A Dance with Indecency (3 page)

Then, suddenly, Harry pulled back slightly. He took in her wide, dazed eyes, her rosy cheeks and her moist, slightly bruised lips. His face lit up with a satisfied smirk.

“Much better indeed,” he murmured as he lowered his face to hers.

He sank gently onto her, his hips meeting hers with a sensuous twist. He began to trail kisses down her neck as his hand pushed up her thigh, sliding under her dress. His fingers traced dangerous circles from her outer thigh to her inner thigh, reaching higher, higher, and higher until...

Harry jerked back suddenly, meeting her eyes.

“You’re not wearing knickers!” he exclaimed without thinking.

She met his shocked expression with a wicked gleam in her twinkling eyes.

“You did say to dress indecently,” she said with a wink.

Harry felt himself go even harder, until he was straining against his trousers, begging for release. He brought a hand to the apex of her thighs and carefully brushed a knuckle over her, and her moist warmth nearly brought him to completion right then and there. His vision grew clouded with desire. He wanted nothing more than to drag her up, spin her around and lay her over the back of the sofa. He wanted to push her skirt up over her hips, rip open his trousers and thrust himself into her until she begged for release. She would cry his name, clutch at the cushions and throw her head back as he made love to her. His eyes slid over her perfect face: her parted lips, her lusty gaze, her heaving chest. She was willing; yes, she was definitely willing...but perhaps it might be beyond the scope of a petting party. Frustration welled for a moment. Then Harry remembered—he practically lived in the Getty Suite of the hotel. He had the lush rooms permanently booked for himself, and the suite already housed many of his personal effects.

“Madame Rousseau—”

“Call me Elise,” she whispered, her breath warm on his face.

“Elise,” he amended, cupping her cheek. “Would you like to retire to my—”

His question was abruptly cut off as fireworks exploded outside. The other guests could be heard rushing out to the terrace to enjoy the nightly display of lavish pyrotechnics.

Harry sighed. With the first, deafening crack of the fireworks, the magic spell between them had lost its power. He rose to his feet and offered her his hand. Elise took it and stood, straightening her dress. They followed the crowd out onto the large stone balcony, their eyes immediately drawn upward to the colorful display. Harry pulled her to the front of the crowd, right in front of the terrace railing. The noise was so thunderously loud that Elise could hardly hear the exclamations of delight all around her.

Harry stood behind her and pulled her into an embrace, her back to his chest. He looped an arm around her waist, anchoring her to him.

“What do you think of New York so far, Elise?” he asked, his lips at her ear so she could hear.

Elise hummed noncommittally. In her four years away, the city had changed; the lights were brighter, the venues fancier and the diversions more sensual. But still...

“You miss Paris.” Harry voiced the very thought lingering in her mind.

“Yes,” she admitted, turning to answer, “I do miss Paris.”

“And what do the French have that I can’t give you?”

Elise closed her eyes and thought back to many mornings spent sitting on the terrace of a café, sipping a coffee and eating brunch. The crispness in the air, the buttery croissants and the simple pleasure of an outdoor meal...a perfect foil to raucous nights.

“I miss the Café de la Paix,” she answered quietly, a faintly trembling stutter in her voice.

Harry paused. For a moment, he thought there had been something achingly familiar about her voice. Then he brushed the fleeting thought away.

“What about it do you miss?” Harry asked, rubbing his hands up and down her forearms to keep away the chill.

“It’s a beautiful little café outside the Opera House in Paris. Wrought-iron fences, little tables and lots of coffee. I loved having brunch there.”

“You woke up early enough for brunch?” His hands stilled in surprise, and then dipped to her waist.

Elise smiled to herself.

“We do things differently in Paris,
monsieur
,” she said, leaning her head back on his shoulder to look up at the fireworks. “We know how to cool down after dancing the night away. New York is not nearly as entertaining.”

Harry’s arm snaked around her midsection, pulling her even closer.

“Are you sure?”

His breath warmed the shell of her ear. His free hand smoothed down her thigh and then up again, sliding under her skirt.

“What are you doing?” Elise hissed, her eyes darting to the people standing a little way away.

“I did promise you something that you would never ever forget,” Harry whispered back, his fingers inching upward. “And they can’t see what I’m doing anyway.”

He kissed her nape as he pressed a knuckle to her moist folds. She bit her lip as he stroked her gently. Whispering encouragement at her ear, he pushed a finger into her core as his thumb circled her nub of pleasure. She barely stifled a cry, wondering if she would be heard above the bright explosions of light in the sky. Pleasure spiked up her belly and shot down into her toes. Harry’s fingers worked her relentlessly, and the pressure was building to the breaking point. Elise began to pant, her fists clenching around the bars of the railing in front of her. Her thighs trembled—and then she cried out suddenly, her voice muffled by the sound of the crackling fireworks. As she climaxed in his arms, bright lights burst in her vision—brighter than all the fireworks lighting up the sky.

