Mistresses: Bound with Gold / Bought with Emeralds. Sandra Marton
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quick grin was white and wolfish. ‘I already feel myself melting. And what do you like to do to relax, Eve?’
‘Oh, read, sew, cook…’ she said demurely. She lowered her lashes and slowly lifted them again. ‘Make love…’
‘Interesting. I usually find that the act of sex has the opposite effect,’ he murmured, topping her with stunning ease. ‘I don’t feel in the least relaxed when I’m inside a woman’s body. I’m all edgy and agitated, and every muscle feels explosively hot and tight with urgency…’ He paused to take a swallow of whisky, enjoying the way her violet eyes widened and the pulse at the base of her bare throat kicked up a storm. ‘But perhaps the feelings are very different for a woman…’
Regan hoped not! She mastered the impulse to throw herself on top of him and demand that he demonstrate right there and then.
She gave a blasé shrug of her slender shoulders instead. ‘Men and women aren’t so very different—’
‘Honey, if you think that, then you must have skipped human biology in high school,’ he interrupted drolly.
In fact her mother had removed her from class whenever there had been a danger she might be contaminated by sex education disguised as legitimate learning.
‘I took Classics rather than Sciences,’ she retaliated. ‘But I meant in terms of having equal sexual needs and desires.’
‘Equal but different,’ he agreed. ‘I don’t suppose my sexual fantasies are the same as yours.’
He sounded so smugly certain she immediately wanted to take him down a peg or two. ‘Which is not to say yours are any better than mine!’
He almost choked on the dregs of his whisky as a chuckle rumbled up from his chest. ‘If I show you mine will you show me yours?’
Her blank response prompted him to continue. ‘Didn’t you ever play doctors and nurses as a kid?’
‘I was an only child.’
‘And? Surely there was some chubby little charmer in the neighbourhood who suggested disappearing into the nearest wardrobe with his play-stethoscope and handy torch?’
‘If he had, he’d have found himself without a head.’
‘So you were an aggressive, assertive little girl?’ he speculated, looking deeply intrigued.
‘I was very biddable and angelic,’ she said primly, using a straight face to imply that her truth was actually an outrageous lie. ‘But my mother was extremely vigilant where the seven deadly sins were concerned.’
‘Thereby not giving you much of a chance to be anything else,’ he guessed with uncomfortably swift perception.
‘I’m sure I still have my trusty halo here somewhere,’ she said, delicately patting her fingertips down the side of her dress.
‘Somewhat tarnished by now, I suppose?’ he drawled, his gaze following the taunting trail.
‘Oh, I take it out every now and then and give it a good polish,’ she said, exhilarated by her newfound ability to hold her own against his quick wit.
‘And groom your golden wings?’
‘No wings,’ she dimpled, ‘but I do have a pitchfork in my other dress.’
‘Ahh…a woman of dangerous contradictions. I see my first act should not have been to kiss your hand but to pat you down for concealed weapons.’
She spread her arms in graceful offering. ‘Feel free to do so now; I won’t hold it against you.’
‘Not even if I beg?’ As a laugh gurgled in her throat his eyes flicked across to the elevated dining area, where Pierre was placing a bottle of Krug champagne into a silver ic-ebucketon the table, next to a covered chafing dish. He drained his glass and set it down. ‘It looks as if Pierre has served up. Shall we?’
Two elegant place-settings were angled next to each other at the head of the oval table; the overhead down-lights were dimmed, and the dancing flame of a slender candle was dully reflected in the burnished surface of the wood. A sheaf of the palest pink roses in a fan-shaped hand-blown vase complemented the oval white place-mats gleaming with silver and crystal.
Adam politely said something about washing his hands, and followed Pierre briefly into the kitchen. When he returned Regan was still standing behind the chair at the head of the oval table, her hands balled by her sides, her face mantled with a light flush that made him eye her thoughtfully. As he approached she drew back the chair and invited him to be seated with a tilt of her head.
‘Usurping my gentlemanly duties?’ he murmured, accepting the courtesy with a lazy smile, and Regan picked up the white damask napkin from beside his plate and snapped out the starched folds to drape it across his lap. ‘When I told Pierre that we wouldn’t need him for the rest of the evening, I envisaged that I would be waiting on you,’ he added.
‘I thought you might feel in the mood to be pampered,’ said Regan, unfolding her fist and casually laying another item on top of his napkin.
He glanced down, and she was elated to see the ripple of shock glaze his features. His eyelids drooped and the hard jaw slackened and it was several exhilarating heartbeats before he regained sufficient mastery of his expression to hike up a mocking eyebrow.
‘Misplaced something, Eve?’ He lifted the wisp of black lace above the level of the table, dangling it from his crooked finger.
‘Not at all,’ she drawled. His eyes were irresistibly drawn to the outline of her hips and she made the most of it, sliding her bottom onto the padded chair with provocative slowness and squirming to make herself comfortable.
‘Tease!’ His soft accusation was redolent with masculine appreciation as he watched the performance.
Her dress slid against her bare skin and the slight coolness between her legs made her feel dangerously vulnerable, especially when her knee brushed his under the table. She pressed her quivering thighs together, excited by her daring. It felt so good to be so thoroughly bad that she wondered why she hadn’t tried it years ago.
He danced the swatch of lace on his crooked finger. ‘Then what’s this? Some form of nouvelle cuisine appetiser designed to stimulate my jaded palate?’
It was her turn to look glazed as he dropped the skimpy black panties onto his gold-rimmed white plate and picked up his fork to lightly stir the frothy lace.
‘I must admit, they do look good enough to eat.’ He twirled the fork into the silky fabric, winding it up as if it was an exotic form of pasta.
‘Adam—no!’ she squeaked, clapping her hands to her mouth to contain her appalled laughter. She hadn’t expected such an obvious sophisticate to possess such a mischievous sense of humour.
He paused, looking wickedly crestfallen. ‘You don’t wear edible panties?’ he asked.
She had seen them in novelty gift shops and thought them embarrassingly tacky. ‘Certainly not!’
Her scandalised denial made his mouth twitch. ‘Then I suppose I’ll have to settle for whatever Pierre has rustled up,’ he said, calmly plucking the panties off his fork and tucking them casually into his breast pocket. He lifted the domed lid of the chafing dish to reveal a fragrant pile of steaming stir-fried vegetables burnished with a sesameflecked sauce. ‘Will you have some?’
Regan tore her eyes away from the lace frothing out of his pocket. ‘No, I don’t think so…’ She watched him heap a generous serving of the vegetables onto his plate. ‘Are you a vegetarian?’
He shook his head as he poured Krug into two longstemmed glasses of Edinburgh lead-crystal. ‘I asked Pierre to prepare something that would digest easily. I know a meal is considered the conventional prelude to seduction, but I don’t think one should make love on an overly full stomach. Do you?’