How To Host a Seduction (15 page)

“Getting her off the high seas and establishing a place for her in society,” Christopher said.

“Right.”

“So why didn't they attend the biggest ball of the season? Come on, love. There's a reason, and once we figure out what it is we'll understand our clue.”

She stared down at him, recognized the excitement in his gaze, the determined set to his jaw. He wasn't just challenged to answer a question. Christopher was caught up in solving the mystery, in the thrill of the chase.

And his flashing blue gaze urged her to get caught up in the chase, too.

For one startling instant, Ellen felt as if she were standing too close to the edge of a precipice—she had to jump, or retreat to where she felt safe.

I talk myself out of doing things because I worry about the consequences.

Because she never felt like she measured up and because she had made mistakes, she'd reined herself in and limited her choices. Fresh in her mind was the choice she'd made in the library earlier.

“We need the diary,” he said. “If Brigitte was anything like her mother, she'd have written about her life.”

“We'll make that a priority tomorrow.”

He nodded. “But until then, we've got to speculate on how a man who apparently cared a great deal about his sister wound up murdering another girl the same age.”

His comment filtered through her…
clicked.

“You're right, Christopher.” Ellen jumped off the cliff, practically feeling the wind sting her cheeks and rush through her hair when he lifted those too-blue eyes to hers.

Excitement bubbled inside, a physical sensation that made her scoot back against the headboard, draw her knees up. “Think back to what Susanna said tonight about the captain raising his sister. Not only was he a nobleman with a title, he was a
noble
man. Nothing we've learned about him so far indicates he would ever murder anyone, least of all a young girl. He became a privateer, a
businessman.
All right, maybe privateering meant smuggling, too, which wasn't exactly legal, but he wasn't a cutthroat pirate who preyed on the open seas. So what could have made a
noble
man murder a young girl?”

“You're back to motive. We don't have enough information.”

“I agree, but we have enough to play the
what if
game.”

He arched a silky dark brow.

“The
what if
game. I play it with my authors all the time to brainstorm new storylines. We test out possibilities until one feels right. Let's try it with what we already
know.
What if
Julian was suddenly responsible for rearing his little sister?”

“He'd take to the high seas as a privateer to earn a fortune to support her.”

She wasn't surprised that he caught on so quickly, and nodded her approval. “
What if
he finally had enough money to create a life for them? What kind of life would he create?”

“One that would place them in society, preferably a society that knew very little about their pasts.”

“What makes you say that?”

Christopher shrugged. “By all rights, the captain could have headed back to France. The Revolution was over. He might have made a place in the new regime.”

“So you did absorb some history when you were there.”

“Just happened to have a chatty hot-air balloon guide.” His mouth curved in a half grin.

“Right. So, why do you think the captain wanted to hide his past? Loads of nobles emigrated during the Revolution.”

“His sister.”

“What about her?”

“He couldn't exactly take her back to France. His father had been executed, so people would have known she wasn't really a Lafever. I don't think presenting her as a long-lost grandchild to her father's family was a good idea, either. Brigitte's father was a black sheep who never married their mother.”

“Ohmigosh, you're right.” Ellen stared at him, mind racing. “I totally overlooked Brigitte's illegitimacy. Nowadays it's a nonissue, but back then…that's not something the captain would have broadcast. It makes perfect sense
that he'd bring her to New Orleans, a place where he could rear her in society without exposing her to ridicule.”

“
What if
the secret of her illegitimacy got out?” Christopher asked. “
What if
society wouldn't accept his sister? Or him, for that matter?”

“Remember what Miss Q said about Jean Lafitte.
What if
people didn't make the distinction between pirate and privateer? A privateer with an illegitimate sister probably wouldn't have been on the guest list to the biggest ball of the year.”

For a breathless instant her comment hung in the air. Then their gazes locked and the pieces fell into place.

“Revenge!” they both said at the same time.

It was an incredible moment. Her heart pounded. Her breaths came shallow. And she couldn't seem to stop smiling.

Neither could Christopher. “We have possible motive.”

“Absolutely. Despite her illegitimacy, Brigitte was a blue blood. If the captain wanted her to be accepted into that world and she wasn't, he might resent that.”

“Enough to murder Felicity Clayton? What did she do…steal one of Brigitte's boyfriends?”

Ellen shrugged. “Maybe she knew about Brigitte's illegitimacy and gossiped at school.”

“Doesn't sound like much of a reason to commit murder.”

“No, it doesn't, does it. But that waiter told us the captain doted on his sister and that she didn't have many friends. Do you think he was so possessive he'd commit murder to stop someone from hurting her?”

