Wicked Becomes You (23 page)

She wondered if Alex realized how much he had in common with this man. Both of them looked comfortable no matter where they popped up. It was not, perhaps, a trait to merit one’s trust.

Mr. Barrington seized her hand and carried it very dramatically to his mouth. “Your majesty!” he said. To Alex, he offered a cordial nod. “You’re the last to arrive; I’d begun to fear you lost.”

“But we came straightaway,” Gwen said with a frown.

“Perhaps the others departed before the invitations were issued,” Alex murmured.

Barrington laughed, as if this were a very funny joke. “Come,” he said, and turned on his heel to lead them into the house.

The front lobby of the villa was spacious and cool, a fountain splashing in the light cast by a domed glass cupola two floors above. Tile mosaics bordered the pink stone floors, which were uncarpeted save for silk runners that formed a narrow path down the hall through which they walked toward their rooms. On the walls hung Renaissance paintings from the Italian school, and bright murals that Barrington said had been painted by local artists—tableaus of Nice’s famous Battle of Flowers, its Mardi Gras revels, and sunset seen from the Promenade des Anglais.

Barrington drew them to a stop at the very end of the corridor, by a set of wooden doors carved in a rough, rustic style. “Drinks at five o’clock in the garden,” he said. “Dinner at seven; we keep very early hours, to allow guests to pop over to Monte Carlo and catch one last round of cards before bed. Carriage leaves promptly at nine o’clock; usually we keep another for the casinos in Nice—open all night, you know—but we had a broken axle last night, so it’s Monte Carlo for the time being or bust, as they say; which perhaps is how it always should be, don’t you think? If one’s going to gamble, might as well do it in style. Now.” He took a breath. “I expect you’ll want a bit of rest before joining the fun. Although I must say, Miss Goodrick, you look fresh as a daisy, positively ripe for the plucking.”

It had seemed a lovely compliment, until he’d reached the bit about ripeness. “Thank you,” Gwen said hesitantly.

“Alas that harvest season has concluded,” Alex said pleasantly.

Barrington chuckled. “So it has, so it has. Well, we’re out on the terrace right now, so do feel free to wander out if you feel up to it. The Rizzardis—you don’t know them, by any chance, do you? Giuseppe and Francesca? No? Well, they popped up yesterday, so I’ve put them in the room next to yours; they are great fans of Bizet, and over the moon at the prospect of a worthy delivery from Miss Goodrick. Oh—hold on there a moment.” Still clinging to the door handle, he leaned around the corner. “Moakes! Come back here, you rascal.”

A small, silver-haired man of advanced years stepped around the corner, a tray of champagne in hand. “Take one, do,” Barrington urged them. “Lafittes and Margaux, of course; I drink nothing but. Might as well start the holiday in style. Here, I’ll also lift a glass.”

Gwen slid a glance to Alex, who was studying Barrington as though the man’s face held the key to some riddle. Perhaps it did, at that: at odd intervals, the corners of Barrington’s mouth kicked up. It was the smile of a child struggling to keep some wonderful secret.

“Cheers,” said Alex. He took a drink, his lips smiling but his eyes deadly intent on their host.

Mr. Barrington seemed oblivious to the regard. He turned his boyish smile on Gwen. “I must confess,” he said in a low voice. “I noticed something alarming upon your arrival.”

“Oh?” Heart beating faster, she wondered if she’d already betrayed herself, somehow. Or perhaps he’d stumbled across a photograph of her. She could imagine that the London newspapers might have run one after the recent debacle.

“Your parasol, my dear.” He eyed her, a salacious angle slanting his lips. “I do believe you’ve forgotten it again.”

Gwen laughed. “Oh, I hardly require one now.” She hooked her arm through Alex’s. “I have brought a much bigger stick, you see.”

Alex choked on his drink. Barrington, brow lifting, gave him a respectful nod, although the cause for it seemed obscure. “I will take your word on it,” he said to her and slid the bar free, opening the suite doors. “Here then: your home for the next few days—or, indeed, so long as you wish to remain. We do not believe that old adage about guests; the longer you stay, the merrier.”

