Authors: Kate Rothwell
Somebody To Love (13 page)
The man seemed to know what he was doing.
She felt raw and far out of her depths swept along. Her embarrassment forgotten, now she squeezed her eyes tight to concentrate on his strokes, the sound of his sighs against her skin. Then the warmth and magic of his hands were gone. She groaned in protest, but when she looked over at him, she was astonished to see that he was preparing to lie on her again. Could a man even perform the act more than once? The answer was very clearly yes, and oh, so good.
She cried out and clutched at his shoulders and back frantically when he entered her again. Even as he moved in her, he touched and kissed her.
“Araminta,” he breathed. “Oh God. I lose control with you.”
She didn’t understand what he could mean. His hands on her were as expert as her touch with pastry. She was raw dough, sure enough. Almost immediately, the tightness inside her exploded into delicious throbs. She screamed out her surprise and joy.
“Yes, oh, yes, good.” He groaned.
She could only whimper with pleasure, as he pushed harder, rubbing her sensitive flesh. The swirls again grew to the moment when she felt another exquisite blast roll through her. This time, she half heard, half felt his shout at the same moment.
She lay stunned for a time, waking from the trance when his fingers brushing the curls from her face grazed her skin. “Are you still here?” he asked, soft amusement in his murmur.
“Oh, very much.” She turned onto her side and smiled. She dipped her head and explored the taste of his chest, his flat nipple, and daintily inhaled the satisfying musk of the man.
“You will kill me,” he informed her as he gathered her into his arms. “Although I’m only too delighted to die this way.”
She burrowed into his chest, and soon she reveled in lovemaking that was achingly slow now, though no less intense. She felt as if she’d run for miles, and ached with the fulfilling exercise and the jolting releases her body had never known.
In the now darkened bedroom, with only the faintest sounds of the city below, she lay curled on the soft featherbed, her arm across his chest, her leg on his, her skin pressed against his. He lay on his back. She pulled away so that by the faint glow of the moon, she could admire his smooth skin, his strong but slender build, a light sprinkling of hair across his chest and on his long, solid legs. Peace flowed into her. And an unfamiliar deep ache in her throat she suspected might be the stirring of love.
Griffin broke the silence. “We shall take action on your friend’s part as soon as possible, just as you suggest. She ought to come here. And then, Araminta, I will be very happy to arrange something for you.”
She gave a sleepy murmur of thanks. As he talked she wiggled back over to rest her head on his chest so she could feel his deep, cultivated voice through her skin and into her bones.
“A house.” Above her head his hands traced a shape in the air. “Anywhere near New York. Or London, if you prefer. And a fair amount deposited into an account each quarter. We shall discuss specifics the moment you wish to.”
She jerked entirely awake. Her mouth went dry. His mistress. He was hiring her. Cold horror swept through her, and she pushed away from him so no part of him touched any part of her.
She squeezed her eyes shut hard enough to hurt, in order to ward off any angry tears that might be forming. “No.” Eyes still shut, she heard only the rustling sheets as he turned onto his side.
“It would be a generous arrangement. Very generous. I know you have an independent income, but you say you need more.”
She opened her eyes, shifted to face him and forced herself to look him in the face. “I feel as if . . . oh, as if today I had created a feast. No. As if you and I had worked together to create one.”
He chuckled softly and touched the end of her nose. “I am fairly sated. And look forward to feasting again at your, ah, intimate restaurant.”
“And when you had finished eating,” she continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “you stood up and spat on the table. That’s how your generosity makes me feel. You are no better than your friend from the restaurant, Mr. Richardson.”
He did not so much as flich, and his eyes remained steady and focused on hers. But in less than a heartbeat he had turned into the Griffin whose brilliant emerald eyes were sharp and cold enough to bore into her. “Nonsense. I have never offered another woman such an arrangement.”
“So you mean I should be proud to be your whore?”
“That is not the word I would use. There is no reason to be offended by a mutually satisfactory agreement.”
“Oh, dress it in any names you like, Griffin. The answer is no.”
“Surely this would be better than staying at Kane’s. You would be able to open your restaurant eventually. You will never get another offer as good as mine.” The controlled voice had returned—strong and cool as carved marble. The warmth of life had fled him again.
She rolled away, slipped from the bed and bent to unwind her stocking from a ladder-back chair. How on earth had it become so entangled? Oh, God. What had she been thinking? She had to get out as quickly as she could.
She stopped yanking at her stocking to respond. “Yes, you’re correct, I won’t get such an offer because I am not a whore. Not at any price.” She was pleased at how calm she kept her voice.
Not as tranquil as he managed to keep his, of course. “Why did you come up to my rooms with me? What do you expect from me? I hoped you would agree to meet with me again. I still hope that you will. But don’t look for too much, Araminta.”
Though he sounded almost gentle as he said the last words, she wished she could think of something biting to say. Something that would slash him to the quick so he’d feel as much pain as she did. No, that sort of speech would not help her. A throbbing started in her temples.
She balanced on the edge of the bed, far away from him, to pull on her other stocking and adjust the garter. “I know. I didn’t think of marriage, Griffin. Your kind does not marry women like me.”
