The Panther & the Pyramid (Khamsin Warriors of the Wind) (2 page)

Woo her. Graham scanned the room and spotted a slim china vase holding a bouquet of fresh roses. He went to it, studying the blooms. Instead of a full dozen of one color, they were mixed. White, yellow, red and pink. How curious.

"Take one, please. You may give it to her."

Madame LaFontant's voice startled him. Graham frowned at the vase, then glanced over at the woman in the doorway.

"Why the different colors?"

A mysterious smile touched her mouth, but she gave a casual shrug. "I like color," she said. "Go ahead, choose one to give to your lover."

He went to choose and hesitated. Kenneth frequently gave red roses to his wife, Badra. Red surely meant love. Graham knew no woman could ever love him. Yet the rich, deep crimson called to him. Maybe, just maybe, he could pretend at love. It would make this very personal act less impersonal. But he would add a white rose, to minimize the apparent meaning.

"Might I have two?"

Madame LaFontant's smile deepened. "But of course."

Graham hesitated, then selected a long-stemmed crimson bloom and a white one. As he withdrew them from the vase, a thorn pricked his thumb. Recoiling, he glanced at the scarlet bead on his skin.

"Roses have thorns. Like life, Your Grace. Sweetness and beauty come with a price."

He sucked on his thumb and gave a wry smile. "I don't mind paying a price—as long as I'm not entirely drained."

She laughed and gestured to the door. Graham held the roses carefully in one hand, his heart hammering with anticipation.

He fiercely hoped the nightmares would end tonight. Holding a woman in his arms, feeling her soft body beneath his naked one, plunging into her wet warmth... No more bitter shame or painful memories.

Tonight he'd be a man at last.

* * *

Jillian Quigley was one step closer to her dream.

She touched her blond wig, adjusting a stray curl. In this disguise, no one could identity her. Madame LaFontant's establishment was discreet and paid its women well. And none possessed her most precious commodity.

Virginity. Tonight, for one hundred pounds cash, she would lose it. Anonymously. In the dark, with some uncaring stranger.

Hugging herself, she walked about the expansive room. An ironic smile curved her lips. Losing her precious virginity in a whorehouse—now wouldn't that make Father howl? His daughter he'd ordered to marry the wealthy Bernard Augustine, no longer possessing her saleable asset. Dull Bernard, who constantly cleared his throat and laughed when she began discussing Marshall's economic theories.

After tonight she'd have money to sneak off to America. All her life she'd had one shining dream tucked into her heart. She closed her eyes, inhaling the dusty scent of chalkboards, hearing the bass rumble of the professor's voice, feeling the hardwood seat beneath her. Two years ago, Harvard College had created a women's annex. Radcliffe called to her like a well beckoning a weary, thirsty traveler. Jillian itched to drink from its knowledge. And unlike her father, the teachers wouldn't reprimand her for being smart and a woman.

Long ago Jillian had vowed never to marry a man as emotionally remote as her father. College offered the only hope of escape from the gray shadows of her silent, oppressive home.

She went to the heavy blue brocade drapes, which were drawn against the night and prying eyes from the street below. Her appreciative gaze swept the room, taking in the polished satinwood wardrobe, the delicate tables with their inlaid marble, the soft glow from the leaded crystal lamps. Madame LaFontant specialized in pampering her wealthy clients with surroundings as elegant as their own domiciles, and women who provided every fantasy their wives could not. She glanced at the bed with its rich, soft cotton sheets, and shivered delicately. She hoped her client would be fast, indifferent and uncaring. She just wanted to get it over with, and move on.

Jillian caught sight of herself in the gilded mirror above the gleaming dresser. The lovely peacock-blue gown Madame had loaned her made her exotic, almost attractive. Jillian fingered the low décolleté, flushing at how it revealed the generous, rounded halves of her bosom. Father insisted on her dressing modestly in dull gray. If he could, he'd keep her in sackcloth. Father's invisible, dull Jillian, her reputation sterling, her morals rigid as his own.

Cosmetics now altered her appearance, shadowed eyelids making her eyes appear more blue than green. Dim lighting aided in the disguise. Not that it much mattered. No one would expect to find the earl of Stranton's daughter in a whorehouse.

Heavy footsteps, accompanied by a lighter tread, sounded on the wood floor outside. They paused outside her door, voices murmured, then the lighter steps resumed, walking away. Jillian bit her lip and gathered her courage. Smoothing down her gown, she steeled her spine and faced the door as it opened.

Please don't let him be fat, ugly or make any disgusting noises
, she silently prayed. Last-minute panic gripped her in an icy fist.

The door opened and her client stepped inside, slowly closing it behind him. He stood, hands behind his back, quietly gauging her.

Breath seized in her lungs. Jillian stared, spellbound.

She had prayed for a man not too ugly. She hadn't expected one so handsome.

A shock of black hair brushed his starched white collar, spilled across his forehead. His face was classically handsome, yet held strong character in the tempered steel of his jaw and proud nose. His chin was firm and strong, but the mouth hinted at softness with a full, sensual lower lip. A mouth made for kisses.

Jillian pulled back, uncomfortable with the thought. Clearly this was a nobleman of fine breeding. But what had she expected?

He was of medium height, a few inches taller than she, and a hint of muscle showed beneath his finely tailored suit. His eyes were onyx, blacker than the night, and they studied her as intently as she studied him. Dark, soulful eyes with secrets.

Fresh dismay coursed through her. She only wanted to get the deed over with and banish the memory to the deepest corner of her mind. How could she forget this man?

