Housebound (7 page)

The rose-colored silk caftan floated around her body like a cloud, and the mass of blue-black hair was a perfect frame for her pale, excited face. She didn't bother with shoes, or with underwear for that matter. Why should she bother, she told herself righteously, when she probably wouldn't see anyone?

The cognac was on the kitchen countertop where she'd left it. Pouring herself a small snifter, she started up the stairs toward the living room, her bare feet silent on the steps, the only sound the faint swish of the silk as it swirled around her body.

She paused with her hand on the doorknob when Ashley's voice drifted faintly to her ears. Damn, she thought. He and Steve had taken over the living room. Maybe Noah's in the library.

She turned toward that room, no longer fooling herself as to her intent, when Noah's low, beautiful voice answered Ashley. Anne halted, motionless, her ears straining against her will.

“I leave it up to you, dear boy,” Ashley was saying. “I only hope you know what you're doing.”

“I do.” That usually melting drawl was clipped.

“I'd like you to remember my sister can be very vulnerable. It would be a very good idea if you were to concentrate on why you're here, and not get distracted by Anne's undeniably lovely charms.”

Without further hesitation Anne turned the doorknob,
ashamed of herself for eavesdropping, her curiosity overpowering any urge to retreat quietly.

“I don't think anyone's going to drown in my myriad charms, Ashley,” she said coolly, her dark-green eyes sweeping over the two of them. She expected them to shift guiltily, like the conspirators they sounded like through the closed door, but she was doomed to disappointment. Noah smiled that charming smile at her and Ashley waved an airy hand in her direction.

“I wondered where you'd gotten to,” her brother murmured. “Dressed for bed already, darling? I'm sorry if we disturbed you.”

“I wondered if Holly had gotten back yet.” It was a lame enough excuse but the best she could think of at the moment.

“You'd hear the car first, love.”

“I suppose I would,” she agreed, hesitating by the door. “What were you two talking about when I came in?”

“Eavesdroppers rarely hear good of themselves, Anne dearest,” Ashley said gently.

“Is that what you were talking about?” She kept her voice cool. “You mentioned something about why Noah is really here. I'd be interested to know why that is.”

Neither man showed the slightest trace of uneasiness. “I would think that's more than obvious, Anne,” Ashley said easily. “He's here to entertain our dear Holly, and to keep her from jumping your fiancé's bones.”

Had everyone recognized the situation before she had? How could she have been so obtuse for so long? “I think she'll run into some opposition from Wilson,” Anne replied, outwardly unmoved. “He's a very honorable man.”

“Not to mention passionless,” Ashley cracked.

“Oh, I wouldn't say that,” Anne murmured, more out of duty than truthfulness.

Noah set his brandy snifter down with a decided snap. Rising with a lithe grace, his wiry silhouette outlined by the glowing embers of the fire, he turned and met her calm gaze with an equally impassive expression. If his nostrils flared slightly at the sight of her body outlined by the light from the hall and that smiling mouth tightened somewhat, it was almost imperceptible. “Do you want me to go out looking for Holly?” he queried. “She might have run into a seasoned criminal.”

For a moment all discipline left Anne, and a rich chuckle escaped her as she remembered his horrible joke. “Damn you,” she said genially. “Wilson would never tell jokes like that,” she added as an afterthought.

“No one's perfect,” Noah replied, his blue eyes warm with shared laughter.

“What are you two talking about?” Ashley, now that his level of alcohol had receded, was becoming increasingly bad-tempered, and he disliked above all things to be excluded.

“Private joke, Ashley,” Anne explained, her laughing green eyes still gazing happily enough into Noah's. “Trust me, you wouldn't want to hear it.”

“You're at the point where you have private jokes?” Ashley inquired acidly. “How will Holly and Wilson view that?”

“I have absolutely no idea, nor do I care,” she said sweetly. “And thanks for the offer, Noah, but I'm sure Holly will be back soon enough. I'll talk with her in the morning.” With a last tentative smile she disappeared back down to the kitchen, her bare feet silent and speedy on the wood floors.

“Dear Noah,” Ashley said lazily, “my hat is off to you. I think
you missed your calling—you should have been a secret agent rather than a lawyer. You have a real talent for subterfuge.”

“Subterfuge seems to become more and more necessary for a lawyer,” he said shortly, thoroughly annoyed with himself and with Ashley's mockery.

“Goes against your noble grain, does it? Then you must be enjoying the torments of the damned every time Anne smiles up at you.” Ashley laughed to himself, a soft, unpleasantly mocking sound. “Cheer up, old boy. Even if Anne never forgives you, what have you really lost? You'll make a rather massive commission, I expect, and there are always other women.”

“I bow to your superior knowledge, Ashley.” Noah could be just as malicious if he chose. “Good night.”

Ashley watched him leave with sad, surprisingly sympathetic eyes. “Poor, dear fools,” he said softly. And catching up Anne's forgotten brandy snifter, he drained it.

 

T
HE FLAGSTONE FLOOR WAS ICY
cold beneath her bare feet, and her toes curled upward in protest. Anne paused outside her studio, her hand on the old brass doorknob as her eyes scanned the silent kitchen. There was a dim light left burning over the sink for any late-night glutton, the bottle of cognac was still gracing one tiled countertop, and the quiet dropping of the kitchen faucet made a soothing sound in the stillness. New washers again, Anne thought resignedly, moving back to pour herself another glass of brandy. She must have left hers upstairs. Well, there was no way in hell she was going back up there, even with such a solid excuse. She'd thrown herself in his way enough, when she knew full well she should keep her distance.