He’d pulled himself up, and now his folded arms rested on raised knees. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing, now.” Her shaky fingers worked automatically as she pulled on her chemise, stays and petticoat and found her gown. From inside its folds she continued, talking to herself as much as to him. “Perhaps I had not thought of anything beyond today. I can no longer recall. I—I slipped my bonds. I shouldn’t have.”
“You have used me.” He sounded amused.
She pushed her head through the neckhole.
He moved to the edge of the bed, where he sat, naked and magnificent. She tilted her head and examined him, up and down, hoping she looked as insolent as any man examining a woman.
The muscles of his shoulders bunched as he clutched the mattress. His fingers were white with the pressure of his grip. Not so unaffected by this confrontation after all.
Oh, God, if only he were composed of nothing but a superb body and haughty power. The strange pain she recognized in him now reminded her he was more. She’d seen too much of the man in the time they’d spent together.
A flush of sorrow shot through her and melted the anger, leaving her bereft, without even a good towering rage to hold on to. “I did not think I used you,” she said at last. “But perhaps I was mistaken.”
She buttoned the front of her dress, a gown designed for a woman who had no maid to help her. Knowing he watched and analyzed her every motion, she turned her back on him.
“What would you callthen, Araminta? We enjoyed each other.”
Yes, indeed they had. No arguing with that, and perhaps later she’d remember only that fine time, once the hurt and anger dissipated. Already she felt empty.
She adjusted the lace at her bosom, slipped on her shoes and picked up her jacket. When she was fully dressed, she turned, ready to meet his stare. “I thought we were making love. I have been wrong about that before.”
As she reached for the doorknob, he rose to his feet and reached for his trousers.
She shook her head. God, she wanted him nowhere near her once the tears started. “No need, sir. I shall show myself out. I won’t embarrass you by using the lift. I know how to find the back staircase of this establishment.”
“Let me summon an escort for you, then. It is best—”
“No.”
The door softly clicked behind her.
Griffin stared at the blank white door, his heart thumping hard. If he went after her, she would run away from him. He knew it. And what could he say if he held on to her and forced her to listen? Agree with her?
Yes, we were making love . . . but I don’t know what the hell that means. I don’t want this. I want you
.
Yes, we were making love . . . but I don’t know what the hell that means. I don’t want this. I want you
.
Damn it all, he couldn’t go after her. He’d gibber like a fool. He pulled in a deep breath, desperate to escape from the nauseating sensation that he’d shattered something vital. Again.
As he slipped on a heavy velvet and satin figured robe, he reminded himself he had no reason to feel as if he’d just slit someone’s throat. The woman had too much pride, not enough sense.
He had made it clear more than once that he had no intention of marrying, ever. What else could a woman expect from him? He had already offered more than he’d meant to, but she wanted more than he would give—he knew that about her, though she said nothing. Not money or other comfortingly familiar objects. Araminta’s expectations showed in her eyes as clearly as any of her strong emotions. He tied the belt as he walked to the sitting room, where he pressed a button.
Hobbes appeared.
“Where’s Wurth or one of the others?” Griffin asked.
“The other men are busy.” Hobnail’s voice was tight.
“Playing poker, no doubt. What are you doing here?”
“Mr. Galvin is meeting me.”
“Then you have at least an hour. Go—fast—to the back entrance. Follow Miss Araminta, but don’t allow her to see you. Just keep her safe.”
Griffin noticed the unpleasant scowl Hobbes shot in his direction, but dismissed it as being of no concern.
He went back to his bedroom and gathered his scattered clothes. Yet he did not order a bath. He barely admitted the fact to himself, but he did not want to wash away the traces of Araminta. Not right away. As he dressed, he surveyed the disordered bed and allowed himself a minute or two of longing or regret—he didn’t give it a name, for it wouldn’t help to know what he felt.
Bloody hell. There could be a serious consequence to the day’s events. No doubt the woman would sanctimoniously turn away any help he’d offer. He’d have to put some sort of round-the-clock guard on her to keep her safe.
He reached for his watch. Almost nine o’clock; he’d worr a couple more hours. As the watch snapped shut, the familiar click came inside him, too. Closing off anything but business. Time was up. Enough nonsense. Back to work. He did not need more.
He strode across the sitting room toward the library, where a mineral rights report waited for him. A small white object lay on the floor next to the couch: her glove. Without breaking stride, he reached for it and tucked it into a waistcoat pocket.
Araminta swept down the street, the rhythm of her heels striking the sidewalk venting some of her feeling. Her anger was directed at herself now. She should have known. All her life, she had faced the fact of her heritage, yet she had foolishly harbored some desire to hear the word
love
. She truly did know better than to imagine she’d hear the word
marriage
from a gentleman such as Griffin.
love
. She truly did know better than to imagine she’d hear the word
marriage
from a gentleman such as Griffin.
Jean-Pierre had talked of marrying her toward the end of their year together. But soon after that, he had expressed his very great sorrow that such a thing could never be. No, indeed, his family would never permit it. And when she refused to enter his bed again, he had found himself an acceptable, middle-class white wife.
She had not regretted her lost virtue, much. After she turned sixteen and developed a rather extravagant figure, the world assumed she had experience. Once, a gentleman who had learned of her murky background informed her that God created her kind for bed sports.
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