Lady Vixen (77 page)

The
silence between them was uncomfortable; both were almost unbearably aware of
the other, each waiting for the other to make the first move, to say the first
word. Neither did.

The
silence was like a third presence in the elegant room; the crack and pop of the
fire burning brightly on the hearth echoed in the uncomfortable quietness,
intensifying the silence. As the moments passed, Nicole shifted uneasily on her
chair and, for something to do, cautiously sipped the sherry, not really
wanting it.

Christopher
had returned to his position by the fire; his profile was presented to her as,
apparently ignoring her, he once again seemed fascinated by the leaping yellow
and orange flame. A half-finished snifter of brandy stood on the mantel. As
Nicole watched him, noting idly the way his blue-black hair seemed to curl more
crisply in damp weather, he reached for the snifter and in one motion tossed
the contents down. Straightening, he turned to look directly at her.

With
a quizzical smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, he asked mockingly,
"Well? Don't you have anything to say? I've been waiting these past
moments for that scathing tongue of yours to annihilate me. Don't tell me you
have lost the power of speech. Come now, expectorate your spleen, as I'm
certain you have been longing to do for weeks!"

Nicole
stiffened, her topaz eyes beginning to flash with ready temper. With difficulty
she controlled the strongest urge to do exactly as he said, but instead she
said levelly, "Railing against you will gain me nothing. I have, I hope,
outgrown some of my foolishness, and losing my temper is one thing I have no
intention of doing, despite the provocation."

One
thick black eyebrow flew up derisively. "For the moment I'll take your
word for it," Christopher replied dryly. "But I'm sure you
do
have
something to say. Some condemnation of my conduct?"

Nicole
stood up and very deliberately placed her unfinished glass on a nearby table.
"Yes, I have something to say, but more to the point I have a question to
ask. May I?" she inquired sarcastically. At Christopher's curt nod, she
requested bluntly, "What do you plan to do with me?"

From
the bronze slippers on her feet to the top of her head Christopher's eyes
traveled over her, almost caressingly, halting for a brief second on the high
bosom, the fiery gleam of the dark hair, before finally coming back and
stopping on her full mouth. "Oh, I can think of several plans for you, my
dear," he murmured, "but I doubt you would agree with them." His
eyes still on her mouth, he walked over to her, standing so close that there
were barely inches between their bodies. "I want you, Nicole," he
muttered honestly. "I want you as I have never wanted any woman I have
ever known." The gold eyes were bright with sudden desire as he said
quickly, "You were willing to be Robert's mistress, so why not mine?"

As
Nicole stood frozen with icy anger before him, he continued rashly, "I
gave you your chance to lead a respectable life. I saw you safely launched into
society, but no, that wasn't what you wanted. Oh, no! You were willing to throw
it all away just to become Robert's plaything. Well, my dear, you'll be much
better off as my plaything than Robert's. Believe me, I shall be extremely
generous with you—your own house on the ramparts, your own carriage, servants,
anything you like. Just name your price."

The
topaz eyes, like two great golden-brown jewels in her pale face, shimmered with
anger, as she spat, "You overestimate your charm! If I were dying and you
had the gift of life, my answer would still be the same—absolutely not! Be your
mistress? Ha! I would rather whore along Tchoupitoulas Street, submitting to
any man who wanted me, than to suffer
your
embrace!"

Christopher's
jaw went taut, his lips thinned as angrily he reached for her. "So you
say, madame!" he snarled against her mouth. "So you say, but your
body tells me something different!"

Brutally
his mouth closed over hers, forcing her Hps apart. His arms tightened
unyieldingly around her, instantly awakening memories of other times in his
arms, of other moments shared between them. If he had continued to kiss her in
such a cruel manner she might have been able to resist him, but as if sensing
that sheer force would avail him nothing, Christopher's mouth slackened its
painful assault and began to move gently across hers, urging and yet demanding
an answer to his rising passion.

