Seduced (8 page)

“Understood.”

“Now tell me, how are you, dear? It's been months since I've seen you.”

“I'm fine, thanks.”

Releasing her hand, Martha took a step back and surveyed Amanda. “Well, I must say you certainly look wonderful. New Orleans must agree with you.”

“It does,” Amanda admitted, smiling. She couldn't help but wonder how much credit Michael Grayson deserved for her present happiness. “I love the city, the people. I feel like...like I belong here.”

Martha laughed. “I'm not sure your mother would be pleased to hear you say that. The last time I spoke with her, she and your father were missing you a great deal.”

“I miss them, too,” Amanda said, feeling a slight twinge of guilt. Her parents hadn't been at all happy about her divorce and had liked the idea of her moving so far away even less. But Boston held too many reminders, too many remnants of dreams that had shattered. “I'm hoping they'll come visit me during the Christmas holidays.”

Martha raised one perfectly arched brow. “Sounds like you really are here to stay.”

“I am,” Amanda said, and realized it was true. New Orleans had been a temporary sanctuary for her after her divorce, but somewhere along the way it had become home.

“Well, then, we'll both have to twist your mother's arm a bit and get her to come down for a visit. I haven't seen her in years. We've got a lot of catching up to do.”

“I'm sure Mother would love it.”

“Here's your wine, Aunt Martha.” Amanda looked over at the tall man with dark blond hair who came to stand beside Martha. In his mid-thirties, Amanda guessed, noting the strong resemblance between them. His white dinner jacket set off his deep golden tan beautifully. Years of habit, born from studying and assessing potential campaign donors in Boston's political circle, had Amanda guessing at the designer and the price.

“Thank you, dear.” Martha took the glass of white wine from him. “Bradley, I don't believe you've met Amanda Bennett. She's the daughter of my friend Elinore, the school friend from Boston that I told you about.” She turned toward Amanda. “Amanda, my nephew, Bradley Winthrop.”

Bradley took her hand in his. He smiled at her; his eyes, a striking shade of green, crinkled at the corners. “Hello,” he said warmly.

“How do you do?”

“Now that I've met you, much much better,” he said.

He was handsome, Amanda admitted, and obviously a charmer. She withdrew her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Winthrop.”

“Bradley,” he corrected with another smile. “May I call you Amanda?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Will you be visiting New Orleans long? I'd love to show you around the city.”

“Actually, I'm not a visitor. I live here.”

“Amanda moved here last fall,” Martha informed him. “Don't you remember my mentioning it to you?”

“You mean this gorgeous creature has been living in the same city with me and I'm just now meeting her?”

Amanda couldn't help but laugh at the crushed expression on his face. Yes, Bradley Winthrop was definitely a charmer. But he didn't make her heart race or her pulse beat faster—not the way Michael did.

“Behave yourself, Bradley. You were away on one of your little sailing adventures when Amanda arrived. Otherwise, you'd have met her sooner.”

“If you had told me your old school friend had such a beautiful daughter, I would have cut my trip short and come home.”

“Ignore him, Amanda. Instead of taking over his father's business, sometimes I think Bradley should have gone on the stage.”

“I'm sure he would have done quite well,” Amanda said, grinning at Bradley's pained expression.

“Anyway, I'm ashamed to admit that I haven't called this dear child in months to even see how she's been getting along. When you and I talked last, I believe you said you were taking some sort of classes.”

“Yes. Refresher courses. At the University of New Orleans. I'm hoping to take the state exam this fall and get my license to practice in Louisiana.”

“Practice?” Bradley asked. “Are you a doctor?”

“A child psychologist,” Amanda explained.

“Amanda worked for a very reputable firm in Boston before her marriage,” Martha informed her nephew.

“You're married?” Bradley asked, his show of disappointment almost comical.

“Divorced,” Amanda said, hating the failure the word implied.

Bradley brightened. “In that case, I hope you're planning to stay in New Orleans for a while.”

“I am, provided I can get on with one of the clinics.”

“Maybe Aunt Martha can help. She sits on a number of the hospital boards. Don't you, Aunt Martha?”

“Bradley's right, dear. And of course, I'd be glad to send a letter of recommendation for you,” Martha added. “Do you have a particular clinic in mind?”

