Нора Робертс - Black Rose

“I’m capable.” She tipped her head up. “I want my accountant to be capable, but I sure as hell don’t want to sleep with him.”

“I find it devastatingly sexy.”

“Is this the seduction part of the evening?”

“Just getting started. Do you mind?”

He thought her capable, she realized, and found that appealing. And he made her feel soft, and cherished. “You asked me that the first time you kissed me. I didn’t mind then, either.”

“I love that you’re beautiful. Shallow of me, but there you go. A man’s entitled to some flaws.”

Amused, she trailed a finger up the back of his neck. “Perfection’s boring—but, God, don’t tell Stella I said so.”

“Then I’ll never bore you.”

He touched his lips to hers lightly, once, twice, then slowly, slowly, sank into the kiss.

It spilled through her, the warmth, and the life, the thrill and the power. She moved with him, that sensuous dance, that sensuous kiss, and let herself glide. Like a woman glides over a path strewn with fragrant petals. Through moonbeams. And into love.

She heard a door shut quietly, and opened her eyes to see that he’d circled her into the bedroom.

“You’re a clever dancer, Dr. Carnegie.” Then laughed when he spun her out, and back. “Very clever.”

He kissed her again, spinning until her back was pressed to the door, until the kiss took on a bite. Then he ran his hands down her arms, stepped back.

“Light the candles,” he said. “I’ll light the fire.”

Shaken, right down to the soles of her feet, she leaned against the door. Her heart felt swollen and tender, and its beat was a throbbing ache in her breast. When she moved, she moved carefully, like a woman sliding through the fog of a dream. And she saw her own fingers tremble as she set flame to candlewick.

“I want you.” Her voice was steady enough, and she was grateful. “And the want is stronger and different than any I’ve felt before. Maybe it’s because I—”

“Don’t question it. Not tonight anyway.”

“All right.” She turned, as he did, so they faced each other across the room. “We’ll leave it that I want you, very much. That it presses on me, not entirely comfortably.”

In the gilded light, he crossed to her, took both her hands. “Let me show you how I feel.”

He lifted her hands, turning them palms up to press his lips to one, then the other. Then he cupped her face, stroking his thumbs over her cheeks as his fingers slid back into her hair.

“Let me take you,” he said as his mouth cruised over hers. “Tonight, just let me take you.”

He asked for surrender. And surrender was a great deal to ask. But she gave him her mouth, then her body as his hands stroked over her. And they were dancing again, circling and swaying as the dreamy pleasure he offered slipped into her like rich, red wine.

He slid her shirt aside, and was murmuring in her ear, about her skin, her scent. And the dance was like floating.

She was giving him what he’d asked. Surrender. Though it was slow, inch by inch, he could feel it, that gorgeous yielding of self. He undressed her as they danced, taking almost painful care, almost painful pleasure in removing each barrier that blocked his hands from her flesh.

It was incredibly erotic, dancing in the firelight, the candlelight, her naked body pressed to his while he was still fully clothed. To see that long, lean line of her in the mirror, the way the light played over her skin, to feel that skin shiver under his hands. To feel her pulses jump under his mouth.

When he slipped his hand between her thighs, he felt her body jerk, heard her breath catch.

She was hot, already hot and wet. And her nails dug into his shoulders as he began to play her, lazily. Little tortuous strokes that had her breath going short and harsh, and his own blood pumping.

Her body plunged, then melted against his when she came. Her head fell back even as he continued to arouse, and her eyes were glazed and stunned.

She was so pliant he could almost pour her onto the bed. They watched each other as he stood, undressed.

Then he skimmed his finger over her leg, lifted it, bent to it, and rubbed his lips along her calf. “So much more I want from you.”

Yes, she thought. So much more. And surrendering to it, to him, gave him all he wanted.

His mouth found her, shot her up again, breathlessly, until she had to grip the spread or fly apart.

He exploited and explored, and took, took while the air went thick and sweet as syrup, and the deepest, darkest pleasures quivered inside her.

She could hear herself sobbing for him, even as he slid into her. His languorous pace never altered, only built arousal higher with a near brutal patience, a delicious, drugging friction. She had no choice, no control any longer, could only quiver, could only ache, could only enjoy as he nudged her closer and closer to the edge.

And when she fell that final time, it was like flying.

