Flirting With the Forbidden (10 page)

Long, luscious, passion-soaked minutes later Noah knew that he’d reached the point of no return—that if he carried on for another minute he would be lost, doing exactly what he wouldn’t allow himself to do. It took every ounce of his legendary self-control to wrench his mouth from hers, to step back, to meet her eyes.

He moved his hand so that he held her jaw, brushed his thumb over her full bottom lip.

Morgan spoke, frustration in her passion-smoked voice. ‘You’re really stopping?’

He nodded and jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans so that he didn’t reach for her again. ‘Really am.’

He watched as Morgan’s smoky eyes cleared and confusion replaced heat. ‘I don’t know why, or how, you can even
start
it. Especially knowing that you’re not going to take it further.’

All he knew for sure was that he was a masochist, a glutton for punishment. He could try to explain—temper, jealousy, they were all factors—but his biggest motivator was that at that moment he hadn’t been able
not
to kiss her.

Noah watched as the last spark of fight went out of Morgan. She took a step towards him, dropped her head and curled her fingers into his shirt.

‘I hate this,’ she said in a small voice.

And he hated the thought that he—this crazy situation between them—could make her sound so small, defeated.

He resisted the urge to pull her into his embrace, to soothe her. He didn’t do touchy-feely so he just stood there, trying to ignore the surge of protectiveness that threatened to knock his feet from under him.

‘Hate what?’ he asked quietly.

‘This...all of this. The bodyguarding. Being so attracted to you, not being able to touch you, to get it...
you
...out of my system.’ Morgan rested her forehead in the middle of his chest. ‘It’s horrible... I don’t like feeling this out of control.’

‘I know.’

He had to touch her, so Noah rubbed his hand up and down her spine. It was killing him too. His hand moved up between her shoulder blades onto her neck and under her head. He pulled the hair at the back of her neck and gently tipped her head back.

‘I gave my word...it’s important to me that I keep it,’ he said, looking down into her mesmerising eyes.

‘I know. Dammit...I
respect
that. I just don’t
like
it!’

Tell him something he didn’t know. He didn’t consider it a lazy day on the beach either.

Morgan stepped back, wrapped her arms around her waist and tipped her head to one side. ‘I wish I could yell at you—scream. I want to act like a diva and fire you and stomp away and throw things.’

‘You can if it makes you feel better,’ Noah offered on a small smile. He had to hand it to the lass: he never knew what she was going to say or do next—she was
never
predictable.

‘Consider yourself yelled at and fired,’ Morgan said on a long, tired sigh. She looked at him. ‘Any chance of you saving me from the loony bin and actually staying fired?’

Uh, no.
That wasn’t happening. A cold shower would happen, but him leaving...? ‘Nope.’

‘Didn’t think so,’ Morgan grumbled as she left the kitchen.

* * *

‘This is it.’

Morgan looked out of the window of the cab and frowned when she didn’t see the swish art gallery she’d expected to see. She looked across the road but there was nothing in the immediate vicinity except a closed dry cleaners and a rather grubby-looking diner. The other side of the street held a pawn shop and a strip club.

Where were they?

‘Are you sure this is three-six-two?’ Morgan asked.

Dark eyes glared at her from the front seat of the cab. ‘You said six-three-two, lady. Three-six-two is uptown.’

Morgan closed her eyes at his harsh voice.

‘Take it easy, buddy,’ Noah said in a calm voice.

‘She said six-three-two,’ the cabbie insisted.

‘You’ll still get paid, so relax.’ Noah laid a hand on her knee. ‘Where’s the invite, Morgan? Let’s check the address.’

Morgan felt heat infuse her cheeks and rise up her neck and was grateful for the early evening shadows in the cab. She flipped open her clutch bag and pulled out the invitation. She glanced at the numbers and thrust the invitation towards the taxi driver.

‘Six-three-two,’ she muttered.

The driver glanced down at the invitation and shook his head in disgust. ‘Jeez, lady, whassa matter wi’ you? This says two-three-six!’

‘Back off, man, she made a mistake,’ Noah said in a hard, cold voice, and with a final huff the driver whirled around in his seat, slammed the car into gear and abruptly pulled off into the traffic.

