Dancing on the Wind (19 page)

He had eaten very little and was leaning back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his hair gleaming in the candlelight like spun gold. Now that she had recovered from the strains of performing, she was intensely, physically aware of him. Every time they met, their interaction was more profound, and she wondered uneasily what this evening would bring.

Hoping to keep the mood lightly social, she said, "Thank you for an excellent dinner."

"I've always found that it's more productive to question someone who isn't hungry." He sipped at his champagne. "And I have quite a quantity of questions to ask you."

She took a deep breath, then laid her knife and fork neatly across her plate.

The battle was joined.

Kit raised her gaze to his. "I have nothing to say to you."

"What, no more fanciful tales to spin? I'm disappointed," he said with delicate sarcasm. "You're one of the most creative liars I've ever met."

"You should talk," she retorted. "I doubt that you have an honest bone in your body. You had everyone in the theater convinced we were lovers."

"I'm honest when it's convenient and doesn't cost me anything," he said blandly. "We have much in common. Are you sure you can't conjure up another cheated brother or journalistic investigation for me?"

She shook her head. "I'm tired of lying. As I said earlier, I am under no obligation to answer your questions, so I won't. I give you my word that I do not intend harm to any innocent person. More than that I will not say."

"I wish I knew what you consider guilt and innocence." He studied her face. "Clever of you to pretend to be L. J. Knight. Since no one knows what the fellow looks like, your claim is hard to refute. It might even be true, though I wouldn't bet a ha'penny on it. It's more likely that you are merely a regular reader of Knight's work. Care to comment?"

"I'd rather ask a few questions myself." Her eyes narrowed. "I think you have secrets of your own, for your behavior is hardly that of an honest, upright citizen. Why are you so determined to interrogate me?"

"I find it hard to restrain my curiosity about a female who routinely practices fraud, burglary, and assorted other capital crimes." He accompanied his explanation with a smile that made her breath falter.

Even if Strathmore wasn't the villain she sought, he was certainly a threat to her and her mission. That being the case, why was she still drawn to him? The memory of the kisses they had shared was as vivid as the flames burning on the fireplace grate. As warming, too.

She must leave before the atmosphere became any more intimate. "If you think I'm a criminal and have the evidence to prove it, you should call a magistrate," she said steadily. "But if you decide to hand me over to the law, remember that I am not without influential friends who would come to my assistance."

That produced a dark flash in the depths of his eyes. "It would be a waste to send you to prison, my dear. You wouldn't like it, and you would be of no use to me there."

"I assume that your purpose is seduction, but I must decline the honor." She rose to her feet. "I'll see myself out."

When she moved around the table toward the door, he raised a hand. Though he didn't touch her, she came to a halt, caught in the web of his formidable concentration.

"Seduction implies taking advantage of a reluctant or defenseless female," he said. "You are neither of those things."

"Thank you, I think," she said dryly. "But I have already declared my unwillingness, Lord Strathmore. Do you intend to keep me here by force?"

Softly he said, "I don't think force will be necessary."

He was seated, which made him seem less threatening. But his eyes—ah, his eyes were still dangerous, for they promised delights that would strip her soul bare. Steeling herself against his potent allure, she said, "If you hope to persuade me into your bed, think again."

He gave her a lazy smile. "I have infinite patience, as long as I get what I want in the end." He took her hand,
linking his fingers through hers. "You refuse to call me Lucien."

She swallowed hard, trying to resist the subversive effects of his warm clasp. "To use your given name would imply an intimacy between us that I want no part of."

"No?" His gaze holding hers, he drew her toward him, then raised their joined hands and kissed the inside
of
her wrist, his tongue tracing the blue shadow of a vein..

The effect was shocking, causing every cell in her body to thrum with desire. She tried to edge away, yet though his hold was gentle, it was inexorable. He began caressing the sensitive hollow of her palm with his thumb, and she could not summon the will to free herself. A little desperately, she said, "To be an actress does not make a woman a whore, my lord."

"No, but it implies that a woman might be… less conventional than most." He gave a slow smile. "And the one thing I do know about you is that you are not conventional."

He increased the pressure on her hand, yet it was the golden light in his eyes that drew her toward him. Her breath quickened, as much from anticipation as alarm.

He had an uncanny ability to read her mood, for instead of a kiss, he pulled her into his lap. "You must be tired." Softly his arms came around her. "Should I call you Cassie, or Jane?"

"Cassie is a stage name. I really am named Jane."

He began to knead the nape of her neck with gentle skill. "Jane. Such an undistinguished name for a remarkable woman."

"I'm not remarkable—merely good at creating illusions," she said, and then wondered why she had said so much. He was even more dangerous than she had realized, for he made her want to trust and confide. It seemed utterly natural to have his arms around her, to rest her head against his shoulder. She wanted to pour out her fears and bask in his strength, for she was tired— so infinitely, painfully tired—of her lonely struggle.

