Midnight Rose (3 page)

Betty set a plate heaped with delectable breakfast fare in front of her. “We’ll fatten her up,” she told Gideon as he started up the stairs, and the women in the kitchen paused to watch him take two at a time with smooth, graceful steps.

Gideon was crossing the center landing as Kate emerged from the sitting room a half-hour later. He paused in front of the hunt scene and waited for her to approach. “Jude owes you an apology,” he said when she reached the foot of the staircase. “But right now he’s resting. If you’ll join us for dinner this evening, I think things will go a little smoother.” She nodded and folded her hands behind her back because she couldn’t think of what else to do with them. Staring up at him while the golden sun poured through the clerestory windows and encircled his head did something funny to her insides. Her stomach fluttered, her pulse quickened. He took a single step down, watching her. The air between them was thick with unspoken sentiments, but she couldn’t guess their nature. It seemed like a prime moment for him to mention their silent exchange last night between the pool and balcony, and for an instant, she feared he might.

But he continued to descend the stairs, slow and easy, his gaze intent on her face, until he finally reached her. “You’re very pretty,” he said. “Jude’s used to dour old schoolmarms who’ve retired from long and distinguished careers of knuckle-rapping.” Kate swallowed. Men didn’t usually declare her “pretty” in such a direct way. Attractive maybe, if the mood and lighting were right. Heads occasionally turned when she walked past a construction site, which was no real compliment considering the catcalls that usually accompanied such a mortifying examination.

But this man—this man with his liquid, obsidian eyes, sculpted features, sensuous smile and killer body—he’d called her pretty, and she stood captivated by the idea that he might be right.

“I… Thanks.” She smoothed a quick, nervous hand up the nape of her neck to check her bun. “So now you’re going to give me the beginner’s course on this place? I haven’t ventured outside the path from my bedroom to the kitchen. I’m afraid I’d never find my way back.” He inclined his head with a smile. “Sister Oaks isn’t as big as she looks. But she is scary, and for good cause.” “Oh?”

“She’s haunted.”

“No, really?” Kate flashed him a wry grin. “Not this huge, daunting mansion situated so very far from civilization.”

He lightly grasped her elbow as they walked toward the formal dining room across the foyer. “Did we nearly scare you off at first sight?”

“I don’t spook easily.”

“I’m so glad to know that about you.” He paused, his fingers gentle on her arm. “This is the dining room, which we’ll never use unless it’s for a business dinner or holiday. Too chilly and formal.” And completely empty, except for a crimson Persian rug that swallowed their steps as they crossed to the massive fireplace.

Some of the tension tightening her muscles drained away as she grew accustomed to his touch at her elbow. The easy confidence in his manner eased the stress of newness. “That’s an incredible fireplace.” “Six feet by seven,” Gideon said. “The painting above it is a Turner.”

“Amazing.” Kate gazed at the lush, romantic landscape, before her attention was inexplicably drawn back to Gideon’s profile. He was as beautiful as his son. Eyes so dark, they consumed the light. Skin as fair as if the sun had never touched a single cell. There was something surreal about a creature so exquisite. He might have stepped out of the painting before them. The shadow of beard on his jaw was the only element that rendered him less than perfect, and saved him from appearing…well, ghostly.

“If you look at me any harder, I’m going to feel self-conscious,” he said, his attention focused on the painting.

Embarrassment sizzled through her. “Well,” she cleared her throat, “maybe you’re pretty, too.” He didn’t meet her gaze, but pleasure curved his lips as he backed away and motioned toward a set of doors at the end of the dining hall. “This way to the billiard room, the conservatory, and the library.” “Sounds like a board game I played as a child,” she said with a helpless laugh, odd wings of joy fluttering in her stomach.

“Jude owns that exact game. Naturally, we’ve played it in every corresponding room in this house, so you’ll be spared that particular agony.”

The billiard room was richly furnished in maroon and navy, set around a magnificent antique billiard table with mammoth claw feet and gold fringe at each pocket.

“Do you shoot pool?” Kate’s fingers drifted along the smooth, carved wood as she circled the table.

“When I’ve had too much to drink,” he said. “You?”

“Same. I was quite skilled and slippery in my youth.”

“Ah.” His eyes warmed as they lingered on her face. “A hustler. Say it isn’t so.” Kate laughed, but inside she had dissolved to jellied pleasure. Gideon Renaud was flirting with her in the most delicious way, and she, being a woman who prided herself on lack of inhibition, felt compelled to leap across the pool table and devour his delectable mouth. She didn’t, of course. Instead, she wandered over to the leather and mahogany bar and peeked behind it. An impressive array of fine liquor sparkled in crystal decanters on every shelf. “Do you entertain?” “Yes.” He moved closer to her and rested his hip against the table. “All sorts of amazing possibilities, at the moment.”