There were no more brandy snifters—indeed, all the glasses were in the dishwasher. With a rueful shrug she poured herself
a generous splash into a cracked handleless teacup, draining the bottle before wandering back to the kitchen door. She stood there, sipping delicately at her cup of cognac and staring out into the still night. It was snowing again—great fat silent flakes drifting aimlessly down over the white landscape. Wrapping her arms around her, she leaned her forehead against the frosted glass of the door, dreaming childhood dreams.

She didn't move when she heard him come down the narrow kitchen steps. She knew how he'd move without turning to look, with that graceful economy of motion, all fluid muscles and lean, wiry strength. His blue eyes would hold an unfathomable light in them, and his dark, Gypsy face would be intent. He knew she was there; there was no need for silly words of false surprise and coy hesitancy.

She felt the heat from his body directly behind her, and then his arms reached around her, pulling her gently back against him. Doubts and denials sprang to her mind and her lips, only to be silenced as his hands gently moved her arms away from their self-protective grasp, and one hand reached up to cup her breast through the barrier of her silk caftan.

She could tell herself it was the cold that hardened her nipples against the slowly rotating massage of his fingertips, the pad of his thumb brushing wickedly against the peak that shone darkly through the thin material. And she could tell herself it was the cold that made her lean back against his warm, strong body as if to absorb some of his heat.

But it wasn't the chill that made her push her soft, straining breast up against his teasing hand, it wasn't the cold that had her pressing her rounded buttocks against the iron-hard arousal directly behind her. And it wasn't the cold that made her turn readily in his arms at his gentle pressure.

Those Celtic blue eyes were solemn as they stared down into her wide, vulnerable ones. He gave her more than enough time to move, to duck, as he calmly took the almost empty teacup from her nerveless hand. His mouth quirked up in a small, endearing smile as he realized the contents were far from the warm milk he'd envisioned. Placing the cup on the kitchen counter, he turned his attention back to her.

They stood there, inches apart. Her bare toes were brushing against the tips of his Frye boots, her hands hung uselessly at her sides, and her mouth opened to make some last token protest.

“Don't say it, Annie love,” he whispered hoarsely. “Not just yet.” Reaching down, he caught her narrow wrists in his strong hands, pulling them up and around his waist. Her slender body flowed against his; hip, thigh and breast pressed close to his suddenly trembling body. His mouth slanted down over hers, taking possession with a beneficial ruthlessness, his tongue a welcome invader, slowly seducing her.

One strong, warm hand had slipped beneath the neckline of the caftan to capture her breast, and the feel of that rough, slightly callused skin against her soft, protected flesh sent a flame of desire through her. Instinctively her hips pressed up against his in mute response, and a slow trembling began from deep inside, building and spreading as his tongue and his hand continued their demoralizing work. She could feel his arousal harden against her, feel the tension threaded through his back as she clung to him, tilting her head back gladly beneath the sensual onslaught of his kiss. And she kissed him back, her tongue taking from him with savage delight the taste of the cognac, the rough texture of his tongue against hers bringing forth a small, acquiescent moan.

He moved his head back, still keeping her locked against
him. His breath was coming rapidly, fanning her face with the sweetness of the cognac. “You know,” he murmured, “it's even better when you help.” And his mouth sought hers again.

The caftan she had thought so alluring was proving more of a hindrance than a help. The neckline was too high to give him the access he wanted to her firm, rounded breasts, and there was no way he could dive under the full-length skirt with any amount of suavity. Besides, given her lack of underwear, he was bound to get distracted on the way up her trembling, pliant body. Maybe they could move to the daybed in her studio and lock the door.

No sooner had the thought entered her mind when she stiffened with sudden panic and self-loathing, the white flame of desire dying a slow, lingering death. Noah felt her withdrawal, and immediately his hold loosened, just enough to give her the semblance of freedom while still keeping her in reach, and his mouth released hers to travel along her flushed cheekbone to the delicate structure of her ear beneath the curtain of silky black hair.

“What happened, Annie?” he asked gently, moving away, and there was no anger, only sorrow and a mirrored guilt in those passion-dark eyes.

She shook her head in misery, trying to pull out of his arms, but his grasp, for all its gentleness, was binding. After a moment's struggle she gave up. “I don't do this,” she said in a small, broken voice.

“Don't do what, Annie?” he prompted patiently, his hands slowly massaging her tense upper arms even as they held her captive.

She kept her eyes on the flagstone floor, refusing to look at him. “I don't kiss my sister's men in the kitchen while she's
driving my fiancé home. I don't fall into strange men's arms, I don't sleep with strangers. I can control my emotions and my libido; I don't go sneaking around necking with house guests,” she said bitterly. “In another minute you could have had me on the bed in the studio, and I wouldn't have stopped you.”

“Actually, I thought on the kitchen countertop might prove more interesting,” he drawled, and she looked up at him then, surprise and outrage warring for control. His hand shot out to catch her chin, holding her face still for his perusal, and a rueful smile twisted the mouth that had just done such devastating things to a usually levelheaded Anne Kirkland. “That's better,” he murmured, his voice, his hands, his eyes gentle on her lacerated soul. “You didn't do anything wrong, Annie love. I just seem to have trouble keeping my hands off you. And you, being a normal, healthy female of the species, have been reacting in a normal, healthy way. If anyone's to blame, it's me. But believe it or not, I'm not usually like this.”

His hand beneath her chin was inexorable, and she had no choice but to meet his completely frank and open gaze. “Not like what?” she mumbled.

“On the make,” he said bluntly.

“Is that what you are? On the make?” she questioned, his frankness alleviating some but not all of her nervousness and guilt. What his matter-of-fact behavior was calming, his nearness was still roiling up, and she stood there, still held firmly by his strong hands and his even stronger will.

His eyes lightened as he considered her question. “No, I guess I'm not,” he allowed. “When you're on the make you're out to get any decent-looking female into bed. The only person I want to get in bed is you.”