Morgan licked her lips and waited for Noah’s probing questions as they retraced their route. How was she going to talk her way out of this?

‘Sorry.’

Noah shrugged and leaned back in his seat. ‘You’re tired...we both are. Mistakes are easy to make. Ignore him.’

Noah looked out of the window and Morgan glanced at his masculine profile. That was it? Where were the questions, the demands for an explanation, the mockery for making such a basic silly mistake? Why didn’t he follow up on the cab driver’s question, probe a little deeper?

Did he know and not care? Did he suspect and was distancing himself from the problem? Was he just simply not curious or, even scarier, didn’t he give a hoot?

At the gallery a little while later, Morgan was still thinking of his non-reaction in the taxi and how she’d managed to dodge the explanation bullet. She stepped away from the group of people who were talking around her, looking past Johnno Davie at Noah, who was standing in front of one of Johnno’s massive paintings. It was one of the few non-abstract paintings on display: a nude on a bed in a symphony of gold and cream, with hints of blush. It didn’t need the tag
Sophie—Naked and Relaxed
; anyone with half a brain could tell exactly what Sophie had been up to before Johnno had decided to capture her on canvas.

Morgan wondered if Sophie knew that her...
ahem
...satisfaction was part of Johnno’s latest collection.

Morgan lifted her glass of wine to her lips and watched Noah as he stared at the canvas. He was perfectly dressed for an art exhibition in NYC: dark jeans, a white button-down shirt and a black jacket.

Noah’s immense self-control scared her—she admitted it. He’d been as swept away by their kiss last night as she had and yet he’d managed to pull back, to step away. She thought that she could be naked and he could be inside her, a fraction off orgasm, and if he decided to jam on the brakes he would. Oh, Morgan knew that he was self-motivated and determined, and that he kept his own counsel—that his natural way of interacting with people was to be brief and succinct, focusing on practicality above emotion—but even so sometimes she thought that there was another Noah trying to escape. A Noah who was a little more relaxed, a little impulsive—someone who was desperate to have a good time—but every time that Noah stepped over the line he got slapped back into his cage.

It was almost as if Noah was scared to let himself feel...

What had happened to him that had made him wary of...of...
himself
, really?

Morgan stared at his broad back as she walked over to him. She playfully nudged his shoulder with hers. ‘I’m sorry about the confusion with the address earlier. I got the numbers mixed up.’

‘Mmm...as I said, it happens.’

Morgan folded her arms across her raspberry-coloured poncho dress. It was a favourite of hers, with a one-shoulder neckline with a batwing sleeve. The dress fell to mid-thigh and she wore it with nude spiked heels and long, dangly earrings made from garnets.

‘Listen, I need to say something. I’m sorry...about that kiss last night.’ Noah held his hands in the pockets of his jeans and straightened his arms. ‘I shouldn’t have...’

‘Here we go again... Noah, for goodness’ sake, we are adults! We shared a kiss, and if you didn’t have the control of a Tibetan monk we would’ve done much more.’

Noah glanced around as her voice lifted in frustration. ‘
Inside
voice, dammit!’

‘What
is
the problem? And don’t give me that garbage about not being professional and the promise you made to my brother.’

‘Why don’t you talk louder? I don’t think the people at the far end of the gallery heard you,’ Noah muttered as he gripped her arm and pulled her closer to the painting. ‘And I
did
make a promise to your brother...’

Morgan turned her back to the room and looked at the painting. ‘The old promise-to-my-brother excuse.’ Morgan lifted up her arms and then fisted her hands. ‘You know what...? Forget it! I’ve never chased after a man in my life and I am
not
starting with you!’

Noah muttered an expletive and raked his hand through his hair. ‘Morgan...no, don’t walk away.’ He waited a beat before talking again. ‘I’ve worked really hard to establish my business and, no matter how stupid you think it is, people
will
look to see how I conduct myself with you and they
will
judge that. I need to be seen to be professional and competent.’

Anyone would think she was asking him to do her in Central Park as Saturday afternoon entertainment. She saw him fiddle with his collar... He did that, she realised with a flash of insight, when he was feeling uncomfortable or when he was hedging. Or flat-out lying.

