The Emperor's New Clothes (24 page)

Perhaps she'd been too subtle.

She stalked back to the blanket, found her glass and filled it again. This time, she wouldn't spill it.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Nothing. Not one little thing. You just go ahead and make your stick and I'll be right back.” She waved gaily, turned and scanned the stand of trees. Oh, she'd be back all right. And he'd better be ready.

There was a spot just to the left of the blanket that looked fairly protected. She cast an assessing gaze first at Tye and then at the trees. Yes indeed, she could do what she needed to over there. She stepped toward the sheltered area. She didn't know a great deal about lovemaking, but she did have a grasp of the basics. And one thing she was certain of was that clothes simply got in the way. Well, she'd take care of that right now. And then she'd see if he was still interested in the fine art of fishing.

Or an altogether different sport.

 

It was all he could do to keep the grin from his face or stifle his laughter. Tye sat beside the stream, paring long strips of wood from his stick. Lord, her expression when he'd removed his hand from her chin had been priceless. The woman had practically fallen flat on her face.

He glanced up toward the blanket to see her disappear behind a knot of trees. What was she up to now? It didn't really matter. He had the upper hand, and would not hesitate to use it to his advantage.

He'd probably need to use that second bottle of champagne as well.

 

Damn. This would never, ever do.

Ophelia took a thoughtful sip of her champagne and sighed. She simply wasn't a good enough actress to carry this off. Besides, it was a bit breezier than she'd thought. Perhaps the fault wasn't in her acting, but in her character. She brightened at the realization. Only a true tart could walk out from behind the trees stark naked. Although she was confident her nudity would attract his attention. But she was definitely not a tart. Still…he did think she was a widow.

Why couldn't she compromise? After all, she didn't
have to be completely unclothed. What a brilliant idea. What a clever solution.

What a relief.

 

Where on earth was she? He'd have this stick whittled down to nothing if she didn't reappear soon.

Still, he supposed a few more minutes or so made little difference. They had the entire afternoon, and no Aunt Lorelie anywhere in sight to spoil it. He had all the time in the world. Or at least, all the time he needed.

 

Now, she probably looked ridiculous.

It was a compromise, all right, but it definitely lacked something—aside from clothes, that is. And she felt nearly as awkward as she had without anything whatsoever on. She sipped her wine and considered her options. No indeed.

Shoes alone simply wouldn't do it.

 

All things considered, the afternoon was progressing quite well.

Another glass or two of wine and Ophelia would, no doubt, spill all of her secrets. He could see it clearly in his mind's eye.

First, he'd forgive her, after extracting a promise that she would reform her questionable ways. Next, he'd tell her of his love. And finally, he'd ask her to marry him, sealing the proposal with, at the very least, a kiss and, hopefully, much, much more.

He grinned. And maybe he'd even teach her to fish.

 

She scrambled back into her dress, leaving her shoes and corset and all the other articles respectable women wore under their clothing these days lying in a lacy heap. She cast a regretful glance at the pile of unmen
tionables. The real countess did have such lovely undergarments, but they wouldn't do her a bit of good right now.

The obvious answer, although why she didn't think of it earlier escaped her, was to discard everything but her dress. That way, once the seduction was in full swing, when the point came for him to rip her clothes from her body in a frenzy of passion—and she did hope there would be a frenzy of passion—he would find no need to battle his way through garment after garment. Goodness, seduction took a great deal of planning.

She lapped the last drop of champagne from her glass. Normally, champagne affected her senses a great deal, but today she barely noticed it at all. What she noticed quite distinctly was the sensual feel of the bare whisper of her summer frock against her unprotected flesh and the wonderfully sinful sensation of freedom from the lack of undergarments.

Determination squared her shoulders. The curtain was rising on Act Two, and her big scene lay directly ahead. The scene where the virgin actress pretending to be a widowed countess entices the cowboy mayor into an amorous adventure.

She could hear the applause now.

 

Ophelia sailed into his view with all the grace of a milkweed dancing in the wind. The breeze molded her dress against her. Lucky breeze. He caught his breath. It must be a trick of the light. For a moment, it looked like she had nothing on beneath the frock.

