent as his.
He couldn’t hold back anymore. He pressed her against the wall, coming so hard he could do no more than rock against her, small, violent motions that made her climax again . . . still.
Gathering handfuls of his T-shirt, she pressed her head to his chest, whimpering, and when at last he could thrust again, and she came again, she sank her teeth into his chest.
He placed her on the desk.
She was gasping.
He was gasping. “I adore you,” he said.
She laughed, breathless. “Tell me that someday when you’re not inside me.”
Gently he drew out. “I adore you.”
She laughed again, a little unsteadily. “I adore you, too.”
Stepping away, he discarded the condom, pulled up his pants, got himself together.
Suddenly shy, she didn’t watch him, but he observed her as she tidied herself, changing from the primitive lover into the self-possessed lady. It was, as always, an amazing transformation, and he thought Aleksandr’s shape-shifting relatives had nothing on her.
Now . . . “I wanted to talk to you.” He helped her off the desk—it was an excuse to touch her—and into her seat. “Do you realize we didn’t use a condom that last night in the locker room? It felt so good, and we thought we were goners.”
“In retrospect, that was foolish.” With a faint smile, she pleated her hem. “But at the time, it seemed like the right thing to do.”
“The thing is, I want to say—if you’re pregnant, we’ll get married.”
She stopped pleating. Stopped smil
ing. “Will we?”
“I don’t know if you’ve thought about it, but you definitely could be expecting a baby, and better than anyone, we both know that a child needs both its parents. We love each other, so marriage is the natural solution.”
“Solution? To this problem?”
Something was wrong with the way she phrased that, but he was so anxious to reassure her, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “I’ll arrange everything for the legal ceremony. I realize Las Vegas isn’t the most romantic situation, but that would do. If you want, I’ll even go through with a big wedding for your mother’s sake.”
She sat stiffly, her head turned away from him, her fingers clutching her skirt. “So we’re getting married for the baby’s sake, and you’re willing to go through with a big wedding for my mother’s sake.”
Now he understood, and he added what she needed to hear. “For your sake, too! I know you, Isabelle, and it’s not as if having a child out of wedlock is any great shakes anymore, but you wouldn’t like it.”
She smiled flatly. “I am glad to hear I had some small influence on your decision.” She stood. “Now it’s my turn to talk. Samuel, sit down.”
He had expected more reaction from her. Or a different reaction from her. Joy. Appreciation. Relief. Something. “What’s wrong?”
She pointed to the chair.
He sat.
“First—I already know for sure. I am not pregnant.”
“You’re not? Do you think there’s something wrong with one of us?”
She stared at him as if he were speaking Mandarin. Then she nodded. “I definitely think there’s something wrong with you. But it’s got nothing to do with your sexual organs. Unless we consider your brain a sexual organ, in which case, I’m afraid it’s been deprived of blood too many times in the last weeks.” Her voice seemed to be getting louder. “But not to worry—it’s not going to happen again.” Her voice was definitely louder. “If I had my way, you wouldn’t even have any sexual organs, which would make Darwin happy, I’m sure.”
Catching her hand, he kissed her palm comfortingly. “This is because you’re not pregnant, isn’t it? You’re upset because you’re not pregnant, but, darling, I want to marry you anyway.”
He never even saw her fist coming, but she must have swung hard, because she slammed the side of his head with her knuckles.
He dropped her other hand. “Holy shit, what did you do that for?”
“You figure it out.” She shoved the pocket door back so hard, it bounced halfway closed again, and stormed out.
Rubbing his head, he followed her out into the foyer. “What?”
She was putting on her coat. Pulling on her hat.
McKenna had been dusting his prized sixteenth-century Ming vase. Now his feather duster slowed, and he unabashedly watched as Samuel strode toward Isabelle.
“What did I say?” Samuel demanded.
“I wish we had never met at that party after you finished law school.” Her voice sounded as if she’d swallowed ground glass.
“We didn’t meet. I came on purpose to find you.”
“Was it revenge for leaving you?”
He laughed roughly. “You don’t know the answer to that? No, it was for lust. I wasn’t finished with you yet.”
She shot him one last, scorching glance and headed toward the door.
“You could at least tell me what you’re mad about,” he yelled.
McKenna managed to get to the door first. He opened it for her.
She smiled sweetly at him. “Thank you, McKenna.” She walked out onto the top step. Said, “If you don’t mind ...”Removing the butler’s hand from the door handle, she took the huge, heavy, solid wood door and slammed it as hard as she could.
McKenna glared at Samuel.
“I didn’t do anything!” Samuel turned in a circle, hands outstretched, telling the world he wasn’t at fault.
Charisma ran by, coat in hand, and rammed him in the back with a straight-arm push. “The world’s biggest fool,” she repeated.
McKenna hustled back to the door, opened it.
Charisma raced out, yelling, “Isabelle! Wait up!”
McKenna shut the door. Glared at Samuel again. And started toward the kitchen.
Samuel stood there. Just stood there. He didn’t know what to do.
He’d thought they were making progress, but Isabelle had hit him. Smacked him right across the head with the full strength of her arm behind it. He had a knot on his head!