SHE WAS STILLtrembling. It was ridiculous, she told herself. It was foolish, but she couldn’t seem to stop. She was warm, even overwarm, and only then realized both of them were slick with sweat.

She’d been thoroughly seduced, then thoroughly used. And she couldn’t find a thing wrong with either.

“I’m trying to think of something appropriate to say.”

His lips moved against her neck. “How about ‘wow’?”

She managed to move her heavy arms enough to brush a hand through his hair. “That probably covers it. I came three times.”

“Four.”

“Four?” Her voice was as hazy as her vision. “I must’ve lost count.”

“I didn’t.” And there was a wicked satisfaction in his tone, one that she saw reflected in his face as he rolled onto his back.

“Since I’m in such a blissful state, I’m going to admit that’s the first time I’ve ever come four times.”

He reached down, found her hand, linked fingers. “Stick with me, kid, and it won’t be the last.”

She laughed, a full-out bawdy roll of laughter, then shifted to prop herself up on his chest. “Pretty proud of yourself.”

“Damn right.”

“Me, too.” She pillowed her head over his heart, shut her eyes. “I go running around six.”

“Is that A.M.?”

“Yes, it is. Harper’s got some spare clothes in the next bedroom, if you want to join me.”

“ ’Kay.”

She let herself drift, like a cat curled for a nap. “She left us alone.”

“I know.”

GARBED IN Asuit and tie and armed with a dozen yellow roses and a box of Godiva chocolates, Mitch rode the elevator to Clarise Harper’s third-floor apartment in the retirement complex. His letter from her was in his briefcase, and the formal, lady of the South tone had given him a broad clue that this was a woman who would expect a suit—and a floral tribute—just as Roz had instructed.

She wasn’t agreeing to a meeting, he thought, but was, very definitely, granting him an audience.

No mention of Rosalind, or any of the occupants of Harper House, had been made in their correspondence.

He rang the bell and prepared to be charming and persuasive.

The woman who answered was young, hardly more than twenty, dressed in a simple and conservative black skirt, white blouse, and low-heeled practical shoes. Her brown hair was worn in what he supposed women still called a bun—a style that did nothing to flatter her young, thin face.

Mitch’s first impression was of a quiet, well-behaved puppy who would fetch the slippers without leaving a single tooth mark on the leather.

“Dr. Carnegie. Please come in, Miss Harper is expecting you.”

Her voice suited the rest of her, quiet and well-bred.

“Thank you.” He stepped inside, directly into the living room furnished with a hodgepodge of antiques. His collector’s eye spotted a George III secretaire chest and a Louis XVI display cabinet among the various styles and eras.

The side chairs were probably Italian, the settee Victorian—and all looked miserably uncomfortable.

There was a great deal of statuary, heavy on the shepherdess and cat and swan themes, and vases decorated within an inch of their lives. All the china and porcelain and crystal sat on stiffly starched doilies or runners.

The walls were painted a candy pink, and the tweed beige wall-to-wall was buried under several floral area rugs.

The air smelled like the inside of a cedar chest that had been bathed in lavender water.

Everything gleamed. He imagined if an errant mote of dust dared invade such grandeur, the quiet puppy would chase it down and banish it instantly.

“Please, sit down. I’ll inform Miss Harper that you’re here.”

“Thank you, Miss . . .”

“Paulson. Jane Paulson.”

“Paulson?” He flipped through the family tree in his mental files. “A relative, then, on Miss Harper’s father’s side.”

The faintest hint of color bloomed in her cheeks. “Yes. I’m Miss Harper’s great-niece. Excuse me.”

Poor baby, he thought when she slipped away. He maneuvered through the furniture and condemned himself to one of the side chairs.

Moments later he heard the click and step, and the woman herself appeared.

Though she was rail thin, he wouldn’t have said frail, despite her age. More, he thought at first glance, a form that was tough and whittled down to the basics. She wore a dress of rich purple, and leaned on an ebony cane with an ivory handle.

Her hair was a pristine white helmet, and her face—as thin as her body—was a map of wrinkles under a dusting of powder and rouge. Her mouth, thin as a blade, was poppy red.

There were pearls at her ears and her throat, and her fingers were studded with rings, glinting as fiercely as brass knuckles.

The puppy trailed in her wake.

Knowing his role, Mitch got to his feet, even managed a slight bow. “Miss Harper, it’s an honor to meet you.”