“Are you ready for my lesson?” She cast him a flirtatious smile, and it was all he could do to keep from pulling her into his arms.

“Lesson?” What was she talking about?

“Fishing?” She nodded at the forgotten stick in his hand.

“Oh, yeah.” He shrugged. Fishing was the last thing on his mind. Was there anything beneath that dress? “But I don't have a string. You really need a string for a fishing pole.”

“Does that mean you can't teach me…to fish?” She gazed at him, her eyes wide, a slight pout on her lips. Lips that were too tempting to resist and made to be tasted and crushed…

“Tye?”

“I…” Why was his mouth so dry again? “I guess not.”

“Oh, dear.” She heaved a sigh of disappointment and glanced at the stream. At once her expression lightened. “I have it. We can still have our lesson.”

“Can we?” The lesson he wanted to teach her had nothing to do with fishing and everything to do with the curve of her breast straining against the confines of her dress and the—

“We'll just…um…act.”

“Act?” Oh, he wanted to act all right. He longed to play the role of the charming rogue to her version of the merry widow.

“Yes indeed.” Her eyes sparked deep, emerald fire. “I'll be the fish.” She gathered her skirt up above her knees. Lord, she'd taken off her shoes and her stockings. What else didn't she have on? “And you can try and catch me.”

She laughed and ran toward the stream. Tye stared for a moment as if frozen to the spot. He knew exactly what would happen if he followed her. Ophelia splashed into the creek with all the abandon of a water sprite. Damn. It wasn't suppose to happen this way. First, he had to get the truth; next he'd declare his love; then, he'd—what the hell.

Tye hopped on one foot, then the other, struggling to get off boots that were abruptly far more difficult to
remove than they'd ever been. Lord, what if she changed her mind before he got there? He started to unbutton his shirt, then stopped. What if he'd misunderstood her intentions? Hah. Only a dead man could misunderstand Ophelia's intentions. Still, it'd be better to let her take off his shirt. That's it. An experienced woman like Ophelia would probably prefer that.

He hooked his thumbs on his belt loops and strode casually toward the creek. With every step, he forced himself to remain in control. Women liked men who were in control. Besides, it wouldn't do to let Ophelia know she had him right where she wanted him. He stopped by the edge of the water and lifted a brow. “And what do you think you're doing?”

“I'm a fish, Tye.” Ophelia laughed and waded in farther. She had reached the middle of the creek. Not that it was very big. Maybe twenty feet wide at best, and for the most part fairly shallow. “And I thought you were a fisherman,” she teased.

“I love fishing,” he murmured. His gaze traveled along her exposed legs, and he remembered how those limbs had felt beneath his touch. Even though she held them up, the bottoms of her skirts were wet and clung to shapely thighs.

“Aren't fishermen supposed to catch fish?” She grinned and twirled around in the water.

He returned her grin and bent down to roll up his pant legs, her carefree laughter and the sound of the creek ringing in his ears. He wanted this woman in the worst way. He'd just have to revise his plans, that's all. First, seduction, then confession, then—

A scream and a splash cut through the air. Tye jerked upright, his heart in his throat.

Ophelia had disappeared.

Without hesitation he jumped into the creek, promptly slipped on a rock and fell. He pulled himself
up, spitting and choking, and staggered blindly toward the spot where he'd last seen her, crashing straight into a sputtering, coughing body. He clutched at her, and they both tumbled back beneath the water with a cry and a curse and a splash. Again he struggled to the surface and shook the water from his eyes. Before him stood a wet, shimmering vision. A water fairy, a nymph, a goddess.

A quivering, seething goddess.

“What in the hell were you trying to do?” Fury flashed in her eyes. Anger rang in her voice. And where was her accent? “You almost drowned me.”

“Wait just a minute, Ophelia.” He glared with irritation. “It isn't deep. Besides, I was trying to save you.”

“Save me? Hah! I'm soaked to the skin. My dress is ruined.” She spread her arms out and glared. “Why, just look at me, Tyler Matthews, I'm a mess.”

