Her Secret Weapon. Beverly Barton
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his wife’s untimely death when Callie was twelve.
Burke chuckled. “Actually, I’m the bastard. My parents were never married. He was an older married man and she a young Irish maid. My mother married a Yank soldier when I was ten and we moved to America. I only became acquainted with my real father when I returned to England as a grown man.”
“Did the two of you never reconcile?” Callie asked.
“In a way, I suppose we did.” Burke halted his caress of Callie’s knees, allowing his hand to cup her kneecap. He lowered the hand at her neck until it rested at his side. “I’m afraid Seamus Malcolm didn’t have room in his life for an illegitimate son, so in all the years I knew him, he never actually acknowledged me. Just kept me on the fringes of his life. Tossed me a crumb from time to time.”
“He sounds like a beastly man.” Callie’s heart ached for Burke Lonigan, for the little boy inside him who still longed for a father’s love and attention.
“Not really. He was just a man of his time.” Burke harrumphed. “Old Seamus died last week. I was out of the country. On business. His family—his legitimate children—didn’t even bother to try to contact me. I wasn’t here for my own father’s funeral. I returned to London this morning and when I telephoned him, as I often did after I’d been out of the country, I was told that he had died.”
Burke lifted his head from her lap, then slowly pulled himself into a sitting position. “When I stopped by the house this afternoon to pay my condolences, I was told I wasn’t welcome.”
“Oh, how dreadful for you.” Callie wrapped her arms around him and hugged him to her.
Engulfing her in his embrace, Burke melted against her. “The maid who turned me away followed me out into the street and told me that Mr. Seamus had asked for me on his deathbed and they had told him I wouldn’t come.”
“Oh, God!” Callie held Burke, offering him sympathy and comfort and tender care.
He buried his face against her neck. She caressed the back of his head, then turned and kissed him sweetly on his temple. He lifted his face to her, and his breathtaking blue eyes glistened with moisture.
“It’s all right,” she said. “It really is quite all right to cry for your father.”
“I don’t cry,” he told her, the tone of his voice hard, even if his words were slightly slurred. “I’ve cried only once since I was a lad of six, when someone called me an ugly name and I knew what it meant. The other time—the last time—was when my dog Skippy died. I was eleven and knew better than to act like a crybaby.”
She couldn’t bear it, Callie thought. This beautiful, brokenhearted man, who so desperately needed the relief of tears, refused to give in to his emotions. Horrid masculine trait! She wanted nothing more at that moment than to ease his suffering, to erase the pain she saw in his eyes and somehow give him the emotional release he needed.
As if he could read her mind, Burke studied her intently and then without a word he covered her mouth with his. The kiss was wildly passionate, and yet an odd blend of tenderness and savagery. He devoured. Taking, demanding, needing. At first, she simply allowed his plundering, but within moments she responded. Hesitantly she opened her mouth, inviting his invasion. But the second he cupped the back of her head, pressing her deeper into the kiss, she ignited, like dry timber to a lit match. Rational thought ceased. Sensation ruled her completely.
All her bruised and battered emotions clashed with sexual heat and the two melded into raw, primitive need.
“Here we are, governor,” the driver said, then hopped out of the cab and opened the door.
Burke ended the kiss, slowly. As if he had all the time in the world. As if some heavyset, gray-haired cabdriver wasn’t watching them. As if passersby couldn’t see them.
Still lost in a sensual fog, Callie’s mind swirled. She eased out of Burke’s arms, her body decidedly weak.
“Want me to help you with him, miss?” the driver asked.
“Sir, are you implying that I can’t walk without assistance?” Burke demanded, but his tone implied a teasing attitude.
As if to make a point, Burke climbed out of the taxi and stood on his own two feet. Callie slid out directly behind him, then searched in her purse for money to pay the driver.
Burke grabbed her hand. “I’ll take care of this.” He removed his wallet, pulled out several large bills—twice the cost of the taxi ride—and handed the generous sum to the driver.
“Thank you, sir. Thank you, indeed.” The middle-aged man smiled broadly. “I’ll be glad to help you inside, governor. No extra charge.” When he chuckled, his potbelly jiggled like jelly.
“My darling, do you need any assistance putting me to bed?” Burke draped his arm around Callie’s shoulders.
Under the streetlights, Burke’s hair shone a rich blue black and his eyes glimmered with temptation and promise.
“Thank you,” she said to the driver, “but I think I can handle things.”
Callie tried not to let Burke’s beautiful period house in prestigious Belgravia intimidate her, but she couldn’t help it. The house must have cost him no less than two million pounds! She was far from poor and had been raised quite comfortably by an American diplomat father and a disowned-by-her-family English aristocrat mother. She had friends from every walk of life, including her independently wealthy cousin Enid. But the kind of money it took to live in Belgravia was the kind possessed by oil sheiks and business tycoons. Just who was Burke Lonigan? she wondered. And what am I doing with him?
When Callie remained unmoving on the pavement in front of his home, Burke nudged her into action. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”
Although his steps were unsteady because of the large amount of liquor he had consumed, Callie’s movements were shaky for a different reason. Suddenly, she felt very uncertain about going inside this mansion with a man she really didn’t know.
When they reached the front door, Burke dove his hand into his pocket and brought out a key, but before inserting it into the lock, he turned and wrapped his arms around Callie. She felt small and vulnerable. With her flats not adding any height to her five-foot-three-inch frame, Burke towered over her a good nine inches.
He pressed his face against her neck, then nuzzled softly and whispered into her ear. “You need me tonight, my darling, just as much as I need you.”
He kissed her. A preview of things to come. A hint of the passion they had shared in the taxi sparked, and she knew it wouldn’t take much to set them aflame.
When he unlocked and opened the massive front doors, she went with him into the dark belly of his home. He didn’t give her time to assess the situation or to get her bearings before he led her deeper into the cavern of the large foyer. The downstairs area was pitch black, but at the top of the impressive staircase a dim light shone from an open doorway.
On their ascent up the marble staircase, Burke continued kissing her, his lips brushing her cheek, her temple and her jaw. All the while he kept his left arm securely wrapped around her shoulders, he maneuvered his right hand alongside her waist and up to gently cradle the underside of her breast. She sucked in a deep breath when his fingertips brushed her nipple.
The light in the hallway came from a bedroom. Burke’s bedroom, she surmised. While her mind instructed her to look at the room, to appreciate the decor and take time out to catch her breath, her senses felt no compulsion to do more than enjoy the ardent attention of the man who kissed and caressed her.
You need this, an inner voice prompted. You need to be loved tonight. Mindlessly, passionately loved. No commitment. No concerns beyond this one night. Don’t think. Feel. Feel what it’s like to be with a man like Burke Lonigan.
Burke shed his coat and let it fall haphazardly to the floor. Then he loosened the buttons on his shirt and