The Proviso (12 page)

Sebastian was very pleased. Not only had Giselle
neatly mapped out the next phase in their war with Fen, she’d
caught Kenard’s attention as he’d asked her to and with wild
success. For the rest of the night tonight, Kenard wouldn’t be
thinking about campaigns, money, or politics and from the look of
things, Kenard’s mind was the last thing he wanted fucked.

He wondered if perhaps he’d gotten Giselle into a
wee bit more trouble than she could handle herself, but she had her
Glock and she loved a challenge. On the other hand, considering her
desperation to hold onto her oh-so-precious virginity(however
inefficiently), her behavior surprised Sebastian. Giselle had never
had talents toward seduction, so where that femme fatale had come
from tonight, he didn’t know. Further, considering he’d
specifically told her not to use it as a diversionary tactic and
why, it completely confused him.

Unless . . .

. . . she wanted whatever Kenard would give her.

Would you fuck him if you got the chance?

In a heartbeat.

Sebastian’s jaw dropped and his eyes widened.

The man dresses more expensively than you do . . .
He’s a warrior. You can tell. He’s bigger than you.

Kenard?!

Now,
that
man would give Giselle exactly what
she thought she wanted and a whole host of other things that would
blow her little virgin mind. Stunned for a moment, Sebastian could
only look at the now-empty staircase and turn that over in his
head.

He was contemptuous of me . . . It made me mad and
then we had an argument and then I— I . . . kissed him.

Giselle had unintentionally made her thirty-second
pitch in a fit of anger and Kenard had bought the store.

He called me Lilith . . . It wasn’t a
compliment.

Then Sebastian began to smile. Whatever else he
could say about Giselle’s half-baked philosophies and inability to
choose between the sacred and the profane, she did her best work by
instinct—and her instincts had led her straight to Kenard.

He turned to see if Fen had observed this vignette
and as he expected, Fen hadn’t missed a second of anything. His jaw
worked in his cheek. Though he mingled and smiled and shook hands
with everyone who grabbed his attention, he watched Giselle lure
Kenard, his biggest chance at campaign funding and support, away
from the party that he’d intended as a four-hour thirty-second
pitch. He had no way to salvage that without making a complete fool
of himself and ruining his credibility by begging. Trudy Hilliard
murmured something to Fen and he nodded, his lips tight.

Fen caught Sebastian watching him. The subtle anger
in Fen’s face made Sebastian grin and salute. Then he burst out
laughing, startling most of the people there who knew him only as a
dour and self-contained corporate raider.

* * * * *

12:
GRIMM REALITY

Where would she go? On a hunch, Bryce followed his
nose, her perfume as distinctive as she. He turned to take another
set of stairs, hitting two landings in quick succession. The
gallery, immense and only very dimly lit, had innumerable nooks and
crannies in which to lose oneself by choice or by accident.

As he gained the top step, he turned immediately
right to go into the Asian collection, then left, but stopped. He
knew she’d passed by here; her scent lingered and drove him mad. He
would not leave this museum tonight without a piece of her, if not
all of her.

The trail stopped at the immense Chinese Temple
room, two stories high, and, as always, even during exhibition
hours, dimly lit. A section at the farthest end of the room was
nearly closed off by a richly carved mahogany wall that looked
Moorish in design. He could see the bodhisattva prominently
displayed on the back wall, framed by the threshold of the wooden
partition. As his eyes adjusted, he saw her silhouette where she
sat on a Barcelona ottoman the size of a twin bed in front of the
statue, very still, her back to him.

Then she turned her head and spoke over her
shoulder. “Gorgeous, isn’t he?”

He started at the sound of her voice, so smooth, so
calm, so . . . fragile. How could a woman who brimmed with such
decadent sexuality have such a fragile voice?

“Not sure I’d use that term, no,” he murmured
vaguely as he began his trek toward her.

She chuckled, then looked up at him once he reached
the bench. “This is my secret place, where I come to get away from
the world and meditate.”