Walking into the library, he poured himself a stiff drink. Turning, he found himself facing two pairs of eyes.
Caleb. And Aaron.
“Pussy-whipped?” Caleb asked Aaron.
“Oh, yeah. He is so whipped,” Aaron agreed.
They knew. They knew Samuel and Isabelle had been getting it on, and now they were laughing.
Samuel gave in, flopped down in an easy chair, and said, “I’m sorry. You’re right. What do I do now?”
Charisma caught up with Isabelle at the corner, and as the two women turned toward Fifth Avenue, a black sedan pulled out of the alley and followed.
Chapter 43
Charisma tucked her hand into Isabelle’s arm. “Want to go to Davidov’s for a drink?”
“In the morning?” Humiliatingly, Isabelle’s laugh broke in the middle. “No.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t matter what time it is; you have to believe it’s five o’clock somewhere.” Charisma bumped her lightly.
“No.” Isabelle’s inescapable manners forced her to add, “Thank you.”
“So where are we going?”
“To Saks. I need a new dress for tonight’s party.” Isabelle didn’t look at Charisma. She didn’t want her to see the tears that pressed at the back of her eyes.
But of course Charisma knew. She was a difficult person to hide anything from; she and her stones always seemed to know what was going on.
“There’s a party tonight?” Charisma asked.
“At my mother’s. Her annual Valentine’s Day party. She gives it every year.”
“Thus the annual part.”
Isabelle whipped her head around and glared.
Charisma got the unspoken message. “Yeah, that was unnecessary.”
They turned onto Fifth Avenue.
“Want to get a cab?” Charisma started to raise her arm.
“No.” Isabelle picked up her pace. “I want to walk.”
“But it’s a long way to Saks and . . . I want to walk, too. It’s a great day for it.” By which Charisma meant snow had started to drift down, a few flakes at a time, and a raw, brisk wind was blowing.
It didn’t matter. Nothing could cool Isabelle’s hot cheeks.
“I guess Samuel isn’t taking you to the party?” Charisma asked.
“I didn’t ask.”
“Why would you have to? If it’s an annual event, he knows it’s happening. He should have asked you.”
“I thought that, too. But he didn’t. So I was going to be a modern woman. And ask him. Luckily for me”—Isabelle’s fists clenched—“he was a jerk first, so I don’t have to put up with him tonight.”
“Samuel was a jerk? This is a change how?”
“Shut up, Charisma.” They walked on in silence until Isabelle said, “I’m sorry. This isn’t your fault. It’s mine. I got involved with Samuel again.”
“Oh.” The one word hung on the frosty air.
“I guess we were obvious?”
Charisma coughed to cover her smile. “We, the rest of us, noticed you two had come back from Switzerland and spent a lot of time talking in closets and whatnot.”
“You’d think I’d know better.”
“Because you two were involved before?”
Isabelle had never discussed Samuel with anyone. Now she admitted, “Twice. We were involved twice before.”
“Wow.” Charisma’s green eyes rounded with surprise. “I mean, we all suspected once. But twice!”
“Obviously, I n
ever learn.” That was the bitterest pill to swallow. Isabelle had done it to herself. Again. “Did I really need to see again that he is without honor or morals or kindness and has not a civilized bone in his body?”
“I agree with you about him not being civilized, and he is way too blunt, kind of crude, and he can really be offensive. And honestly, the man cannot figure out how to change a roll of toilet paper.” That had been a bone of contention between Samuel and Charisma the whole time they’d known each other. “But I’ve known him for almost three years now, and I can’t complain about his morals; he seems pretty grounded. I’ve seen him be really kind to the kids we rescue, and frankly, I’d trust him with my life.”
Isabelle could hardly contain her irritation. “Whose side are you on?”
“Yours! Really! I simply thought there were more realistic reasons to complain about Samuel....” Charisma’s voice trailed off. She pointed into one of the small stores that lined Fifth Avenue. “I love that hat, and my ears are freezing. Do you mind if we go in?”
Isabelle did mind. She wanted to walk fast enough and far enough to escape her own thoughts. But Charisma was her friend, she had come after her, and she didn’t deserve to lose an ear for her kindness. “Of course not.”
They ducked inside, and Charisma said, “You might find something you like!”
Isabelle looked around the shop, lined with studded leather jackets, jeweled dog collars (for humans), and boots covered with chains and zippers. “Not today.”
Charisma tried on half a dozen knit caps before settling on one that looked like a Halloween fright wig. She bought matching gloves that made her hands look like the Wolf Man’s, and out they went onto the street again.
The snow had picked up. Charisma tried to catch flakes on her tongue before asking, “What did Samuel say this time?”
So in his exact words, Isabelle told her.
She was able to use his exact words because they were burned like acid into her brain.
“Samuel actually said that?” Charisma pursed her lips.
“He is an . . . an asshole. A . . . a fucking—”
Charisma put her hand over Isabelle’s mouth. “Don’t even try. Swearing is organically foreign to you.”
Chains of Fire Page 21