“Not at the moment.” Although she appreciated the offer, Amanda didn't want any favors. That had been part of the reason she'd come to New Orleans. Here she was simply Amanda Bennett, not Ambassador Bennett's daughter or somebody important's wife. And any job she got was going to be on her own merit, Amanda vowed.

“Well, let me know if I can help. I'd be happy to put in a word for you,” Martha said.

“Thanks. I'll keep that in mind. But right now, I'm concentrating on getting through the next four weeks of classes. Then I'll have to wait until the fall to take the exam.”

Bradley grimaced. “I certainly don't envy you. I'm sure you'll be glad to get all that behind you and start working again.”

“Yes, I will. But, actually, I am working now. With a group of children at Saint Margaret's. Of course, it's only in a volunteer capacity, but I enjoy it.”

“Saint Margaret's.” Martha took a sip of her wine. She drew her brows together. “I don't seem to recall any Saint Margaret's clinic or hospital. Where is this place located?”

“It's uptown. But it's not a clinic or a hospital. It's a Catholic grade school. I've been doing some counseling there a few afternoons a week.”

Martha's face paled. “The little school off of State Street?”

“Yes. That's it.”

Martha's hand shook slightly as she set her wineglass down on the table. “Do you work with all of the children there?”

“No,” Amanda responded, puzzled. “Just the ones whose parents or teachers have recommended them for counseling.”

“You mean, the problem kids,” Bradley said, scorn in his voice.

“I wouldn't call them ‘problem kids',” Amanda informed him, frowning. She wondered then how she could have thought him charming. “Sometimes the children are just afraid or they might be having trouble adjusting to a new environment.”

“Tell me, Amanda. Would you happen to have come across a little girl there by the name of Summer Grayson?” Martha's voice was calm, but she seemed tense, edgy. “She's seven years old and in the third grade. A pretty little thing with long black hair and green eyes.”

Suddenly uneasy, Amanda looked from Bradley's scowling face to Martha's anxious one. For some reason she was reluctant to tell them anything about Summer. “Martha, you know a doctor can't reveal anything about her patients,” she said, trying to sound light.

Bradley narrowed his eyes. “Then the Grayson kid
is
one of your patients?”

Just then Amanda looked past Bradley and spotted Michael heading toward her. Relief flooded through her. “Michael,” she said, ignoring Bradley's last question. “I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost.”

Michael swallowed, trying to ease the thick knot of anger and panic that had lodged in his throat at the sight of Amanda with the Winthrops. “No. Just a long line at the bar.” He flicked his gaze over Bradley and Martha. “Here's your Perrier.”

Amanda took the glass of sparkling water. “Thank you.” She moved to his side. “Michael, I'd like to introduce you to Martha Winthrop and her nephew, Bradley. Martha and my mother were roommates in college. Martha, Bradley, this is my friend, Michael Grayson.”

“The Winthrops and I are already acquainted,” Michael informed her.

Martha's chin tilted up slightly. Her eyes flashed. “Yes. Michael and I share...a mutual interest.”

“You and I share nothing,” Michael said fiercely, angry at Martha's implication that they shared Summer. They didn't. Summer belonged to him.

“I didn't realize you knew Michael, Amanda. Tell me, dear, how did you two happen to meet?”

“Yeah, Amanda.” Bradley leaned nonchalantly against a tree. His gaze raked lazily over Amanda. “How'd a classy lady like you get tangled up with a guy like Grayson?”

Amanda gasped.

Michael clenched his fists at his side. He took a step toward Bradley, wanting to wipe that smug look off his pretty-boy face. “Another crack like that, Winthrop, and you'll find yourself paying a visit to your dentist before the evening's over.”

Bradley straightened. His mocking smile disappeared. “Maybe you've got the rest of the people in this town falling for that ‘tough guy' and ‘poor boy makes good' image of yours, but I don't. I'm not afraid of you because I know what you really are. You're still Crazy Alice Grayson's punk kid.”

“Bradley!” Martha glared at her nephew. “That's enough. You've had too much to drink and you're making a scene.”

