My Angel (37 page)

Then, in a prim, stilted voice, her words softly spoken, she asked, "Would you like some wine?" She grappled with the sheet and the wine, her elbows pinning the recalcitrant material to her sides.

Suddenly he was assailed with the urge to smile at the endearing picture she made. In one hand she held a carafe of his best burgundy, and in the other a crystal glass he'd always reserved for special occasions. This occasion was supposed to be special. His intentions had been honorable. He should have made her his cherished mistress by now. Instead they were still at odds, and he still waited for a confession he sensed she would never give him.

Misha had set the table for them, and he'd placed a candle in the middle. With the setting of the sun, shadows danced in the room. The waters were calm, the weather outside balmy. He'd wanted to enjoy this evening on the
Mediterranean
with Angela.

Single-handedly he had ruined the atmosphere with his callous, uncaring words. In his mind, he owed her an apology, and she owed him the truth. Neither would be forthcoming anytime soon.

He waited to reply while he studied her. Finally he said, "Yes," and pulled out a chair for her. "I'd like wine."

The time he had spent wooing her now seemed like a strange learning period. For Angela it must have been a time of adjustment, and he hadn't helped. If anything, he'd made matters worse. Except for the fact that he could never marry her, there was no reason for his violent reaction to her lack of virginity.

The glass was full to the brim, and she hesitated, a mysterious light in her eyes. "Then I'd be happy to give this to you."

The second before she tossed the wine at him, he read her intent, but it was too late to stop her. He felt the cool liquid touch his face before he could react. Then he chose not to do anything.

Alexi wasn't sure how to deal with her tantrum. He needed to let her rid herself of the anger she'd been dealing with for several days now. Perhaps this would make her more accommodating.

"Your aim was a bit off. Perhaps you'd like to try again?" His words sounded practiced, as if he'd had wine thrown in his face on more than one occasion.

Her cheeks flushed a hot scarlet. "Fine."

Before he realized she truly meant to take him up on his suggestion, she'd poured another glass, and once more she tossed red burgundy in his face. Still unsure of how to react, he licked the wine from his lips.

Deep inside he was laughing at himself and applauding her.

"Good." He poured himself a glass, anticipation and his imagination making him bold. He had visions of exactly where he meant to pour the wine and just how she would taste wearing the rich liquid.

Silently he walked around her, traced a finger along her shoulders, kissed the column of her neck, and let the wine in his glass run down the valley between her breasts and across them, soaking her sheet.

She inhaled sharply. "You did that on purpose," she whispered. "It's cold."

"I could warm it up."

This fight felt too dignified, the woman too unruffled--too prim. She had stiffened, and with ladylike finesse she was slowly pouring another glass. He tried not to think of the cost and tried to focus on the taste of her wine soaked flesh.

Both crests were clearly defined beneath the wet sheet. He had stepped on the hem when she had moved to pour herself a glass.

"If you don't want me licking the wine from your silken
skin, I
suggest"
--he emphasized the word
suggest
--"you drink what's in your glass. You can't win," he said, his voice assuming a tender note.

"What if I don't want to drink it?" She was backing away from him, her eyes wide, but no longer with fear or sadness. There, clearly seen in her eyes, was the sassy lady he remembered.

"Do you want to toss it in my face again?'' he purred, and stepped toward her, creating a game of retreat and advance between the two of them.

She nodded, her grip on the glass tightening, her hold on the sheet around her slipping.

"Toss it," he challenged.

Her hands quivered, and within the crystal the wine rippled violently.

"Toss it, Angela. Throw the wine in my face."

"I've changed my mind," she said, her voice rich velvet.

"I didn't hear you." He leaned closer to her. Her back was up against the wall.

A little bit louder: "I don't want to throw it in your face."

"Then what do you plan?" he asked. He kissed the tip of her nose and her forehead. He licked wine from her collarbone, nipping at her silken flesh and reveling in the taste of her soft skin covered in burgundy. She made no protest.

"Angela!" he barked, and in the next instant he exploded away from her, the front of his pants soaked with sweet red wine.

Her grin was heart-stoppingly beautiful, her voice soft. "Is it cold?"

Her lashes fluttered endearingly.

"Allah," he said, "but you know about the element of surprise. I do believe you won this battle. I surrender to your tender ministrations. Have mercy."

Angela laughed, her hands raised to her mouth, her eyes twinkling. It occurred to Alexi that it had been a very long time since he'd heard her laugh. His deep, throaty chuckle joined hers.

For a few long seconds she looked at him, endearingly shy and utterly beautiful.

"If you get to lick the wine from me, it is only fair that you give me the same privilege," she said.

Every muscle, from his head to his toes, tightened. He thought of her lips on his wine-soaked body. "There is nothing fair about this," he gritted out, and once again he swept her off her feet, the sheet slipping from her breasts to pool around her waist.

They fell upon the bed, his mouth closing hungrily over hers and her soft, loving sounds echoing in his throat. A tenderness so intense he could barely hold himself back swept through him.

Then he felt her arms curling around him. Felt her fingers teasing through his hair, drawing him closer. Her mouth parted timidly, yet met his fevered urgency.

The ship sped swiftly across the water.

"Sweet angel," he whispered. "Don't deny me again."

He continued to kiss her, his hand stroking down to her ankle, lifting and parting the sheet as he brought his fingers back to her waist. She clung to him, meeting the demands of his lips, seeking and then finding him. Her eyes were closed, her lashes damp, her urgency undeniable.

She hummed when he stroked her, sighed when she touched him, purred deep in her throat when he suckled her. He thought he'd died and gone to heaven.

He tugged at the buttons to his breeches, freeing himself. Yet as he shifted, he felt the slowing of the ship beneath them, and for a brief moment wondered why.

His desire raged, yet it was tempered. He meant to take the longest time, meant to satisfy her in every way. Yet when he would have moved with slow precision, she cried out his name, moving against him, responding wildly to his caress. He struggled mentally for control, knowing it was a lost cause.

He meant to learn her softness firsthand.

The ship stopped. Alexi paused, his hand quickly moving to cover Angela with a bed sheet.

He listened.

Pounding feet overhead was the only warning. A cannon shot exploding near the
Mystic
had Alexi springing from the bed and groping for the buttons of his pants.

Three shots in rapid-fire succession. The boat rocked, water spraying outside the window in glistening droplets.

"Stay here," he said. "Bolt the door." He had fastened his pants and was even now slipping his arms through his shirtsleeves. "Get dressed."

"Alexi?"

He kissed her hard then he was gone.

~ * ~

Stunned by all that had happened, Angela touched one finger to her lips. She had almost made love to him. If not for the ship firing on them, she would have. Suddenly she fully realized the impact of what was happening outside.

"Pirates?
Barbary
pirates?"
Surely not.
He had Turkish relatives.

Yet the sounds and the thought of pirates sparked a sense of primal fear deep inside Angela. Before she'd first heard the staccato rhythm of booted feet above her, she'd promised herself she'd stop Alexi before he made love to her. The day had been filled with tension and fear for herself, and she knew that without a doubt she would never have been able to stop him. She would never have said no.

Perhaps this had been a godsend. Not if it were indeed pirates attacking the ship.

The clipper ship answered back with cannon shot of its own. Angela sat up. Without knocking, Misha opened the door. There was an urgency about him.