Christopher sat up in a display of toned muscle that drew her appreciative gaze. “We need to know more about what was happening in their lives.”

“I'll bet local newspapers will have something in them. There were stacks in the library.”

“You up to taking a look through them now?”

“You want to go down to the library?”

“I don't want you to move a muscle, love. You're in my bed and I like you here.” Brushing his fingertips across her cheek, he smiled when her breath caught audibly. “I'll go get them. It's late. Chances are, no one will notice we've got them.”

He swung his long legs over the side of the bed, another distracting exhibition of rippling muscle and supple skin that made her sorry he was leaving.

She organized the various notebooks and brochures they'd strewn over the bed, while he pulled on a pair of shorts.

“What do you think about putting our special clue in with the rest of the newspapers when we return them?” he asked.

“That's a good idea. I think Harley was right about hiding the clue someplace it will be overlooked. Someone will have to be paying very close attention to see the significance of one newspaper article in a stack of newspapers.”

After zipping his fly, Christopher reached for a shirt. “I don't think they meant for anyone to overhear them earlier. Did you get the impression they knew we were there?”

Judging by the way they'd bolted when her phone rang, Ellen didn't think they'd staged the conversation, or the kiss. “No.”

“Me, neither.” He tugged a polo shirt over his head and reemerged with his hair ruffled. He stepped into his Top-Siders and covered the distance between the closet and bed in two long strides. “Save my place, love. I won't be long.”

Before Ellen had a chance to reply, he leaned over and smothered the sound in an unexpected and very steamy kiss. His tongue invaded her mouth, warm velvet, and his kiss sucked the breath right from her lungs. A wave of heat arrowed downward from the point of contact to breasts suddenly aching with awareness, nipples growing so tight they tested the sheer lace of her Toni Maxwell original.

Then, as quickly as he'd kissed her, he was gone. She was left trying to catch her breath and staring at his back as he strode out of the bedroom…
whistling?

Yes, whistling. Some nameless, upbeat ditty that faded as he moved through the suite, silenced as he closed the door behind him.

Ellen sucked in another deep breath to steady her pulse and marveled at the irony of the situation. Here she was in a man's bed with every intention of spending the night, and he was on his way to the library. Silly man.

Silly Ellen. She sat there staring at that empty doorway for a long time, conscious of the lace against her skin, the cool sheets against her legs and the realization that she hadn't wanted him to go.

Not even to the library.

The Gallery

A
LTHOUGH
C
HRISTOPHER HAD GONE
round-trip in less than ten minutes, he arrived back in the suite to find Ellen fast asleep. She'd burrowed into the pillows, neither sitting nor lying down, her hair wisping around her face, deep sable strands striking against her creamy skin.

He stared down at her, lashes creating silky half-moons on her cheeks, kissable lips slightly parted, breasts rising and falling softly beneath their lacy confinement.

He wanted her. With an intensity and conviction he'd never known before—not in all the years since his first date. He wanted Ellen, in his bed, in his life, by his side.

Something as simple as watching her sleep suddenly seemed a perfectly worthy use of his time. And for a man who made a living in a business that routinely tested the limits of his ambition and resourcefulness, Christopher couldn't deny the power of this feeling.

What was it about this woman that touched him, that made him ache, that made him weigh everything he did and said against her wants and needs?

While he couldn't claim to have given much thought to whether or not he believed in love at first sight, he did believe in trusting his instincts, and his gut told him Ellen was his match, his equal, the woman meant to share his life.

What would it take to convince her?

She sighed, turning just enough so he could watch her in profile, hear another soft sigh slip from her lips. He ached to climb in bed beside her, to awaken her with a kiss…but something so serene, almost innocent about her in sleep kept him standing where he was.

Completely defenseless. That cool composure she showed the world had faded away, the walls she kept between them were nothing more than piles of rubble at his feet. This was the Ellen he wanted to make love to—the woman who trusted him enough to reveal her emotions, to let her guard down, to believe he'd love her for who she was.

It was this woman he had to seduce this weekend.

Scooping the treasure map off the bed, he scanned the floor plan of the plantation, then reached for the lamp beside the bed. Christopher flipped it off, threw the room into a darkness broken only by the moonlight streaming through the open French doors. Turning on his heel, he headed out through the private entrance in the courtyard and out into the night.

Moonlight paved a silver trail over the grounds. A mist had begun to rise off the water, layering the grass, the bushes and the trees with a sheen that clung to his skin and muted the sounds of frogs and other wildlife.

Christopher circled the building, hoping to complete his task and be back before the fog thickened. Ellen was asleep in his bed, of her own volition. If that alone wasn't enough to lure him back, he wanted to wake her up with his mouth and make love to her while she was still half asleep, a fantasy of his since the first night they'd made love.