‘That might be part of it but it’s not the whole truth. The important truth.’ Morgan looked him in the eye. When his eyes slid right she knew she had him and he knew that she had him. So he did what all men did when they were caught out: he changed the subject.

‘Okay, say we have this hot fling. And afterwards, Duchess, what then?’

Morgan frowned and lowered the glass she’d raised to her lips. ‘What do you mean?’

‘We scratch this itch and then what happens? What are you expecting?’

Morgan took a sip of wine and considered his question. What did she expect? What
could
she expect?

What could she give?

After a moment’s thought she came to the only logical, practical conclusion she could. ‘I don’t expect anything, Noah. You don’t seem to be the type who needs or, frankly, wants a relationship, so if we did find ourselves in bed I’d expect nothing, because I know that you have nothing to give me.’

Besides, I’m too scared to take the chance of loving someone, being found unworthy, getting my teeth kicked in.

‘
You make me sound like a robot,’ Noah muttered.

Morgan suspected that if he opened those cage doors he’d be anything but robotic—he’d be fearless and passionate and unstoppable. But right now he did have elements of the mechanical about him. Except when he was kissing her...

Morgan reached out and tapped his chest with one French manicured finger. ‘You need to have some fun, Fraser. Lighten up.’ Maybe they both did. ‘The world won’t fall on your head, you know.’

‘You sound just like Chris. And my brothers.’

Whoa...stop the presses!
Noah Fraser had volunteered some personal information! ‘You have brothers?’

‘Well, despite what you think, I wasn’t cloned in a Petri dish,’ Noah said, his tone grumpy.

‘Younger? Older? Where are they? What do they do? Are they married?’

‘Jeez, mention one little thing and I get a million questions.’ Noah stopped a waiter, asked for a mineral water and rolled his eyes at her obviously curious face. ‘Two much younger brothers, twenty-three and twenty-one. A sous chef at a London Michelin-starred restaurant and a freelance photographer who sells to several national newspapers. Neither are married and they both live in London. Satisfied?’

‘Not nearly. Are they also buttoned-down, controlled and restrained?’

Noah took his mineral water from the tray presented to him. He looked past her shoulder to a place that was somewhere in the past. ‘No, I stood as a shield so that they didn’t turn out like me.’

And what on earth did he mean by
that
? Morgan opened her mouth to ask but he gestured to the painting and forced a small smile onto his face. ‘It looks like a multiple to me.’

It took Morgan a minute to catch up, and when she did she cocked her head. ‘Maybe it was a really good piece of chocolate.’

‘Dream on,’ Noah scoffed, before he fell serious. ‘I have to admit I love this painting. I’d buy it in a heartbeat if I had enough cash floating around.’

Morgan leaned forward and peered at the tiny, tiny price in the corner of the tag. Holy bats...that was a lot of money—even for her. Morgan stepped back and looked at the painting again...she agreed with Noah. It was a sensational piece of art: fluid, sexy, happy. She could see it on the wall above her bed...

Sophie had had a really fine time, Morgan thought on a smile. But maybe it was time to give her a bit of privacy and get her out of the gallery.

‘Let’s go home,’ Morgan said impulsively.

Noah looked at her, surprised. ‘It’s not even eight-thirty yet. And we were going to that cocktail party at the Hyatt.’

‘I just want to go home, have a long bath and an early night. I want to drop the cloak. I need to be me tonight.’

‘Sorry?’

Morgan waved his questions away. ‘Ignore me. So, what do you think?’

‘Hell, no, I
want
to stick around and make small talk with people I don’t know.’

Morgan laughed at his sarcasm, handed her glass over to a passing waiter and inclined her head towards Johnno. ‘I just need a quick word with the artist.’

‘I’ll be waiting at the door. Make it quick, Duchess.’

EIGHT

Back in
Morgan’s apartment, Noah glanced to the other side of the couch and smiled when he saw that Morgan had shuffled down, her head on a cushion, eyes closed and her sock-covered feet touching his thigh. Noah placed his beer on the side table and glanced at his watch; it was just past nine-thirty.

Standing up, he walked over to her and gently removed the earphones she’d plugged into her ears earlier. Her hand still loosely clutched her iPad and he pulled that away too. She liked listening to music while she read, she’d told him earlier, and wasn’t that keen on TV, so he was welcome to watch what he liked.