Her humor pulsed through her voice and radiated from
her like a shimmering silvery heat wave off hot asphalt.

He sat next to her, throwing one leg over the
ottoman, then turning so he, too, faced the bodhisattva and knew he
would never reach that state of enlightenment. He searched for
words and felt her steady gaze on him as he did so. He didn’t know
what to say to a woman he resented for her sexual relationship with
Hilliard and possibly Taight, but still wanted for himself. He
couldn’t rid himself of the sudden visual of actually stripping her
naked and laying her down on the ottoman right then and there.

Behold, I say unto you, wickedness never was
happiness.

Whatever. Righteousness sure as hell hadn’t been a
picnic. Wickedness couldn’t be any worse.

He hooked one heel on the edge of the upholstery and
laid his arm over his flexed knee. He leaned into her just enough
so that his lapel touched her bare shoulder. Watching her, daring
her to say a word or make a move, he planted his left hand on the
leather behind her, sliding his fingers underneath her, his thumb
caressing her backside. She sucked a sharp breath in through her
nose and her eyes widened slightly, but she held his gaze and
stayed right where she was even though he continued to caress her
fabric-covered buttock and made it clear he had no intention to
remove his hand.

She reached out. The pad of her right thumb just
brushed his forehead between his eyebrows, a gesture that startled
him. He wasn’t used to a woman’s touch. “I apologize for nearly
killing you,” she murmured.

She laid her warm palm flat on the scarred half of
his face, nearly covering his eye, and her fingers furrowed into
his hair. She continued to stroke the spot where she had bored the
barrel of her gun the night she’d kissed him. He had never received
a touch so intimate—an intimacy far beyond sex—from any woman, not
even his wife.

“I was very tired that night and you startled
me.”

“I doubt I was in any imminent danger,” he murmured
as she took her hand away. He wished she would continue to touch
him. He wished she hadn’t touched him at all. “You seem to be a
woman who’s almost always in control.”

Miss Cox smiled then, a wide smile that made her
amusement more than clear. The corners of her eyes crinkled
merrily. “Oh,
always
. And some people think that’s a bad
thing.”

“I suppose it depends on context.”

That comment hung in the air as he began to inspect
her face, her straight nose and full mouth, her throat, her
breasts, her—

“What’s this?” he breathed and touched a
quarter-sized round indentation puckering the skin below her left
shoulder. On her back, just over her shoulder, was another puckered
scar, much larger and jagged around the edges. He looked into eyes
that had darkened from ice blue to gunmetal gray. “Someone shot
you.”

She flashed him a wicked grin. “Two someones,
actually.”

He opened his mouth to ask the next logical
question, but—

“Why did you follow me up here?” she asked in a
rush, her gambit clear.

“Why did you want me to?”

She laughed then, a laugh that sparkled with
delight. He reached for and gripped her chin in his palm, bringing
her to him. His mouth captured hers, startling her into opening for
him. Her eyes were wide for a moment, then he felt her sigh into
his mouth and fall into his kiss. Her eyes closed, her mouth
followed his lead; he felt her hand on his face again.

His thigh brushed a metal-hard bulge along hers,
through a layer of fabric, and at that moment, he knew exactly what
he wanted to do to her and how.

* * * * *

Kenard’s strong hand, huge, rough, heavily
calloused, held her jaw with just enough force to keep her where he
wanted her. His hand lay perilously close to her throat; she didn’t
know whether that terrified her or excited her. But his kiss . .
.

Ohhh.

Giselle had never been kissed so thoroughly, so
expertly, so without inhibition.

Harshly exquisite, his mouth took hers with a
confidence and experience that intimidated and exhilarated her
beyond all reason. She touched his face again, felt the burn scars.
Her arousal increased. Nearly painful sensation rolled through her
when his tongue found hers, and the feel of his hand almost right
there
bordered on sensory overload.

She wanted more.

She opened her eyes to find him watching her while
he kissed her. With a little shake of her head, she easily
dislodged his hand to wrap her arms around his neck. Her fingers in
his silky hair, drawing him close, she kissed him heatedly, but she
couldn’t direct it. He overpowered her too easily.