Elise sagged bonelessly against him, her breathing rapid. Harry smiled smugly to himself as he slowly pulled his fingers away and wrapped both strong arms around her to keep her standing.

I
have her now
, he thought to himself.
Now to seal the deal.

“Shall we retire to my suite?” he murmured at her ear.

Elise nodded, strength slowly returning to her limbs. The pair turned away from the fireworks and headed for the elevator. Elise leaned against Harry, her hand curled around his bicep and her hip grazing his as they walked. The touch was electric. Elise glanced up at him to see a faintly proud smile lighting his eager face.

I
have him now
, she thought to herself.
A
little more and you’ll be mine to break!

Chapter 4

Harry waved the attendant away from the elevator and ushered Elise into the steel box by himself. He would rather not have an audience to what he was about to do. After hastily punching the button for his floor, he turned to Elise. If he remembered correctly, he had approximately a minute and a half until they reached his top level suite—that was a minute and half to render the woman speechless in weak-kneed passion.

It wasn’t hard to get started.

She responded as soon as he buried his fingers in her hair, knocking away her hat and pulling her close. Elise met his kiss with a fervor all her own, her arms winding around his neck. He pushed her back against the wall of the elevator, his hands sliding up her legs. Pushing her skirt up over her hips, he lifted her bottom and hooked her knees around his hips. She twisted her ankles at his back, locking him to her, and they ground against each other hungrily. Moans of pleasure escaped between hot, wet kisses as they rocked fervidly against the wall.

Up, up they rose—both in altitude and in passion.

And when it seemed that they would burn up from the pent-up desire to be even closer still, the elevator pinged its arrival at the top level, and the doors slid open.

Harry pulled them away from the wall, still holding Elise fast in his arms. They stumbled from the elevator and down a short hall toward the double doors of the Getty Suite. As they knocked back against the doors, Harry fumbled for his key. They barely kept from tumbling to the floor when the door opened, and Harry kicked it shut fiercely. Elise slid from his grasp, latching on to his tie and tugging him toward the nearest soft surface in sight. But lust made them clumsy, and they bumbled their way toward the lounge area of the suite, bumping into walls and furniture all the way. Just before they reached a divan, Elise cracked her hip against a side table. She yelped and turned in time to see a series of photo frames tip over like dominos. She was about to let herself fall back onto the divan when one of the photos caught her eye. She froze, the passion draining from her in an instant.

Harry paused; Elise had suddenly gone rigid. Puzzled, he let his grip go lax as she slowly extricated herself from their tangled pose. She pulled away, her fingers trailing on one of his tables. He watched as she carefully picked up one of the fallen photo frames. She lifted it close, studiously examining the faces reflected behind polished glass. She ran the pads of her fingers over the glass as if inspecting it for cracks.

“You needn’t worry,” Harry assured her, taking a step toward her and placing a hand on her bare shoulder. “I can always replace the frame if it’s cracked.”

Her fingers lingered on the photograph before she set it back down on the table. Then, she stepped out from under his touch and wandered over to the window.

“I’ve upset you,” Harry said, his voice apologetic.

Still facing away, Elise shook her head, not trusting her voice.

“Come now, dear girl,” Harry suggested, trying to salvage the evening. “Why don’t I call room service? Have them bring up some champagne and treats? The kitchen makes a lovely—”

“Is that an important photograph?” Elise cut in quietly.

“Pardon?”

“The photograph,” Elise said slowly and deliberately. “Is it important to you?”

Harry picked up the frame that she had been looking at.

“Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.”

Her voice was casual and low, but Harry detected a note of distress in her tone.
How strange
, he thought.

“It’s just an old college photo,” he told her, his eyes fondly searching out the familiar faces in the photograph. “These were my old mates from the good old days.” He chuckled to himself. “They were a right fun bunch, all of them.”

“All of them?”

“Of course! Even this one mousy girl—she wasn’t much to look at, but my goodness! She was a doll. Such a modest girl.” He smiled then looked up as realization dawned. “Did you recognize someone in the photo?”

“N-no—”

“That’s it, isn’t it?” Harry pressed excitedly. “You must tell me who it is! I’ve lost track of most of them.”

“You’re m-mistaken,” Elise stuttered. “How could I know any of your college mates?”

“Really?” Harry asked doubtfully.

“Really.” Elise insisted, spinning around with a dazzling smile. “Now, let’s chat about something more interesting, shall we?”