But now he had a clue to follow up, one that had nothing to do with Captain Lafever or the governor's daughter.

He stopped in front of the west wing, glancing up to
survey the third floor above the gallery. Pleased to discover he had a clear shot to the set of windows he was looking for, he cast around for some pebbles, aimed and sent the first one sailing toward the glass.

As a kid growing up in the Garden District, Christopher had been part of a tight-knit group who had shared privileged upbringings. Along with the privilege came some very serious expectations, and an equally serious need to cut loose from the constant pressure. Christopher and his friends had been known to sneak out in the wee hours to hit the French Quarter long before they'd been of a legal age to buy a drink. The person he wanted to talk to had been one of that gang.

He sent the second pebble soaring up. Perhaps he could have just knocked on the door…but it was late and Christopher was feeling nostalgic. Not to mention that he'd rather not awaken, or interrupt, newlyweds who might already be in bed.

If Lennon heard the signal, she'd know he was there and come to the window. He sent the third pebble flying.

The fourth did the trick.

The window slid up, but instead of the blond head he'd expected, Christopher found himself staring up at Josh.

“Problem with the door?” he asked.

“Uh, no. Not exactly.”

Then the blond head popped out. Lennon waved. “Hi, Christopher. I told Josh it would be either you or Mac. He wanted to check first to protect me.”

Josh only shook his head. “I missed this little ritual.”

“You got that right, old man,” Christopher called up.

“What do you want, Sinclair?” Josh asked. “It's after midnight. And, no, she can't go partying on Bourbon Street.”

“I just want to borrow your wife for a few minutes.”

“She's busy.”

“Here I come, Christopher. Meet me around front.” Lennon disappeared from the window.

“Return her in one piece,” Josh charged him before backing into the room and sliding the window shut.

Christopher appreciated the sentiment and headed around the building to wait for Lennon, who emerged through the front door a few minutes later.

“Listen, before I forget,” she said, “tell Ellen that my mom called back. She has never heard the word
félicie.
She doesn't know the translation and is sure it doesn't mean ‘happy.' But
allée
means path. So what's up?”

Interesting. Not even close to what he and Ellen had interpreted the plantation's name to mean. Motioning Lennon down to the gallery steps where they could sit beneath the glow of the security lights, he said, “I wanted to talk about Ellen.”

“Shoot. I trust you won't ask me to betray her confidence.”

Christopher was certainly glad that someone trusted him around here. “Of course not, but you're close with her, and her family, too. It's really them I want to know about.”

“You've met them, haven't you?”

“I've been invited to a few events the Senator hosted. Even made the cut to her birthday party. And I've played golf a few times with her dad and brothers. But I haven't made it through the front door of the family home yet.” Unless he could sell himself to Ellen this weekend, he never would. “Do her brothers and sister struggle as hard as she does to have a life?”

Lennon shrugged. “I don't know. One of her brothers is married with kids and her sister's engaged to a very nice man who works for the district attorney's office.” She hes
itated, golden brows dipping in a frown. “Are you asking me if she'll ever put her relationship with you before her family?”

Leaning back on his elbows, Christopher met her gaze. He'd known Lennon a long time and wouldn't pull any punches. “Yes. And no. I don't have a problem with her family. I understand what their situation demands. But Ellen worries about living up to their expectations, and I'm not sure the expectations aren't hers more than theirs. She's so careful about everything she does that she never relaxes her guard. She's ‘on' all the time.”

Except when he seduced his way past her defenses.

“That's the truth, bless her heart. I honestly believe she doesn't know how to be any different. Before her mother became Senator, her father was the Secretary of Commerce. Her life has always been about appearances and making the kinds of choices that won't come back to haunt her.”

“I get the feeling that some of her choices have come back to bite her. Why else would she want to prove herself? She's an intelligent, accomplished woman. I only interacted with her family for a few months, but they seemed like nice people who love her.”

“They do. Very much.” Lennon fell silent, and Christopher got the sense that he'd reached one of the limits Lennon trusted him not to cross. Then she asked, “Why don't you wait out the requisite amount of time and marry her?”

“Waiting won't solve the problem.” Hell, he'd endured three months of ritual dating and formal screening just to get her into bed. He'd wait
years
if that's what it took to get her to open up and believe in him, in
them.
His gut told him there was a bigger problem here. But if he didn't know what it was, he couldn't address it.

“Then, what will?”

“I originally thought
I
was the problem. That I pushed too fast and too hard. But it's more than me, Lennon. I'll wait, if that's what she wants, but waiting isn't going to make her open up and believe we can work. She's looking for perfect, and you know as well as I do that it doesn't exist. I think Ellen knows it, too. In fact, I think she's counting on it.”