Michael grabbed Bradley by the lapels of his jacket, crushing the expensive silk. It had been years since anyone had taunted him with that hated name the kids had labeled his poor, sick mother. Yet the mere mention of it made him feel twelve years old again and all the old hurt and anger came back.

“Michael, don't.” Amanda tugged at his arm. “Please.”

He looked down at Amanda, her face drained of color, her dark brown eyes wide with concern. He glanced to his left, noting the small group of people watching. “Be grateful I've learned some manners, Winthrop. Twenty years ago I wouldn't have given a damn about ruining this little party. I'd have broken you into tiny pieces. Come anywhere near me or what's mine again, and I will.”

Shoving Bradley away from him, he turned to Amanda. “Let's get out of here.”

“I
‘m coming inside,” Michael told Amanda as she unlocked the front door. “We need to talk.”

“By all means,” Amanda said, leading the way. She had a few questions of her own for Mr. Michael Grayson. Like, what had happened between Bradley and him to cause the other man to be so rude? And how did Martha Winthrop know Summer? And why had the other woman been so interested in the child?

Amanda flipped on the light switch, bathing the living room in a soft white glow. After placing her evening clutch on the coffee table beside the vase of flowers, she turned to face Michael.

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked, trying to defuse the tension that had mushroomed between them during the silent drive home. “I don't have any beer, but I've got some wine.”

“What? No brandy? That is what you blue bloods drink, isn't it?”

Amanda froze, taken aback by the underlying anger in his tone. His derision stung; but Amanda struggled to keep her voice calm. “I think I have a bottle that my father gave me. Since you were drinking beer at the party, I assumed that's what you prefer. But if you'd rather have brandy—”

“Forget it. I wouldn't want you to waste the good stuff on me. Save it for your friends,” he said, his voice cold, his expression hard.

“I don't know why you're so angry, Michael. I'm not even sure who you're angry with. But I do know you have a real hang-up about what you perceive as social classes, and I don't like it.”

“And you, my dear Amanda, have a nasty habit of playing shrink. You can save the analysis for somebody else.” He tossed his coat onto a chair. “Right now, all I want from you are some straight answers.”

Amanda smarted, stung by his harsh words. Answers? Was that what he wanted? Judging by the steamy looks he'd been giving her all evening, she had thought he'd wanted a great deal more.

At least, he had an hour ago—before they'd run into the Winthrops. She studied his face. The mouth that had been so gentle and inviting when he'd smiled at her was now pulled into a thin, angry line.

She sat down on the chair beside the sofa. “First of all, I think we'd better get something straight. I don't
owe
you any explanations. But I'm willing to answer your questions...provided you answer mine.” She paused. “Is it a deal?”

Michael frowned, then muttered, “Deal.”

“All right, what do you want to know?” Folding her arms, she leaned back.

“You can start by telling me what your connection is to the Winthrops.”

Amanda stared up into his scowling face. His eyes that had been so filled with warmth and desire earlier were as cold and hard as steel.

“Are you going to answer me?”

Amanda's back stiffened. “Not until you sit down. I refuse to conduct this...this conversation—if you can call it that—with you standing there glaring at me like Attila the Hun.”

Muttering, Michael dropped onto the couch across from her. “All right. Now, why don't you explain to me how it is you happen to be so chummy with the Winthrops.”

“Chummy?” Amanda repeated. “I'd hardly say speaking with Martha and Bradley Winthrop constitutes ‘chummy.' We're merely acquaintances.”

“Dammit, Amanda. Forget the semantics. What's your connection to the Winthrops? How do you know them?”

“Martha Winthrop went to college with my mother. They were sorority sisters. When I moved to New Orleans, my mother called Martha and asked her to look in on me occasionally.”

“And Bradley? Did your mother ask him to look in on you, too?”

Amanda blinked, surprised by the depth of his hostility. “I met him for the first time tonight. Michael, what's all this about? The two of you were practically at each other's throats. And Martha looked positively ill when she saw you. And she was asking me questions about Summer.”

“What did she want to know?”

“I'm not sure exactly. When I told her I was working at Saint Margaret's, she asked me if I knew Summer.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I didn't have a chance to tell her anything. That's when you came over and the whole conversation shifted.”