Her mouth went dry. She felt awkward and uncertain. What now? She wasn't sure what he expected. Let him set the pace. If he rushed forward, ripped off her clothing... Her quivering hand stroked her beautiful blue gown. He had a commanding presence, but no cruelty shone in those dark eyes. They looked... watchful. Speculative.

Finally, he spoke. "Hullo. I'm Graham."

His voice melted over her like warm honey. Dark and deep, but with a rough note. So masculine and solid, like granite. So different from the men in her life. Strikingly solid, especially contrasting to Bernard's pudding softness.

Jillian pushed back a lock of her fake hair, hoping the assorted pins would keep it in place. "I'm Christine." She gave him her middle name.

He nodded and approached, his heels making muffled noises on the thick carpet. "I brought these for you," he said softly.

A slight trembling affected his hand as he gave her the roses. Jillian melted. She closed her eyes, inhaling the flowers' sweet fragrance. "Thank you," she said shyly, opening her eyes to smile at him.

A thoughtful look entered his eyes as he touched a rose petal, then with the same finger stroked her cheek. "Exquisite," he murmured.

He took a rose back from her hand and brushed her cheek with it. "An English rose," he said, "with delicate soft beauty."

Her lips curved into an ironic smile, though her heart skipped at his poetic words. "English roses have sharp thorns," she said. Then Jillian bit her lip, dismayed by her tone.

But he seemed unperturbed. He held up his right thumb, showing a small puncture marked by a rusty dot. "I've already found out. Wounded in the line of duty."

She smiled. "You're quite brave, sir, to risk injury to bring me such a gift."

He nodded. "Yes, quite right. Do you suppose the Queen will knight me for my courage?" A twinkle in his eyes belied his serious tone.

Jillian laughed, her tension fleeing. Graham smiled, showing gleaming white teeth. His entire face had changed, the severe lines softening and making him appear boyish. It was such a drastic difference, and Jillian found herself utterly charmed.

Graham took the other rose from her hand and set them both on a nearby dresser. His smile vanished, replaced by an intent look. He framed her face with large, warm hands.

When he kissed her, so gently she felt as cherished as a bride on her wedding night, Jillian closed her eyes and pretended. Her lips moved beneath his.

Graham deepened the kiss, drinking in her mouth, sipping and tasting. He curled one hand about her nape, holding her still. His tongue probed the closed seam of her lips. Flicked lightly, tracing. A question.

She opened to him like a flower unfurling its petals. An answer.

His tongue slipped inside; he deepened the kiss, tightening his hold on her nape. Like an eager adventurer, he explored her mouth, tasting and nipping at her lower lip. Breath fled her lungs as she melted into him. An odd fullness pooled in her loins.

He broke their kiss, tearing his mouth away with ragged breaths. Jillian stepped back, a little woozy and startled. Her hand flew to her swollen mouth.

"Oh," she whispered.

She hadn't expected to be aroused tonight. Satisfaction gleamed in his gaze.

Knowing what was expected of her, she reached for the fastenings on her gown. Graham slipped behind her and assisted. His fingers felt fumbling, and once he uttered a low curse.

"How the hell do you women manage these things?" he muttered.

Jillian gave a sharp, nervous laugh. "They have men do it?"

A warm chuckle teased her suddenly exposed back. She shivered again as he slid the gown free.

Her stays came next. She loosened the front laces with practiced ease and then shimmied awkwardly out of her chemise and underdrawers... and stood before him, naked and unsure.

She was very cold inside.

The woman's body gleamed like alabaster in the dull lamplight. Graham felt his breath hitch.

So beautiful. The face of an angel, with high curved cheekbones and a red, inviting, kiss-swollen mouth. Blond hair hung down to her shoulders—those lackluster curls the only tarnish on her beauty. Huge luminous eyes met his. Blue? In this light, hard to tell. He guessed their color to be a deep sapphire. Her breasts were full, tipped by rosy nipples. Pale, creamy skin begged for his touch.

Her hips were rounded, and there was a slight curve to her belly. Her woman's mound, he noted with surprise, was shaved, showing an inviting glimpse of the treasure between her thighs. That damp hollow he'd dreamed about, dreamed of sinking into wet warmth and feeling a pleasure he'd never experienced...

Blood rushed to his groin, causing his slight erection to grow. He hardened to stone. He dimly felt grateful for the reaction. The first hurdle was cleared.

Just kissing her had aroused him. And he'd been pleased at her look of dazed wonder. Although he was a virgin, Graham had some experience with kissing. The widow he'd visited once back in Egypt had been an expert, and had taught him a few very pleasurable things—but when he'd started to undress to complete the act, he'd frozen.

That was years ago, he reminded himself, silently watching Christine blush to the roots of her blond hair.
You can do this now
. Indeed, his eager body assured him he could.

Graham sat on the bed and unlaced his shoes, then began to shed his clothing. When he stood nude, a shiver wracked his body. He hoped she wouldn't notice.

The last time he had stripped before another person... Memories asserted themselves. The dirty sheepskins, the stench of old smoke in his flared nostrils. The wrenching pain from behind...

His harsh breaths filled the silent room.
I can't do this
, he thought frantically.
She'll know. She'll know!

Then a sudden, small noise jerked his attention away from his inner torment. Graham realized it had come from her. A tiny, squeaking sob.

He studied her, realizing she shivered more than he did. As if a severe chill or fright had seized her. His nervousness fled. God, she was more scared than he was.

Stepping forward, he took her into his arms and kissed her.

Graham's powerful body frightened Jillian, with its strapping muscles and thrusting phallus. Never before had she faced such intimidating maleness. He seemed carved from hard marble, a wealth of dark hair covering his muscled chest.