Noah heard sound coming from the earphones and lifted one bud up to his ear. Instead of music, a low, melodious voice filled his ear. Frowning, he tapped the tablet and quickly realised that Morgan was listening to an audiobook, Ken Follet’s
Pillars of the Earth
—a book he’d read years ago and thoroughly loved.

Noah had barely any time to react as Morgan launched up and tried to whip the tablet from his grasp. Her fingers skimmed the tablet as he moved it out of her reach.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ she demanded. ‘Give it back!’

‘Calm down, Duchess. Anyone would think you’re hiding something here.’ He grinned. ‘Erotica? How to be an It Girl manuals?’

Morgan just glared at him, reared up and tried to take the device again.

‘Oooh, temper. Now, I definitely know you’re hiding something!’

‘Stop being an ass! Give. It. Back!’ Morgan shouted.

‘Nah...I want to see what you’re hiding. Bad music? Sappy movies? Your addiction to Angry Birds? Badly written cowboy books?’

‘Noah!’

Noah tapped the menu and scrolled through her books. Frowning, he looked at the books on the device—there were many, and they covered a wide range of genres and subjects. But they were all audiobooks. He scrolled up, backwards, checked her files, and eventually realised that there wasn’t a single e-book anywhere on the device.

‘Only audiobooks, Morgs? Are you too lazy to read?’

He saw the colour seep from her face and her eyes fill with hurt. He frowned, knowing that he had misstepped badly, but he wasn’t sure why his comment had had such an effect on her.

‘Just give it back, Fraser,’ Morgan said in a small voice.

Pride and defiance now flashed in her eyes, but underneath he could still sense her embarrassment and her vulnerability.

‘My reading habits have nothing to do with you.’

‘
Reports are a hassle to read.’

‘Can you give me a verbal report instead?’

He rubbed his jaw. Could it be...was it possible...that Morgan couldn’t read? No, come on...
everyone
could read in this day and age, right? And she was so smart. There had to be another explanation.

Morgan sat back down on the couch and stared at the floor. Instinctively he balanced himself on his haunches and pushed her hair behind her ears, gently stroking the tender skin behind her ear.

‘Do you have a problem with reading?’

She didn’t reply and wouldn’t meet his eyes. He hated to ask but he needed to know. ‘Can you read...at all?’

Morgan jolted up and looked at him, her eyes wide and horrified. ‘Of course I can read! Not well or fast, but I can read!’ She stumbled to her feet, walked across the carpet and turned to look at him, her expression belligerent. ‘Go on—say it. I dare you.’

‘What?’ Noah asked, genuinely confused.

Morgan placed a hand on her cocked hip and lifted her chin. ‘I’ve heard them all, Noah—all the wisecracks, all the jokes.
She’s got the looks and she’s got money—what does she need a brain for? She’s so thick that she’d get trapped on an escalator if the power went out. Quickest way to drown her? Put a mirror on the bottom of the pool—’

‘That’s enough. Stop.’ Noah held up his hand and kept his voice even. Who had said such brutal things about her? Whoever it was deserved a kick up the ass. It would be his pleasure to do it. ‘Come and sit down, lass,’ he said eventually, his voice gentle.

Noah waited until Morgan had perched on the edge of the couch, her bottom lip between her teeth. He resumed his position on his haunches in front of her.

‘I’m not going to make fun of you, Morgan, but I do need to understand.’ Noah rested his hand on her knee. ‘Dyslexia?’

Morgan sighed. ‘Chronic.’ She glared at him again. ‘But know this: I am
not
stupid, Noah. I have an exceedingly high IQ. I am
not
a dumb blonde.’

‘Anyone with half a brain can see that.’ Of course she wasn’t stupid. She had the vocabulary of a Scrabble master and a brain that could tie him up in knots. ‘You’re probably one of the smartest women I know.’ He ran a finger down her chest, skimming over her T-shirt between her breasts. ‘This body is a work of art, but this—’ he lifted his hand and gently tapped her temple with his finger ‘—what’s in here scares the daylights out of me.’

Morgan’s eyes lightened in pleasure and a whole lot of relief. He smiled as a peachy blush spread over her cheekbones.