Michael let out his breath and Amanda noticed for the first time that beneath the anger he was genuinely worried.

“Then she doesn't know about the problems Summer's been having? That she's needed counseling?”

“Not from me she doesn't. But what difference does it make?” Amanda asked, although she was beginning to suspect she knew the answer already. “Michael, will you please tell me what's going on?”

He looked up at her, his expression wary. “Haven't you figured it out yet?”

“I think so. But I'd still like to hear it from you.”

Slowly, Michael straightened. He loosened the studs at his throat and rubbed the back of his neck. Dark swirls of hair curled at the opening of his white dress shirt. “Will you give me your promise that whatever I tell you stays between us—no matter what happens?”

“Yes,” Amanda said, moistening her lips. She brought her eyes up to his face.

“Martha Winthrop is Summer's grandmother.”

“But I thought...”

“You thought what I wanted you to think. That I'm Summer's only relative.”

It was the eyes, Amanda decided as Michael confirmed what she'd started to suspect. Summer had Bradley's green eyes. “If Bradley is Summer's father, then why—”

“Bradley's not Summer's father!”

“But I thought—” Amanda paused. “Then who is?”

“Phillip Winthrop.” The words were little more than a whisper, yet his voice sounded raw.

“Phillip?” She tried to recall where she'd heard the name before.

“Martha's son. He died before Summer was born.”

Amanda swallowed, remembering her mother mentioning Martha's only child had been killed tragically. She tried to assimilate that with what Michael had told her about Summer's father. “You said Summer's father...Phillip—wouldn't marry your sister. Was it because he already had a wife?”

Michael laughed, the sound was empty, bitter. “No. Phillip wasn't married. And to be honest, I think he really did love my sister. God knows, she certainly loved him.”

“Then why...”

“Because Sara wasn't good enough,” he said through clenched teeth. “Phillip had that blue blood running through his veins. But Sara didn't. She wasn't some little debutante who went to all the right schools and took summer trips to Europe. Hell, even if I could have afforded to send her, she wouldn't have accepted. She couldn't trace her ancestors back to the
Mayflower
or whatever it is people like the Winthrops do to determine if someone's bloodlines are good enough.”

Amanda's heart twisted a little as she imagined what a blow it must have been to Michael to see his sister rejected.

“She was common—just like me.”

Michael lifted his eyes; they tangled with hers. Amanda could see the pain she heard in his voice and moved beside him.

She took his hands in hers and squeezed. “There's nothing common about you, Michael Grayson. I doubt any of the Graysons could ever be described that way.”

“Martha Winthrop wouldn't agree with you. And you saw Bradley's reaction when he found out you were with me.”

“Then Martha and Bradley Winthrop are fools. I was proud to be with you,” she told him sincerely. “Any woman would be.”

Michael's fingers tightened around hers. His eyes darkened to a smoky blue.

“I wouldn't have wanted to be with anyone else,” she managed, despite her quickening pulse.

He made a noise that sounded like part sigh, part groan. Untangling their fingers, he slipped his arms around her, drawing her close. “Amanda.” Her name sounded like a prayer on his lips.

Amanda swallowed. Her heart began to beat faster as he leaned closer, until all she could see was his face, his eyes, his mouth.

“You have no idea how much I've wanted to do this all evening.”

But she did know, Amanda admitted silently, lifting her face for his kiss. Because she'd wanted—waited for—this moment, too.

His lips brushed her forehead, her temple. She closed her eyes and he kissed each of them. She took a quick breath, trying to stem the heat unfurling inside her. The faint scent of soap, of men's cologne, of the tree-filled park surrounded her until only the smell, the taste, the touch of Michael filled her senses. The flame, only banked since the previous night, leapt to life inside her.

When he pressed a kiss to the corner of her mouth, Amanda's control slipped. “Michael.” She slid her arms up around his neck and pulled his mouth to hers.

He accepted her offering greedily. His tongue thrust past her open lips, hungrily seeking, tasting, deepening the kiss.

“So sweet. So very sweet,” he whispered as he nipped at her ear, her neck.

Amanda whimpered. She leaned her head back as his mouth continued to pleasure and torment. Needs that had been buried burst to life inside her, building to a fever pitch.

