Wicked Temptation (Nemesis Unlimited) (35 page)

He winced. “That was … badly done of me. The others were right. I was being … a snob. Thinking that someone who came from your background didn’t merit helping. But even an old cur like me can learn.” He glanced toward the window. “This is a barbarous, cruel world. To women, especially. That doesn’t change just because you happen to have genteel parents.”

“No,” she said softly, bringing his attention back. “It doesn’t change.” Her lips pressed tightly together. “I shouldn’t have said what I did. I can’t fault you for doing exactly what you said you would. Or being exactly who you claimed to be.”

For Marco, there was some relief in that. But not much. Damn it, he
wanted
to be the sort of hero she’d imagined. But heroism and survival didn’t go hand in hand. Besides, he didn’t think himself capable of that kind of golden, selfless altruism. He took, and he was ruthless, and he was empty.

But what was this pain that filled him, the way water filled its vessel? Why was it that when she finally understood the kind of man he was, a scraping sort of agony tore through him? He wished … he wished for things that could never be. That she could want him truly for all that he was. But it would never happen. And if, by some miracle, it did, could he accept it? Could he let her love him?

What did he know of love, except that he’d denied it to himself for most of his life. Impossible to unlearn that self-denial. To dismantle the fortifications he’d built around himself, even if he wanted them gone.

Now, all he did was nod. In acceptance.

“The account numbers have been changed,” she said abruptly. “What happens now?”

“First, we sleep for a few hours, get our strength back”—though he referred more to her than himself—“then we go to the police and let them know about the connection between Les Grillons and the murder of Olivier Maslin.”

A moment passed. She exhaled. “All right. But we can do all that later. I’m too weary to think.” She presented him with her back. “Get me out of this dress.”

With remarkably steady hands, he undid the fastenings of her gown, until it parted and revealed the smooth flesh of her upper back. His hands hurt with wanting to touch her there, but instead he curled them into fists as she got to her feet and continued to disrobe—impersonally, not looking at him once. Her dress came off first, then her remaining petticoats, and her corset. Until she stood in just her chemise and drawers, pale and weary in the morning light.

He forced his gaze away. For all the words they’d exchanged, and the acknowledged fact that he couldn’t be what she wanted, he still wanted her.

He rose from the bed and strode to a corner of the room. Taking off his coat, he rolled it into a ball and set it on the floor.

“What are you doing?” she asked, pulling the covers back from the bed.

“Getting ready to sleep.”

“Not on the floor, you’re not.” She pointed to the bed. “Get in. It’s big enough for both of us.”

Which was worse—sleeping on the floor with the spiders and the dust, or sharing a bed with Bronwyn and being unable to touch her? As if drawn like metal to a magnet, he couldn’t resist her. His feet took him toward the bed. He’d be close to her, however he could. And if that meant hours of aching and needing with no release or relief, he’d endure that. Because he had to.

FOURTEEN

I’m making a bloody mistake,
she thought.

You can’t let him sleep on the floor like a dog,
her mind argued back.

And if you and he share a bed, what do you think is going to happen?

Nothing. We’ll sleep.

Don’t be stupid. You can’t
really
be that naïve. Not anymore.

She shook her head, as if to dislodge the fight she was having with herself. But she’d made her decision. She couldn’t, in good conscience, sleep in the bed while Marco took the floor. He’d managed in truly desperate and dangerous situations during this journey—chasing Devere through the streets, fending off a Grillons assassin, and all the other Grillons thugs chasing them. Yet nobody could get any good rest on a filthy, hard floor, and so she climbed into bed and waited for him to join her.

First, she endured the trial of watching him undress. Tonight, she’d seen him in action. He’d made a sleek, dangerous picture leaping from rooftop to rooftop, gliding through the shadows like he was part of them. Now he stripped off his waistcoat and shirt, until he was bare-chested. He toed off his boots.

His hand hovered over the fastenings of his trousers, and the rigid line of his erection was the reason why. He didn’t wear drawers. So he’d be naked and aroused as they tried to sleep.

