Thirty Nights. JoAnn Ross
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lifted it off the bed and ran her fingertips over the lacy rosettes designed to cover her breasts. The center of the flowers had been left open, obviously designed to bare a woman’s nipples.
“Yet more proof that subtlety isn’t the man’s strong suit,” she muttered. The material might be exquisite, but the style was Frederick’s of Hollywood. There was no way she was going to wear this, Gillian decided firmly. She glared up at the mirror over her head.
“Not until we set a few ground rules, first.”
HUNTER LAUGHED at her declaration. A rough, humorous bark that echoed in the cavernous confines of his laboratory. The room was dark, illuminated only by the faint icy sparkle of stars outside the wall of glass and the glow coming from the computer monitor and bank of television screens.
“Brave talk, little one,” he murmured, lifting the balloon glass of cognac in a silent salute. “But words won’t help you. Not now.”
He watched her scowl soften as her fingertips absently traced the lacy flowers. Women were so marvelously predictable, he thought with masculine satisfaction. He’d often wondered why men claimed to be mystified by the female mind.
All you had to do was to experience enough of them to create a workable model, program in the data, and they’d behave exactly as expected, at least ninety-two percent of the time. The eight percent of their behavior that could admittedly prove unpredictable had never disturbed him. It was, Hunter had determined long ago, what kept them from becoming boring.
“You’re tempted, Gillian,” he said to the screen. “Try the gown on. You know you want to.”
He watched as she closed her eyes and smoothed her hand over the sensuous silk.
“That’s it. Feel how smooth it is. Imagine it against your bare skin, sliding down your body like a cool waterfall.”
As if in response to his crooned command, Gillian opened her eyes and slipped her hand between the layers of silk. Then, in a seemingly hypnotic gesture, she lifted the gown against her body and slowly turned toward the full-length mirror standing in the corner of the room.
She was still clad in the somber charcoal-gray sweater and tweed slacks she’d worn on the flight to Maine. Yet it took no imagination for Hunter to imagine her nude. She was holding the gown with her right hand; her left began slowly trailing over the shimmering sea-foam silk.
Hunter pressed the remote to zoom in on a closeup and watched as a breath slipped from between Gillian’s parted pink lips. It was little more than a whisper, but the microphone in the bedroom had no trouble picking it up. Hunger suddenly had claws.
Needing to touch something—someone—Hunter thrust his hand beneath his sweater, splayed his right palm across his hot, burning chest and felt the increased beat of his heart beneath his fingertips.
As he watched Gillian’s exploring hand move slowly downward, his body came fully to life, pressing painfully against the hard barrier of denim that was a poor substitute for a woman’s hand. Struck with an almost overwhelming urge to yank open his jeans and satisfy the woman hunger that was ripping away at him—as it had for too many nights lately—Hunter decided the time had come to personally welcome his alluring houseguest to Castle Mountain.
THE NIGHTGOWN WAS COOL and seductively sensual to the touch. It was also nearly transparent. A woman wearing this gown would be revealing far more than merely her body, Gillian feared. She’d be putting her inner self on display, as well.
Even as she fought against it, some compulsion she was unable to resist made her hold the gown against her body. She drew in a sharp breath at her reflection. Even though she was fully dressed beneath the silk, the transformation proved riveting.
Her eyes seemed strangely wider and burned with the same edgy brilliance Gillian remembered seeing in her mother’s gaze whenever Irene Cassidy had been preparing to welcome Hunter to her husband’s house. There was an unfamiliar, almost painful tightening in her breasts. And between her legs.
“It suits you.”
Not having heard him approach, the deep voice made Gillian jump. She dropped the gown and pressed a palm against her pounding heart as she whirled around and viewed Hunter standing in the open doorway.
4
HUNTER WAS IN THE SHADOWS, which precluded her from getting a good look at him. But he seemed even larger than Gillian remembered. And far more menacing. In his black sweater and black jeans, he reminded her of a creature of the night.
She pressed a hand against her breast where her runaway heart was beating like a terrified rabbit’s.
“You scared me to death!”
“I don’t know why. You knew I was in the house. I informed you in my note that I’d be joining you in my room after supper. You should have been expecting me.”
“Mrs. Adams said you didn’t usually leave your lab until after midnight.”
“Since Mrs. Adams has never stayed a minute past six in the three years she’s been employed here, I have no idea how she’d be cognizant of my work habits.”
He crossed the room, moving with a dangerous, stealthy grace, bent down and plucked the gown from the floor. “You aren’t dressed.”
Wary, but refusing to admit it, Gillian lifted her chin and met his gaze. It took every ounce of self-control she possessed not to gasp at the sight of the twisted scars marring the left side of the face she’d never quite been able to get out of her mind. Or the glint of the firelight flickering on what could only be described as a hook that had taken the place of his left hand.
She swallowed and kept her expression cool when what she longed to do was weep for whatever tragedy had befallen him. “Actually, I am dressed.”
His firmly cut lips twisted into a mockery of a smile that revealed not the faintest glimmer of humor. If the eyes were indeed windows to the soul, Hunter’s reminded her of storm shutters painted black.
It had been too long since he’d had a haircut; his shaggy jet hair, curling around his collar, was as unruly as his reputation. He also hadn’t shaved; the dark shadow on the still-unscarred side of his face added to his dangerously uncivilized appearance.
Gillian was a little afraid of him. She was even more afraid of herself. And the reckless, crazy way he was making her feel. Even as she felt a sharp tingle of misgiving, her fingers practically itched with the need to touch that roughened red flesh.
The desire to soothe warred with the old childhood taboo against revealing impolite fascination with any sort of disfigurement or handicap. And both those emotions battled with the unbidden feminine awareness that was humming through her veins.
“You’re still in your traveling clothes,” he said mildly. “I instructed you to wear this.” He held the nightgown toward her.
The contrast between the delicate pastel silk and the cold steel caused a distinct twinge somewhere deep in her feminine core. With the exception of her music, Gillian had always been a woman who’d ruled her emotions—rather than letting them rule her. That being the case, she reminded herself about her determination to set some ground rules to this strange game Hunter had brought her here to play.
“I thought it might be a nice idea if we could have a chance to talk, first.”
“You don’t seem to understand.”
Apparently deciding not to push the issue of the gown for now, he sat down in a black suede tub chair. He was no longer towering over her, but when he stretched his long legs out in front of him, spreading them open to reveal his blatant arousal, Gillian felt no less threatened. And even more emotionally rattled.
“There’s nothing for us to talk about,” he said.
“We could begin with hello.”
He sighed heavily. Wearily. “Hello.” The word was offered