Her head came up and she stared at him, torn between laughter and the sting of arousal. The chemistry between them was thick with heated promise. How long could she maintain this tantalizing repartee before she wobbled to the ground like damp spaghetti? “I meant…do you have parties?” “Not here yet. But if I do, your name will be at the top of my guest list.”

“I’d be delighted.” She followed him through another set of doors and stepped from the billiard room’s dark interior into a bright, circular hall with multi-paned, floor-to-ceiling windows. The sunlight poured through silken sheers and danced on the graceful brass chandelier, casting prisms of color on every wall.

The room reminded her of a wedding cake. A mahogany Steinway sat in a curved niche, flanked by marble busts of distinguished composers. Nearby, a harp rested by a dainty, gilded chair with turned legs and a tapestry seat. Sheet music lay open on the music stand, as though the musician had only recently abandoned his station.

Speechless, Kate gazed around. Somewhere in the space between her body and the ceiling fourteen feet above, phantom strains of music floated in echoing, invisible wisps. They reached down and plucked at her in disjointed notes, until she shook her head and blinked. “This room…” “The conservatory.” Gideon was watching her with a curious smile, as though he, too, heard the otherworldly melody. “It’s quite a special place.”

“I could live in here.” Entranced, she crossed to the piano, following the music. The moment her fingers touched the Steinway’s lid, the notes halted. Silence. It was deafening. She sought Gideon’s face, alarmed. “What happened?” He wandered over to where she stood. “Do you play?” “Yes, a little. I took lessons as a child.” She hesitated, unwilling to look like a fool, but driven for an explanation. “Why did the music stop?”

“You touched the keys. You play.” He glanced around the room. “It’s waiting for you. For your music.” His matter-of-fact explanation disconcerted her. The hairs on her neck stood at attention and she wrapped her arms around herself to withhold a shiver. She, who’d never believed in spooks or ghosts or bumps-in-the-night, suddenly felt crowded by the room’s feminine, frivolous presence. “You said there’s a library too?” “This way.” Moving ahead of her, he threw open yet another set of double doors, and Kate was greeted by the faint scent of aged paper, leather and a hint of mustiness. Bookshelves climbed every wall in the long, narrow room. A wrought iron catwalk ran the perimeter above their heads, providing access to the highest shelves. Leather wingback chairs and sofas and Chippendale tables were grouped together in cozy settings, offering a comfortable place to curl up and read. The colossal fireplace to the right showcased an oil painting that caught Kate’s eye, and she moved toward it hesitantly, feeling an inexplicable excitement as she drew closer.

The portrait depicted a dark-haired man and boy dressed in Victorian finery. The man, posed on an ornate chair, stared from the aged canvas with eyes as black as coal, cool, pale, enigmatic. The boy leaned on his father’s shoulder, his ebony gaze just as direct, just as defiant; his complexion just as milky white. Father and son. So eerily like Gideon and Jude, and yet obviously painted in another century.

“This is incredible, Mr. Renaud. Where did you acquire such an uncanny portrait?”

“I’ve owned it at least a hundred years.” His voice came from behind her. “And my name is Gideon.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, found him frowning at her, and suddenly felt swimmy-headed.

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m Gideon. Say my name, Kate.”

Her pulse jolted and sped up; the floor tilted beneath her. Her fingers made a weak motion toward the painting. “Gideon.” She swallowed, tried again, stumbling over the words as though she were intoxicated.

“The portrait looks like you and Jude.”

He moved closer to her. The roar of blood in her ears grew louder, and low in her belly a restless throbbing began.

Her gaze fixed on his somber, unsmiling mouth, the same lips as the man in the portrait from one hundred fifty years ago. She blinked, and somehow, in the instant when her lashes lowered and lifted, Gideon kissed her.

She hadn’t known he stood so close. He couldn’t have possibly reached her across three feet of space that quickly, but his soft mouth was hungry on hers, his hands grasping her upper arms, holding tight when desire robbed her legs of the ability to support her. His tongue made a single, lush sweep between her lips, and she tasted him, cool and delicious, the flavor of his want and need as she breathed in his harsh exhalation, his low expression of pleasure. Deep in her core that sweet, aching, telltale burn ignited, the kind that simmers between a woman’s legs and liquefies her insides when a man makes love to her with the sinuous exploration of lips and tongue.

“Please…” she tried to say, but the groaning invitation was muffled by his kiss.

And within the space of a second blink, he stood by the door, watching her, as though he’d been across the room all along, as though he’d never touched her.