Feeling
the familiar curl of desire swirling in her stomach, Nicole fought desperately
against it, for once determined not to allow him to sweep her into his dark
power. But Christopher was too much for her; his hands tightened around her
waist, drawing her nearer to the warmth of his body, making her physically
aware even through the restraint of their clothing of how much he did indeed
want her. His hands left her waist, gently exploring her hips, traveling up her
slender spine in one long exquisitely tantalizing caress; his lips, warm and
desire-drugging, were still locked on hers, and Nicole felt what control she
had slipping.

Christopher,
blind to anything but the desire scorching his veins, oblivious to the battle
raging within the woman in his arms, drew her gently and inexorably down on the
sofa near the fire, his hands instinctively finding the silken flesh beneath
the muslin gown. At the touch of his hand on her thigh Nicole gave an anguished
moan, wanting him to take her with every fiber of her being, yet knowing if she
did, she was lost. Fighting against herself as much as Christopher, frantically
Nicole twisted beneath him, seeking vainly to escape the well of desire into
which she was falling. The movements of her body only heightened Christopher's
compelling urge to know once again the ecstasy of joining his body with hers,
making him kiss her with deepening urgency.

Christopher
stiffened at a sudden knock on the door. With a muffled curse he sat up and
demanded, "Yes, who is it?"

"Sanderson,"
was the calm reply. "Dinner is served, sir."

Standing
up and straightening his clothes, Christopher snapped, "Very well. We
shall be right there." Turning to Nicole, he muttered half teasingly, half
angrily, "It appears that this interesting conversation, too, will have to
wait until later! Are you ready?"

Not
looking at him, with a hand that trembled she rearranged her skirts and said in
a voice that only shook slightly, "For dinner, yes!"

Christopher
grinned at her. "But, my dear, what else?"

Resisting
the urge to slap his face, Nicole walked stiffly to the carved doors that led
to the main hall, allowing Christopher to open the doors for her, her hand
resting correctly on his arm.

She
and Christopher conversed with ridiculous politeness during dinner—partly
because of Sanderson's hovering presence and partly because neither could think
of anything to say . . . except something totally outrageous and provoking.
Both, though, had their minds on the evening ahead, and perhaps that explained
why the cook was slightly disappointed at the amount of food returned to the
kitchen.

After
dinner, feeling replete, yet tingling with wariness, Nicole demurely allowed
herself to be led back to the salon they had occupied before dinner. Seated on
the sofa that had nearly been her undoing, she accepted with pleasure the
demitasse cup of sweet black coffee that Sanderson offered from an ornate
silver tray. Not so Christopher; with a careless hand he waved the butler away,
preferring instead a snifter of brandy.

Dinner
had been a time of truce, an uneasy truce, but a truce nonetheless. And
Christopher made that perfectly clear the second the door closed behind
Sanderson. "Well?" he asked peremptorily. "My proposition still
stands. And now that you have had a few moments in which to consider it, don't
try to fob me off with the usual feminine prattle that you need time to
think!"

It
was an unfair attack—both knew that Nicole had never even consented to think
over his offer. Her eyes gleaming with resentment, the soft mouth hardening
with resolution, she snapped, "There was never any question of my
considering your less-than-respectable proposal! I told you then and I'll tell
you now—I will
not
become your mistress!"

Her
bosom heaving with agitation, she stood up abruptly, and her voice was shaking
with suppressed emotion as she continued hotly, "I am surprised you even
want such a depraved creature as myself near you! After all, I am so without
gratitude that I would turn my back on the very agreeable life you had arranged
for me, insult the hospitality of your grandfather, align myself with a man
unworthy of the name, a man who was my own mother's lover!" The topaz eyes
shimmering with unshed tears, the full red mouth trembling with the effort to
hold back those same tears, she cried in anguish and anger, "Oh, yes! Let
us not forget that I am my mother's daughter! And we both know what she was
like—a liar, a betrayer, and an adulteress! And, Christopher, I promise you —if
you force me to I shall show you exactly how like my mother I can be! For God's
sake let me go! Give me the passage back to England! Send me away from you so
that we both can find peace."