‘It’s just another part of you and you have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of. So, who was the loser?’

‘The loser?’

‘The guy who threw those comments at you. Name? Address? Name of the cemetery you want his dead body dumped at...’

Morgan’s small smile disappeared quickly. She stared at her hands. ‘First lover—a couple of months after you. I convinced myself that I loved him. He told me that I couldn’t take a joke. He was verbally abusive but I gave him the ammunition to hurt me. Since then I’ve kept the dyslexia to myself.’

Noah uttered an obscenity and rubbed his hand over his face. ‘Seriously, Morgs. Give me his name and I can cause him a world of pain.’

Morgan placed the tips of her fingers on his cheek. ‘I appreciate the offer, but he’s not worth the jail sentence.’

‘You’re no fun,’ he complained mildly. She thought he was joking yet he’d happily use some of his nastiest unarmed combat skills on any man who so much as looked at Morgan the wrong way.

Noah sighed, looked at the shelves and shelves of books lining the walls surrounding them. How hard it must be to look at them but not be able to use them. ‘So tell me about the paperbacks, Morgan.’

‘I have a print copy for every audiobook I have. I used to try and read along, but the narrators read too fast so the words swim and dance and I get a cracking headache by page five.’

Noah unfurled his long length and sat down on the couch next to her. ‘You don’t need to keep it a secret, Morgan.’

Morgan dipped her head so her forehead touched his collarbone. ‘Yeah, I kind of do.’ She snuggled closer to him and his arm went around her slim back as he leant back against the couch. ‘I’m not just a little dyslexic, Noah, I’m really bad. And some days I’m terrible.’

‘Is that why you were so reluctant to organise the ball?’

‘Yeah. It’s too important for me to fail at it...and I don’t want to disappoint my mum. It’s hard, trying to live up to the Moreau name. The family are all terribly well educated—they all have two degrees; my dad has three—and I scraped through college by the skin of my teeth, taking twice the amount of time anyone else did.’

‘You just told me that you are not stupid,’ Noah pointed out. ‘Surely they know that too? And as educated people don’t you think that they admire you for trying something outside of your comfort zone? I know I do, and I only have one degree.’

‘They keep telling me that. Maybe I’m just scared of disappointing myself.’ Morgan tipped her head back to look at him. ‘What do you have a degree in?’

‘Business and history,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘Love history. It’s still my favourite subject.’

Morgan sighed happily. ‘Then I must show you some of the old diaries from the first Moreau prospectors—the brothers who discovered the mines. They were wacky and colourful and quite unethical.’

‘I’d love to read them.’ Noah gently pulled her ponytail. ‘You look exhausted, Duchess. Why don’t you go to bed?’

‘I’m tired, but I probably won’t sleep,’ Morgan admitted. ‘My brain is whirling.’

‘You need something to de-stress you.’

He stood up, scanned the bookshelves and found what he was looking for. Yanking the book from the shelf, he sat down again, stretched out his legs and tucked Morgan back into his side.

‘If I remember correctly, you were just about to start chapter six.’

Morgan’s eyes were as big as saucers. ‘You’re going to read to me?’

Her eyes filled with emotion and Noah winced. Oh, jeez, maybe he’d insulted her by offering to read to her. Maybe she hadn’t heard a thing he’d said earlier about how smart he thought she was...

‘I’m sorry. Look, it’s not because I don’t think you’re... Bad idea, huh?’

Morgan’s fingers on his lips dried up his words. ‘No, it’s probably the sweetest thing any man has ever done for me.’

Noah grimaced. ‘Sweet, huh?’

‘Yeah—very, very sweet.’

Noah pulled another face. ‘Yuck, that’s not how any ex-Special Forces soldier would like to hear himself described. Now, will you please shut up? I’m trying to read here...’

* * *

Noah handed Morgan a glass of champagne and, from behind his dark sunglasses, cast a look down her long, long legs. Every other woman at the Moreau Polo Cup Challenge was dressed to the nines, but Morgan, in tailored white shorts that ended at mid-thigh, and a white and green gypsy top revealing her shoulders and messy hair, looked every cent of the millions of dollars she was supposed to be worth.