Giselle sighed when his mouth left hers to explore
her cheek, his now-free hand cupping her breast, that thumb
caressing the skin at the top of her corset.

Just then, the hand that teased her buttocks swept
up her back and curled around the curve of her waist. His mouth
kissing, licking, nipping the column of her neck, he pressed her
downdowndown slowly, carefully, until she half lay on the bench. He
rose then and caught her behind her knees to pull her legs up onto
the bench.

He had kissed her again before she realized he knelt
over her, his hands bracing himself on the upholstery on either
side of her face, his knees similarly situated on either side of
her hips.

Bryce Kenard, conquering lord. Conquering
Giselle.

An odd and unexpected pleasure at being at this
great man’s mercy shuddered through her. He could do any number of
wicked things to her right here, right now—and she’d let him.

She closed her eyes again, needing to
just—
feel
—everything he did to her. She wound her arms up
and around his forearms to clutch his arms, large and tight,
covered by the fine wool-silk blend of his tux coat. He returned
his attention to her neck to tease and nip. Her breath came hard
and fast, short and ragged when he slowly worked his way over her
collarbone, laved the indentation that marked her, then down over
the skin of her chest.

She gasped and arched her back when he tucked his
mouth in her cleavage, licking, kissing. She couldn’t think,
couldn’t breathe when he began to undo the buttons of her corset
with his teeth.

Suddenly embarrassed that she had lost control with
a stranger so completely and voluntarily—so much so that she would
allow him to undress her—she made a weak move to dislodge him. He
ignored her. Four, six, eight buttons down, her corset fell open,
baring her to the waist.

He rose up a bit to study her torso, his breathing
strained to its limit, and she swallowed. Overwhelmed, saturated
with adrenaline and desire, she whispered,

“Let me go.”

Kenard’s gaze met hers then, his emerald eyes hard,
an eyebrow cocked. “No.”

Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open and she
suddenly didn’t know what to do. No man had ever dared cross her,
to completely disregard her wishes.

He took advantage of her confusion and kissed her
again, his mouth and tongue hard, pressing her into the upholstery.
His hand swept up her ribs to cup her breast, his thumb stroking
her nipple until she could only think of what he was doing to her,
what else she wanted him to do to her.

“Giselle,” he whispered harshly in her ear, “come
home with me. Now. Tonight.”

If this man was a member of the church, he was most
definitely
not
on the “fast track to bishop.” And if she did
what she wanted to do, she’d be on the fast track to a broken heart
with nothing to show for it.

Would you fuck him if you got the chance?

In a heartbeat.

Or . . . not.

Pressing her hands against his chest, she shoved at
him, surprising him with her strength and nearly knocking him off
the wide ottoman. He struggled for balance long enough for her to
roll out from under him, desperately clutching her corset, and bolt
across the room to one of the glass cases. Her chest, damp from his
tongue and brushed by the cool air of the vents overhead, heaved as
she looked at him warily, trying to button up her corset, wondering
what the hell had just happened.

Her fingers didn’t work because she trembled too
badly, and she couldn’t suck in her breath long enough to close it
all the way. She watched him rise from the bench and walk toward
her slowly, carefully. She was vaguely gratified to note that his
breath came as hard and fast as hers, and sweat dotted his brow. He
wiped his hand down his face as he approached her.

“This is insane,” she murmured, her back pressed
into a corner of the pillar behind her, her hands still struggling
with her buttons as she watched him warily. He stopped when he was
within an arm’s length and gently brushed her hands aside to button
her corset up himself.

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” he asked, gruff though
not unkind. “Suck in a breath.”

She somehow managed to do that. “I—” But what could
she say? That it was the only thing she wanted at the moment, and
she knew she must not have it? That she felt embarrassed at having
this sort of intimacy with a stranger, and, moreover, liking it?
That she liked the way his knuckles caressed her as he re-dressed
her? That she wanted to take him home and keep him forever?