Michael stared into her eyes, his own dark with hunger, and loosened the single button at the nape of her dress. The silk slithered down to her shoulders, pooling above her breasts.

Tenderly, almost reverently, he caressed her bare shoulder. “Such soft skin,” he said, his voice husky. He drew a line with his finger from her shoulder to her throat, down to where the silk hovered above her breasts. “I've been going crazy wondering if you were this soft all over.”

Her heart pounding furiously, Amanda arched her back as the need inside her grew even stronger. “Michael,” she whispered his name, unsure just what it was she was asking for.

He hooked the silk with his finger and pulled, baring her breasts. She heard his breath catch, saw the desire burning in his eyes and a rush of pleasure shot through her.

He wanted her, truly wanted
her
—as a woman, not as a substitute for a loved one he'd lost or because his child needed a mother. He wanted her...for herself.

And she wanted him.

Michael touched her gently, his fingers unsteady as he explored the shape of each breast. He pinned her with his eyes as he cupped their fullness, brushed his thumb across their peaks. “Your skin feels like silk...warm, living silk.”

Her nipples pebbled, begging for his touch. Michael obliged. He lowered his head and took one nipple in his mouth, laving, kissing, nipping at the sensitized flesh while his hand ministered to her other breast.

Heat seeped through her, flowing to the juncture between her thighs. Amanda freed her arms from her dress, then buried her fingers in his hair. She held him close and arched her body toward him, wanting, needing more.

When he pulled away for a moment, Amanda started to protest. Opening her eyes, the words stuck in her throat as he unfastened the remaining buttons of his shirt and pulled it free of his trousers. Amanda clutched a handful of silk skirt as she studied his bare chest, all tanned and muscled. Her fingers itched to trace the line of dark hair that ran down his flat stomach and disappeared into his slacks.

Michael reached for her hand, forcing her to relinquish her stranglehold on her dress. “Feel what you do to me,” he said, placing her hand over his heart.

She touched the warm, muscled flesh. His heart beat out a frenetic tune beneath her fingertips. Excited, she gave in to impulse and began stroking his chest, weaving her fingers through the trail of dark hair that covered his skin.

Feeling bold, Amanda flicked her finger over his nipple.

Michael shuddered.

Heady with the knowledge that she excited him, Amanda dropped her head to his chest. She touched the tip of his nipple with her tongue.

Michael groaned. “Amanda.” He tipped her face up and took her mouth, devouring, conquering, burning her with his kiss.

Amanda could sense the leashed power, the desire barely held in check, as he eased her back onto the cushions of the couch. The storm began to rage inside her as his hair-roughened chest pressed against her bare breasts. She lifted her hips to meet him, glorying in the feel of his maleness resting hard and heavy with desire against her.

Michael groaned again and deepened the kiss. Suddenly his hands were everywhere—in her hair, on her breasts, caressing her thighs.

When she saw the heated look in his eyes, Amanda gave a silent prayer of thanks that she'd given in to the impulse to wear the garter belt and hose.

His hand moved between her legs, near the center of her warmth, and Amanda bit her lip to stop from crying out her need.

He stroked her through the silk of her panties.

She gripped the edges of his shirt.

“Don't fight it, love.”

The thin barrier seemed to make the intimacy more erotic. Every muscle in her body was attuned to the rhythm of his finger moving across the damp silk covering her feminine secrets.

“You're so hot...like liquid fire,” he whispered as he continued to stoke the heat inside her. “That's it,” he coaxed. “Burn for me, Amanda. Burn for me, the way I've been burning for you.”

The flame burst inside her, engulfing her, and Amanda clutched at his shoulders, digging her nails into his muscled flesh as wave after wave of sensation washed over her.

“I knew it would be like this between us.” He kissed her mouth, her breasts, then drew a line with his tongue to her navel.

Her stomach fluttered beneath the assault. Amanda pulled his head back up so she could taste his mouth again.

She reached for the buckle of his belt.

“Yes,” he whispered, his breath catching as her fingers loosened the button of his slacks.

Amanda shivered at his response. Had she known, too, on some elemental level that there would be passion like this between them? Was that the reason she had been so unsure, so afraid of her feelings when she was with him?