“For what it's worth, I agree—”

She squeezed his knee this time, a gesture of reassurance that wasn't doing the trick, although he appreciated her effort.

“I'm very concerned about Ellen. I want to see her happy and she hasn't been since she ended things with you. But you can't force her to believe in you, or in herself for that matter. You know that, don't you, Christopher? She's strong-willed. I admire that a great deal about her. It had to take a lot of strength to stand up to her family and tell them she wasn't going into law or politics. It's also the reason I disagree with Auntie Q pulling this stunt. She can't force Ellen to do anything, either.”

Christopher didn't mention that he'd been behind her great-aunt's stunt. He didn't have to. Lennon got to the heart of the matter. “And you can't, either. Ellen has to choose to let her guard down. She has to find her own way to happiness, and because we care about her, we need to help her, not judge her or push her. She's the only one who can choose what she wants from life.”

Which drove home the fact that even though he'd gambled everything on this time together with Ellen, he still might not be able to convince her she wanted to be with him.

“I'll put in a good word if I can.”

Lennon smiled thoughtfully, a smile that told him she understood just how much he had riding on the outcome of this training session.

 

M
INDFUL THAT DROWSY WAVES
of sensation were lifting her through the layers of consciousness, Ellen stubbornly clung to slumber, refusing to wake up from this all-too-delicious dream. Her muscles glowed with a slow-burning warmth that began between her thighs and flared outward with her sluggish pulse.

Her body felt disconnected, her legs weighted with this languid heat, her arms strangely disassociated, though every inch of her skin tingled. A vibration began low in her belly, creeping upward until her breasts grew tight and her drowsy brain decided she wanted to be touched there. She wanted to feel Christopher's fingers stroking her, creating those sensations that stole her breath and made her sex tighten in achy spasms.

Which was exactly what was happening now. She felt wet and hot and ready…not for action, surely. She couldn't have moved, even if she'd had the strength to try. She didn't. All she could do was try to assimilate this sensory assault, identify the feelings and savor the pleasure each created.

All beginning and ending in that most intimate place right between her thighs.

A steady stroking, a rolling sort of motion that created the most incredible friction, a friction that made her burn…she felt a tickling on the insides of her thighs. Realized she was lying on her back.

But she couldn't make sense of what was happening because, at that moment, the rising tide inside her decided to overflow the banks and flood her with a wave of heat that dragged her body out of control and her mind to full consciousness.

Christopher.

She felt his shoulders wedged between her thighs and he was lavishing the most exquisite attention on her most sensitive places. Slowly. Seductively. His tongue speared inside, made her muscles clench to hold him in, made her yearn for more.

She managed to lift heavy eyelids. The room was dark. The Toni Maxwell original had been brushed aside to provide Christopher entry, and he took advantage of that access….

His tongue rasped up to the tiny knot of nerve endings, swirling lazily, rolling that bud so skillfully that another moan slipped from her lips as heat continued to build inside…and then his lips were there, nibbling, sucking, drawing out the sweetest longing.

She shivered, a sensation that rippled from her head to her toes. Her thighs quavered involuntarily, sandwiched his head between them so he wouldn't slip away. Even in this groggy, half-conscious state, Ellen knew she didn't want him to stop. Not now. Not when she felt like this. Not when he was the only one who'd ever made her feel this way.

He must have realized that she'd awakened—if she could truly call this dreamy state “awake”—recognized that she had no intention of resisting, because his hands suddenly skimmed her thighs, a featherlight touch that sprayed goose bumps over her skin, made her shiver again.

And then his fingers trailed into the juncture of her thighs. Suddenly he was curling those strong fingers in her wetness, separating her skin the way his tongue had, probing just enough to make her arch into his touch.

He let her set the rhythm, and Ellen sank back into the pillows, aware only of the way she felt each time she rolled her hips, tried to fill the emptiness inside that suddenly
seemed cavernous. His devilish fingers curled and stroked and probed, never sinking all the way into her heat, but only tasting, teasing and tempting her beyond reason.

And all the while, that wave inside swelled, gaining momentum, making her lever her bottom against his face, where his mouth coaxed the most incredible responses….

Ellen slipped her hands over his dark head and down his neck. Sank her fingers into his shoulders to urge him up, needing to feel him warm and strong on top of her, feel his heat filling this emptiness inside.

“Love me, Christopher.”

The words were just there on her lips, a rusty whisper Ellen had no idea she'd had the strength or coherence to utter. But those words filled the hushed darkness, echoing her need, underscoring her vulnerability.