Earlier, just because he was curious, he’d timed her to see how long she took to get ready. Ten minutes. He’d known women who took ten minutes to put on mascara. He really, really liked the fact that she didn’t fuss.

And that she still managed to look super-hot.

‘Do you ride?’ Morgan nodded to the field and the charging, sweaty thoroughbred horses.

Noah snorted. ‘Not many stables where I grew up.’

‘Where
did
you grow up, Noah?’ Morgan asked.

Well, he’d cracked the door open... Noah sighed, thought about ducking her question, remembered that she’d shared her biggest secret with him and told himself not to be a jerk. ‘I grew up in Glasgow, in a bad part of town.’

Morgan kept her eyes on the field. ‘Did you have a tough childhood?’

‘Yeah.’

And that was all he was prepared to say. Besides, it was all such a long time ago. He was with a gorgeous girl at a fancy event and he didn’t want those memories to corrode his enjoyment of this stunning spring day.

‘So, tell me about your date for the wedding,’ he said casually.

Noah frowned as a tall, slim Spaniard in a white polo shirt and jodhpurs streaked with dirt leaned over the fence, placed his hands on Morgan’s shoulders, kissed her on both cheeks and then lightly on the mouth. Morgan laughed, patted his cheek, and conversed with him in passable Spanish. Their conversation ended with another flurry of cheek-kisses and,
dammit
, another brush of her mouth.

Noah resisted the urge to reach for his gun.

‘Friend of yours?’ Noah asked, unaware of the bite in his voice.

‘Juan Carlos. Playboy. Polo player. He taught me to tango,’ Morgan said in a dreamy voice.

‘That had better be all he taught you,’ Noah said in a low mutter.

Morgan’s mouth twitched. ‘A
duchess
never tells. Andrew—how
are
you?’

Kiss, kiss...flirt, flirt...

Noah looked at his water and wished he could ask for a whisky as she dived into conversation with yet another polo player who’d ambled up to greet her. She would drive any sane man to drink, Noah decided as a bead of sweat ran down his spine.

He wanted to remove his navy linen jacket but he wouldn’t. He didn’t want to raise questions about why he was wearing a sidearm to one of the most elite social events in the city. He was on constant alert at functions like these; there was no security, people came and went, and anything could happen.

Unfortunately no one was close to finding the kidnappers and the tensions at the mine remained unresolved; in fact they had just got worse, and they’d all been warned to be on high alert.

James had flown out to Colombia to try and resolve the dispute, and a posse of CFT personnel were guarding his back. That was why James wasn’t at the Polo Challenge and why Morgan would be handing out the prizes to the polo players—and no doubt kissing eight or more fit, rich, polo-playing numbskulls.

Oh, joy of joys.

Polo Boy number two walked away and Morgan pushed her glasses up into her hair and fanned her programme close to her face. ‘What were we talking about?’

‘Your date for the wedding.’

He caught the tiny wince. ‘Oh...him.’

‘Yeah,
him
. Want to come clean, Morgs?’ Noah asked, a smile hiking up the corner of his lips.

Morgan placed her champagne glass on a tall table and sighed. ‘I lied. I was trying to wind you up—’

‘You succeeded,’ Noah mumbled, thinking that it was the thought of her sleeping with someone else that had ignited his temper and led to the urge to kiss her, brand her, possess her. ‘So, he’s fictional?’

Morgan scuffed the grass with the tip of one of her apple-green wedges. ‘Mmm.’

Noah slowly pushed his shades up into his hair and looked down into her face, idly thinking that he loved the handful of freckles on her nose that make-up never quite seemed to cover. ‘Do you lie often?’

‘No. Only when I’m pushed beyond reason.’

‘I’m very reasonable.’ Noah protested.

‘Pfft.’
Morgan rolled her eyes.

Noah rested his forearms on the fence. ‘I’ve been thinking about something you said the other night at the art exhibition.’

‘What did I say?’

‘You said something about the cloak you’d like to drop...what did you mean by that?’

Morgan took a little while to answer. When she did her voice was softer, vulnerable. ‘Don’t we all have cloaks or armour that we drag on to protect us from the circumstances we find ourselves in? Something we do, or say, a way that we act to get us through whatever it is making us feel uncomfortable? A cloak that covers all our insecurities, the real us that we don’t want people to see?’