Did she breathe a sigh of relief or disappointment when he left his trousers on? She had to look away as he climbed into bed, the morning light carving the hard contours of his arms and chest.

Then they were in bed together. A distance of inches separated them, since the bed wasn’t especially wide. His heat radiated out, soaking into her skin. And when he shifted slightly, readjusting his position, his arm brushed against hers, sending her nerves sparking.

She closed her eyes, gritted her teeth. Exhausted as she was, her body felt awake, alive. A shiver worked its way through her.

It didn’t seem to matter what her brain understood. She hungered for him. Irrefutably. His touch, his mind. His heart—what little of it he could give her.

She couldn’t deny herself any longer. Opening her eyes, she rolled onto her side, facing him. Only to find him gazing at her, his eyes dark, nostrils flared, jaw tight.

She reached out and lightly caressed along his face, feeling the rasp of stubble beneath her fingertips. He leaned into her touch, his eyes still open, and pressed her hand closer to him. He cupped the side of her cheek with his hand, and for a moment, they did nothing but look at each other, the moment stretching out in slow, irrefutable pulses.

They leaned toward each other. His lips brushed against hers. Once. Twice. Lightly. Something in her heart cracked at the gentleness in his touch. It would’ve been easier to lose herself in something fast and explosive, without feeling. But
this
undid her. When he pressed his lips more firmly to hers, she met the kiss readily. They sank into each other, testing, delving deeper, relearning this thing between them that had its own bright life.

He trailed his lips down her neck, she felt a pang of mixed pleasure and sorrow. Nothing would come of their trysts but sensation, one that would leave her more empty than ever, mourning her shattered heart. But she couldn’t stop herself. And it seemed neither could he. They craved each other, even as they knew they could have only this.

Their limbs tangled together. She reveled in the feel of his legs against hers, the wool of his trousers abrading her softer skin. He reached down between them, cradling her breast through the muslin of her chemise like she was something precious but strong. She arched up into his touch.

He peeled away her chemise, baring her to the waist. Still holding her breast, he lowered his head. She gasped as his lips found her nipple, drawing on it, circling his tongue around the sensitive tip. He gave the same attention to her other breast, and she writhed beneath him.

He had an instinct for how to touch her, how to set her afire. His hands roamed over her body, and in his touch, she sensed everything they couldn’t speak.
I want you. I need you. This can’t ever last.

Impatiently, he tugged off her drawers. She was nude, fully exposed, and let him look his fill as she stretched out on the bed. His face grew tight and sharp, his breathing ragged. She gasped at the sensation of the rough skin of his palm skimming over her belly, then lower. He cupped her sex—only that, held her in his hand in a gesture of tender possessiveness.

But she wanted even more than this, and pushed her hips up, demanding. He obliged, kissing her as he stroked between her folds. He rumbled his approval at finding her wet and ready. And when he slid one, and then two fingers inside her, she cried out into his mouth.

She was pinned with desire—his mouth on hers, one hand stroking her breast, the other hand between her legs. Lost. She was lost to this. To him.

How does he know me so well and yet we can’t bridge this distance between us?

She gripped his shoulders, the muscles tensing and shifting beneath her touch.

Freeing herself, she opened her legs wider, sensation building. His strokes became faster, deeper, as his thumb pressed against her bud. Lightly, he pinched her nipple.

Her orgasm came on quickly. It harrowed her, this mixture of ecstasy, love, and sadness, gripping her tightly in its unrelenting clutches. Like a storm, it rode over her in torrential waves, pleasure upon pleasure, heightened and sharpened by the fact that this thing she and Marco shared had to pass, like any storm. And she could hope that her feelings for him would lessen over time.

Spent, she collapsed upon the bed, her breath ragged. Yet this wasn’t enough.

She reached for the fastenings of his trousers. He didn’t stop her, and when the fastenings were undone, he tossed his remaining clothing onto the floor.

He stretched out above her, and their gazes locked. She saw it in his eyes, too—a sorrowful hunger, a wish for something impossible.