Christopher
whitened at her words. Bitterly he snarled, "I cannot. I have thought of
all that you say—it has torn me apart day after day, night after night! But let
you go, I cannot!" It was an admission he had not wanted to make, an
admission he had tried to hide from himself. And furious that he had given her,
as he thought, another weapon over him, with a jerky movement he swallowed the
brandy in one long gulp. Slamming the empty snifter down on the mantel so hard
that it splintered, without another word he stalked swiftly across the room to
the door, his anger and rage apparent in every step he took. Standing with his
hand on the door, he glanced back at Nicole standing frozen by the sofa; then
there was just the banging of the door as he departed. That look he sent her
the last moment before hurling out the door was one of such loathing and fury
that she recoiled from it, and yet, and yet, for just a moment there had been a
flicker deep in that golden gaze of something, something like . . . like...

Tossing
on her bed that night, again and again Nicole relived those tense, revealing
moments, unable to believe that he had said what he had. To know that
Christopher, too, felt that invisible bond between them was encouraging, but
that he also hated and resented it bitterly was very obvious. What am I to do,
she thought unhappily. Stay? Hope that in time he will come to love me, if he
is even capable of love? Or continue to fight against him, try to make him
understand that we are better off apart? But would you be? her mind whispered
insidiously.

Her
dilemma was unanswerable. Prudence, common sense, past experience, and a lively
sense of self-preservation clearly dictated that she flee. But her heart, never
a very reliable organ, twisted from the idea of deliberately cutting him away
from her.

Restless,
heartsick, undecided, and bedeviled, she gave up the pretense of sleep and left
her bed. Barefooted, wearing only a thin, nearly transparent nightdress of
cream-colored cambric, she prowled around her room. The fire had nearly died,
and for something to do she added a few small logs from the tidy pile laid to
one side of the hearth, stirring and blowing on the glowing embers until the
fire caught and began to flicker and leap with a life of its own. The room was
in darkness except for the shimmering of the flames as they danced and painted
shadows on the walls. A faint gleam of moonlight crept through the shuttered
windows, and as she pulled the wooden shutters aside she discovered a full
silvery moon high overhead. The rain had stopped once again, but the dampness
and wet lingered, tickling Nicole's nose as she took a deep breath.

Sighing,
she turned back to her bed, knowing that sleep would not visit her this night.
Sitting on the bed, her knees drawn up under her chin, her hands clasped
lightly around her ankles, she stared blankly at the fire. What was she to do?
She had no money of her own. She had no place to go. England was far away, too
far to offer an immediate solution to her problem. Dismally she acknowledged
that as long as she loved Christopher Saxon there never was going to be a
solution to her dilemma.

She
had never stopped loving him, she admitted sadly. Yes, she had tried to
convince herself otherwise, but there was no denying that she had fooled only
herself, herself and her foolish heart. Whatever he was—brutal, arrogant, one
minute tender, the next savage—she unfortunately loved him. What was she going
to do about it?

Surprisingly,
considering the state of her heart, she longed most desperately to leave. There
was nothing that she could see to be gained by staying except more heartache,
more disillusionment. Christopher would never love her. He wanted her, that she
would not deny, but wanting had little to do with love, and love was what she
wanted most.

She
bit back a half-hysterical giggle when she thought of the expression on his
face if she were to say, "Love me! Want me not only with your body, but
with your heart as well. Love me, damn you!"

But
what was the use? She wasn't even certain in her own heart that she could
forgive everything that had passed between them—especially his latest
high-handed actions. Then she smiled cynically; there she went again, fooling
herself. As much as she wished to pretend otherwise, if Christopher lifted one
finger, gave her one indication that he wanted more than just a warm body in his
bed, she would fling aside all the doubts, the bitterness, the past, everything
and leap willy-nilly into his arms. She
loved
him, goddamnit!