Though she was not fool enough to yield to her treacherous craving for union, her initial stiffness soon dissipated. She drifted, content to be in his arms, vaguely aware of the rich scents of food and flowers, the distant sounds of talk and laughter. But that was mere background for the profound reality of Lucien. He filled her senses, his quiet breath stirring tendrils of hair at her temple.

As he had said, he was patient For a long time he simply held her, slowly massaging away the tension in her taut muscles and tendons. His warmth and desire surrounded her, a crucible that gradually raised her temperature to match his.

She scarcely noticed the first soft contact of his lips on her forehead, or how it became a delicate tracing of the planes of her face. A gossamer caress on her closed eyelids; a teasing, erotic exhalation into her ear. Finally, the light pressure of his forefinger under her chin tilted her head up, and with seamless ease his mouth claimed hers.

The velvet stroke of his tongue soothed the raw place where she had bitten the inside of her lip in the carriage. Hard to remember why she had been so frightened of him. Her hazy pleasure thickened, became a craving, when he cupped her breast.

His kiss deepened, exploring, evocative. He slid her Gypsy blouse from her shoulder and she welcomed the cool touch of air and the warm comfort of his hand.

As he teased her nipple to hardness, he murmured, "Since Jane is too plain, I shall call you Lady Jane."

How had he known
? The thought jarred her out of her flowing contentment. She raised her head, shaken, and realized her foolishness. "I must go."

"Not this time, Lady Jane," he said huskily.

He bent his head and pressed his mouth to her breast, the lapping rhythm of his tongue matching the pounding of her blood. Her body arched, and she twisted in his lap, guiltily aware that she was not trying to escape, but to offer herself more fully.

One of her heedless movements tilted him off balance and they almost fell. His reflexes saved them from crashing to the floor. After a swift recovery, he swept her up in his arms and carried her the short distance to the chaise longue.

He laid her full-length on the padded surface, then sat on the edge of the chaise beside her. Holding her gaze with his own, he pulled her blouse from her shoulders, then untied the front laces of her corselet. Below it her chemise rose and fell with the quickness of her breathing, until he pushed her garments down to her waist. He
brushed aside her modesty with equal ease, for her shyness vanished in the glow
of his admiration.

He cupped her newly freed breasts in his warm, strong hands, then leaned forward to suckle them. She gave an involuntary whimper and closed her eyes, deluged by delirious new sensations. The faint prickliness of his chin against her fragile bare skin; his teeth nipping with exquisitely judged force; his hands skimming her limbs and torso as if seeking to memorize every curve and texture. Her slippers had gone missing, and the velvet was a voluptuous caress under her bare feet as she shifted them with restless yearning. There was only him, only this moment…

Yet that was not true. There were far more important things in her life than the gratification of lust In a frantic bid for sanity, she drew up her legs and braced her hands against his shoulders, pushing him away. "Stop! You frighten me."

He went very still, then lifted his head, frowning as he studied her face. "Not, I think, with physical fear."

"No," she said honestly. "I fear going too fast. Doing something I will regret"

The corner of his mouth turned up ruefully. "Will it make you feel better to know that you frighten me equally? You are going to cost me dearly, Lady Jane. In fact, you already have."

It gave her a sense of power to know she could affect such a man. And yet… "It may make me feel better, but not safer."

"Is that why you keep running away from me? For you can't deny that there is something very intense between us." As he spoke, his hand glided down her left leg from knee to foot.

A disorienting shiver ran through her as his thumb made slow, circular motions on the arch of her foot "I won't deny there is attraction," she said, a catch in her voice, "but that doesn't mean I'll surrender to it."

Yet her words were belied by the irresistible impulse to touch. Her hands softened their resistance and moved down his shoulders, feeling the hard muscles beneath his elegantly tailored clothing. She brushed aside his coat

and ran her palms down his ribs and narrow waist, her hands open and hungry.

He didn't mock her weakness, merely smiled into her eyes with quiet triumph as he stroked her leg again. This time the direction was upward and the movement raised her voluminous skirts to expose her anklet. His gaze went to the shining gold. "This does a splendid job of drawing attention to your lovely legs," he said as he followed the circle of gold links around her ankle with a fingertip.

She inhaled sharply, her toes curling into the velvet and her fingers into his ribs. "The anklet belongs to the Gypsy maiden. The plain Jane who is the real me would never be so bold."

"Plain Jane?" His glance was quizzical and a little mocking. "A gold chain can be removed, but this"—he lifted her skirts higher to reveal the butterfly tattoo above her right knee—"exists only to drive men mad. And it has maddened me."