Her smile felt too tight, and her head spun. She headed for one of the lounge chairs, valiantly fighting the frown that threatened to mar her happy-go-lucky image.

For she had recognized someone in that photo. One mousy, young college girl. A funny, modest girl.

Yes, she’d seen her own face—her old self—staring back up at her from the photograph.

But why would Harry have that photograph on display? Why would he remember her fondly? Elise struggled to focus on her present reality: Harry was pouring them champagne, his back to her for the moment. She frowned at him, wondering what she’d gotten herself into and all the while admiring his broad shoulders and trim waist. He turned back to her with two champagne flutes in hand, and she pasted a brilliant smile onto her face.

“Now,” Harry said cheerfully. “Where were we?”

He padded across the lounge to hand her one of the flutes and then took a seat on the seat adjacent to hers. No need to pounce on her and frighten her off, he thought as he took a sip of the bubbly.

“You were going to regale me with stories from your college days,” Elise said with a lazy grin.

“Ah, yes,” Harry returned good-naturedly. “The good old days.”

He leaned back in his chair, reminiscing for a moment. Unfortunately, he thought, those days hadn’t been as good as he would have liked them to be. Though filled with wine, women and song, his college days had also been filled with immense pressure from his father. He’d had no time for anything but work, with the odd, meaningless dalliance.

“A mousy girl from your past?”

Elise’s voice cut into his thoughts. He looked back at her, faintly surprised by her insistent prodding.

“Yes,” he murmured vaguely. “What was her name?”

But he remembered her name with perfect clarity: Elise Burke. Strange that she and this Parisian woman should share the same name when they were so completely different. Elise Rousseau was the perfect embodiment of the roaring twenties: filthy rich, gorgeous, sexually uninhibited and completely frivolous. On the other hand, Elise Burke had been middle-class, girl-next-door pretty, shy and naively thoughtful.

Harry fought the sudden tiredness in his eyes. To be honest, he would probably prefer to bathe in Miss Burke’s quiet kindness rather than soak up Madame Rousseau’s sharp, jaded wit.

But of course, Harry knew that was impossible.

For he had broken that poor girl’s heart once—and all because he’d known that he would never be able to make her happy. She deserved a more responsible man, one who would be devoted only to her. But after he’d flat-out rejected her, he’d almost immediately regretted it. A moment too late as well, for the woman had fled the country and disappeared to who knows where!

Harry shook his head of his thoughts. Regret would do no one any good—and he had a rich widow to seduce and swindle!

“Never mind the past,” Harry said, smiling and setting down his champagne flute. “The future is so much brighter.”

“Is it?”

Elise Rousseau pinned him with such a sharp glare that Harry almost squirmed.

“I mean,” he continued. “There’s so much going on now that who has time to dwell on the past?”

The woman looked away suddenly, a shadow clouding her perfect face. Harry leaned over and reached for her hand.

“Whatever is the matter, my darling?” He asked, his deep voice sincerely concerned.

Elise looked back at him, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

“I w-was just thinking,” she said with a barely noticeable stutter. “That it is so very difficult to forget the past.”

Harry felt sympathy well up in his chest; she was hardly a woman and already a widow. She must have been the target of many a fortune-seeker, people after her for her money...just as he was. He quashed the guilt that began to grow in the bottom of his stomach. Taking some of her money didn’t mean he had to be totally insensitive about it. Perhaps they could both get something out of it; a mutually beneficial agreement, as it were.

Harry squeezed her fingers encouragingly. He pulled her gently from her seat and tugged her into sitting across his lap. He smoothed his hands up her back and began rubbing soothing circles over her shoulders.

“Oh, I know,” he said, his voice comforting. “I once hurt someone very dear to me. It was for the best, but I can’t help regretting it—even now.”

“Who was it?” she asked, genuinely curious as to who had captured his womanizing heart.

“You won’t be jealous?” he teased.

“I promise you, I won’t be,” she answered dryly.

“It was my college classmate,” he said. “The mousy girl.”

Elise shot up so quickly that she nearly knocked his glass from the table. Her face had gone white, and her fingers trembled.

“What?” Harry asked in concern, also rising. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing.” Elise stepped away, waving him off with one hand and rubbing her temples with the other. “Nothing at all.”

Harry reached for her hand. But when she turned to look at him, the unguarded, innocently beautiful expression on her face was so hauntingly familiar that he paused. It was like a shadow flitting across her face...and then it was gone.

“I think I’ve had enough of New York for one night,” Elise said, walking away.

She paused when she reached the door, throwing a saucy smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes over one shoulder.

“But you’re more than welcome to entertain me tomorrow,” she told him cheekily.

Then, with a quick flash of teeth and a flick of her bobbed hair, Elise turned and slipped away.