She wanted whatever she could have. Like grabbing the ebbing tide, even as she watched the ocean slip through her fingers, called back by an unstoppable force. And when he positioned himself at her entrance, she angled her hips to meet his. His fingers interlaced with hers. They continued to hold each other’s gaze. Then he slid into her.

Neither looked away as he began to move. They didn’t close their eyes to lose themselves in pleasure. This was now. This moment. Her future self would face the repercussions and anguish.

He kept a steady rhythm, deliberate. Controlled. But she felt when his prized control abandoned him. His pace increased, his jaw tensed, his eyes flared. Sensation built within her again, so soon when she’d thought herself wrung out. But he called it forth from her. His palms pressed tightly against hers, almost more intimate than his flesh within her.

Neither spoke. Not a word, but their intermingled breath and enmeshed bodies spoke for them as they made love with a kind of desperation. Straining toward something. She knew it as a futile love. What he felt—she couldn’t say. Only felt his body tight and hard and demanding.

Outside, all was danger. In the dusty, shabby little room behind the toy shop, everything was uncertain. Except the desire between them.

Another climax took her, bright and hard. An instant later, his followed, and he pulled out just in time to spill onto her belly.

Their fingers finally unclasped. He used a corner of the sheets to clean her, then rolled onto his back. They were apart again.

She stared up at the grimy ceiling, nude, sweat-glossed, her forearm lying across her forehead. She listened to his breathing as it eased, her own breath still heaving in and out.

They’d agreed that this thing between them could never go for very long, and never beyond the physical. And, at the time they’d made that pact, she’d believed it. She had no desire to entrap anyone with false promises.

But she’d lied not to him, but to herself. Because now she did want more. And it wasn’t just the physical pleasure she craved.

No, what she wanted was
him.
In all his cunning permutations. The man capable of picking a lock in seconds. Who sought justice for those who couldn’t obtain it for themselves. Who was moved to passion by her music.

She’d said that he kept himself withheld, but now she realized her mistake. All along, he’d been revealing himself to her. Perhaps without his knowledge, but he’d done it just the same. In tiny, gleaming fragments. His ethos. The tales of his family. His very opacity revealed that he was a man who felt deeply. Maybe more deeply than he knew.

In all this time, she
had
come to know him. Like an archaeologist, slowly uncovering the priceless artifact buried beneath layers of sand and history. All it took was patience.

Because there seemed to be a part of him that
wanted
to be revealed, to be known. She felt his yearning in his touch, in his dark gaze, sheltered in whispered Italian.

But she couldn’t make him bridge that gap. She couldn’t cling to him, trapping him with declarations of love. Unfair to expect something he wasn’t willing to give. And she … she’d have her own life to return to, away from Nemesis and secret train rides and rooftop dangers.

As if reading her thoughts, he asked, “What will you do? Once your fortune’s been returned?”

“I suppose I’ll find myself someplace to live. Bloomsbury, perhaps.”

“Bohemian.” He stroked his fingers along her torso, and her thoughts scattered like moths.

She fought to gather herself. “More affordable than Mayfair or Bayswater. And it will be just me, so I won’t need anything particularly large.”

“So you’ll have a home again.” He sounded almost melancholy about the idea. “Then what?”

“Then…” She tried to picture the hazy future beyond this moment. Since she’d learned that her fortune was gone, her life had been a series of moments strung together by fragile filaments, ready to snap. “I’d thought I’d go back to what I’d been doing. The usual society activities.” Now
she
sounded melancholy. Having seen what she’d seen, done what she’d done, that old life seemed so pallid.

And a life without him … seemed even more wan and flat.

“No,” she corrected herself. “I’ll probably take a flat somewhere, like Bedford Park. Do like I said to Giovanni. Use the rest of my money to open a home for widows.”

It had been all too easy for someone of her station to fall into helpless destitution. For those women already in less fortunate circumstances, they would be even more vulnerable and in need. She might never know exactly what they felt, what they experienced, but she could help where she might.

“A noble plan,” he murmured.

“Selfish, actually,” she corrected. “My conscience wouldn’t leave me alone if I went back to picnics and dinner parties. I’d never get a decent night’s sleep.”