Kate lifted a trembling hand to her lips, horrified to realize that she’d only imagined it. Some sort of hallucination or…or overzealous fantasy. She didn’t look at the portrait again. The roar in her ears was gone; the floors beneath her feet steady, her pulse even.

But she’d gone wet and soft in secret, feminine places, and that part of her never lied.

“Are you all right?” Gideon’s voice was remote.

“I’m fine,” she said weakly . What did you do to me?

“Maybe you should sit down.”

She made no move toward the nearby sofa. Her feet wouldn’t follow her direction and held her imprisoned in the center of the room. Gideon didn’t move either, just stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back.

Kate looked at him in helpless disbelief. How could she explain the last five minutes? Paranormal fun and games? Momentary insanity? Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to affect the master of the house. Maybe he was a ghost after all.

Damned if she’d be scared away. She had nothing, and no one, to run home to.

Three months, a stolid voice inside her whispered. Give it three months .

“It’s gotten late.” He finally glanced at his watch, a pricey glimpse of gold on a broad wrist. “I’m afraid I have work. We’ll tour the grounds tomorrow if you’d like.” The sound of his voice shattered the paralysis that had seized her legs. “Maybe I’ll take a walk by myself,” she said, desperate to escape the thick, closed air of the mansion.

“Good idea. You look like you could use some fresh air.” He threw open the doors behind him and waited until she passed by him before adding, “The pool is heated, Ms. O’Brien. It’s at your disposal anytime, day or night.” Kate shot him a quick, searching look, but found no hint of teasing in his face. Only a closed, abrupt withdrawal that said something had happened in the library…something only he understood.

Gideon stood in the center of his study, jaws clenched, arms crossed like steel girders over his heart.

The woman would have to go. She couldn’t stay at Sister Oaks, not now that he’d broken every sacred, precious rule he’d so painstakingly laid out for himself, and all within a few hours of meeting her.

He hadn’t expected her to appear last night on the balcony in the moonlight, luminous and vulnerable and alone…her solitude so potent, so tangible, it radiated from her body in waves of melancholy indigo.

He could taste it. Taste her. The sweetness of her skin. The slick, hot core of her body opening beneath his tongue like dewy rose petals.

Standing in the soft, waist-deep pool water, he’d imagined her pulse thrumming under his lips, and the ensuing surge of sexual desire had rocked him, brought him nearly to his knees. For the first time since Caroline’s death the hunger stirred within him, stretched and rumbled, like an animal coming awake after a long hibernation.

He felt his erection—a constant threat for the last few hours—stir within his pants, and he ran a hand down to press against it and will it under control, forcing himself to breathe, to think. At first he’d been elated, intoxicated by Kate O’Brien’s presence and the knowledge that he could sink into her and feel—truly feel —again. He hadn’t experienced desire like this in years. Decades. The lovers he took were his kind, and he’d been content, denying that eventually it wouldn’t be enough, that one day the touch of cool, soulless fingers would no longer quench the driving force of his hunger.

He’d always known someone—a mortal someone—would come to end the era of his resolve, and he’d hidden from her, dodged and danced and played the game with unshakable focus. Beauties had come and gone, warm-blooded, mortal, full of need and desire. He could have had any of them and he’d turned away again and again, remembering Jude, who suffered because of him. Remembering Caroline, who died in agony because of him.

If Kate O’Brien didn’t leave Sister Oaks, it would play out again, a discordant scene in an endless production. She would lose her life; he would lose the game. But how did a creature, parched and dying of thirst, turn aside a sip of water? Kissing her, tasting her warmth and heat and soft, soft lips had revived him. Reawakened it , and it was beyond his control.

Shoving his hands through his hair, he paced the rug in a restless pattern. How could he let her go?

Martha could do it. She’d think of a reason. And he wouldn’t have to explain a thing; his secretary would take one look at him and know what she had to do without asking questions. They’d never spoken much about his existence or the passage of years, and how, even as her hair grayed and her face weathered, Gideon never changed, and Jude never healed.

A light knock at the door brought him around and he heaved a sigh. “It’s open.” Martha’s silvery head appeared, as though she’d telepathically heeded his distress call from somewhere within the house. “May I have a word?” “Come in.” He forced his expression to soften, stepped back and waited for her to arrange her petite frame on a nearby Queen Anne chair. Then he smiled with a reassurance he didn’t feel, and took the seat across from her. “Everything all right?” “I was about to ask you the same thing.” She hesitated, her blue eyes discerning behind the thick glasses she wore. “Gideon…this woman’s going to be a problem, isn’t she?” He swallowed, tried to shrug, but knew it was fruitless to deny it. “Ah, Martha. I don’t know. But it’s always best to err on the safe side.” She nodded, sat in thoughtful silence for a long time. Then, “I get the feeling she’d be good for Jude.