“Well, Countess, you're the one”—he glanced at her sodden dress—“who went in the stream”—clinging to every curve and valley—

“—in the…um…first”—molding so tightly to breasts that heaved with every angry breath that he could clearly see the points of her nipples hardened by the cold water—

“—um…place and”—the fabric plastered against her midsection to reveal the cleft of her navel—

“—I…um…only thought…um”—the material adhering to her thighs and the point at which they met leaving nothing to the imagination.

“Damnation, Ophelia, you don't have anything on beneath that dress!”

“Oh, dear!” She glanced down in surprise, and crossed her arms over her chest. A charming but pointless gesture. A becoming blush washed up her face. “I forgot.”

“You forgot?”

“I forgot.” She sighed. “It was suppose to be a surprise.”

He pulled a shaky breath. “It's a surprise all right. Why?”

“I wanted to make it a little easier for you.”

“Did you?”

“Yes indeed.” She nodded, and droplets of water flew off her hair like glistening crystals caught in midair. “When I seduced you.”

“When you seduced me?”

She laid a hand on his chest and gazed up into his eyes. “Do you want to be seduced?”

“Do I…” His heart caught in his throat and his blood pulsed, and he stared down at her into eyes so green and intense he wanted to lose himself in their depths. Desire surged through him, and he hardened with the need to make this woman his. This woman he loved. He pulled her hand from his chest and kissed the palm, never taking his gaze from hers. “Only by you.”

“Well, then,” she sighed up at him, “kiss me, Tye.”

He gathered her into his arms and met her lips with his. The heat of her body permeated his through the layers of wet clothing between them, the thin, sodden fabric nearly nonexistent. He could feel every delicious curve, every delightful inch of her. Her body melted into his, and he wondered how long he could keep from ravishing her right here in the middle of the creek.

Her arms wrapped around his neck and she pulled him tighter against her. Her mouth opened, and his tongue swept inside to pillage and plunder and claim her forever. His breath joined with hers, and he wondered if she was simply the most magnificent woman he'd ever known or if love heightened all sensation. Or both.

His mouth explored hers, then slipped away to taste the line of her jaw, and lower to the curve of her neck. She moaned and her head fell back. Beads of water pooled in the hollow of her throat, and he lapped them up as if they were the nectar of life itself. She clutched his shoulders, and he marveled at the sweet taste of her and the urgency that rose between them.

He bent his head and cupped her breast, pulling the taut, cloth-covered nipple into his mouth. She gasped, and her nails bit into his shoulder. He moved one hand to the nape of her neck, and stared into eyes stormy and dazed with a need that throbbed though every inch of him, and his lips crushed her with the strength of it. His other hand splayed the small of her back, and drifted lower to caress her buttocks and stroke the firm flesh beneath the clinging material. Impatiently, he pulled the fabric higher until he reached the heated flesh of her leg. Slowly, he pulled his hand up the hot, solid length of her until he cupped her bare bottom in his hand. He embraced her softness, and his hand skimmed lightly around her hip to the top of her leg and the silken hair that guarded her womanhood. Gently, his fingers pushed farther until he touched the velvet folds of flesh and more and she gasped. She was slick with wanting, and he stroked her until she sagged against him with a hunger that matched his own.

She shuddered at his very touch. His hand was so skilled, his lips so knowing, his body so firm and taut against her own. She could happily die under his caress, or stay in his embrace for all eternity. His lips ripped from hers, and again her head dropped back. One hand fumbled with the buttons at the bodice of her dress, and she thought to help him, but even breathing seemed a battle. It took forever or only a moment, and he peeled the wet, garment down her arms and over her hips until she stood before him covered
only by aching need and yearning desire.

He stared at her for a long moment, and she stared back, not knowing what to say, not caring about words. She pushed her wet hair away from her face and waited. He caressed her with a look that shivered through her body and into her heart. Without a word, without taking his gaze from hers, he slipped his clothes off and faced her like a proud warrior or a Greek statue or a flesh-and-blood man.