He took his leave with a bow. As predicted, he had allotted them a single suite. The sitting room was quite large, done up in taupe and ivory, filled with light from the broad French doors that opened onto a balcony with an ocean view.

“Strange man,” Gwen murmured.

Alex paused by the doors to look out toward the sea. “Why do you say that?” he asked.

She frowned at his back. “You don’t think he’s odd?”

“Certainly. But I’d like to hear your perception of him.”

She thought about it a moment. “There is his accent,” she said slowly. “He works very hard to sound like a public school boy. But he learned the accent too late; it doesn’t fit comfortably with his vowels.”

“Which doesn’t condemn him, of course.”

“Of course not! Goodness, for my sake, I should hope not. I suppose, beyond that, it’s simply a feeling he inspires. No real cause for it.”

“But intuition should never be dismissed,” he said. He walked onward through the next door, and she followed. A minuscule dressing room opened onto a bedroom with wallpaper of pale peach and gold. The single window in the far corner looked onto a man-made lake at the side of the house. A transparent mesh mosquito net framed the bed. Sleeping was clearly meant to be an afterthought here; all the attention had been given to the sitting room, which was much larger.

Or perhaps not. Gwen paused in the doorway, looking at that bed. It would have been large enough for Henry VIII and half of his wives, to boot. It dominated the room completely.

Alex walked onward, apparently oblivious to how terribly awkward it was going to be to spend the night here. Perhaps he would be a gentleman—absurd thought, but since he’d done the tediously gentlemanly thing last night, the pattern might well continue—and he would offer to take the floor. Otherwise, she knew what would transpire: she would lie with her back to him, her agitated breath making the netting stir and tremble, too afraid to sleep lest her hands betray her and climb across his chest, as they had been longing to do even in the coach, while her dignity and pride had spat curses at him and her brain had marshaled words of cool, pleasant civility.

What sort of talent was it that led a woman to unerringly fix on men who did not want her in return?

Surely there
was
another kind of man out there?

“Lily. These are lovely flowers,” Alex announced.

She looked up. He was poised by a vase of roses that sat in the corner opposite the window. “Those aren’t lilies,” she said dryly.

“Very funny,
Lily.
” His intent stare gave her a start. So, even in the rooms they would play these roles?

“I always aim to amuse you,” she said lightly.

“Then come have a closer look.” His smile now teased. “You’re some sort of expert on flowers, aren’t you? A budding botanist, I hear.”

Her temper strained. Not surprising; its restraints had endured a great deal of friction today. “I told you I am not particularly attached to flowers. I am not a
gardener.
”

“Nevertheless,” he said, and then paused significantly. His long fingers parted the petals to reveal a patch of the flocked velvet wall. “Come have a look.”

It penetrated that he was not interested in the flowers at all. She glanced around in alarm, wondering if somebody was hiding behind the curtains to prevent their free communication.

He gave her a subtle shake of the head. “Come here,” he said more softly.

Slowly she walked forward. He slid his hand around the back of her neck, fingers closing in a firm grip as he brushed his lips across hers.

She went still. Last night, she’d tossed for hours, powerless to turn her mind from the memory of that shattering pleasure he’d given her. Now, the faintest pressure of his mouth raised an echo of that wonder. A hot, delicious weakness trembled through her.

Anger chased it. Good Lord. The man was
addled
. He could not make up his mind, and he was going to make
her
addled in the process. Maybe that was his aim! Having received no success this morning, he was going to tease her to desperation, manipulate her into debasing herself again—

His mouth slid across her cheek to her ear. “Spy holes,” he murmured, his hand idly brushing the line of her waist. “Lean down to sniff the roses. Take a look.”

Spy holes? Great ghosts! What sort of business partner did Lord Weston encourage these days?

Alex began to nuzzle her neck. A pleasurable chill lifted the hairs at her nape. She shrugged his mouth away with one shoulder. He caught her shoulder and squeezed. “Someone might be watching,” he said into her ear. His hot breath made her shiver again. “Hurry up and take a look.” His tongue flicked along her lobe. “Or give them an excuse for your dallying here.”

She cleared her throat. “Let me have a look at these flowers!” she said brightly.

He winced and stepped back. All right, her delivery needed work. She would have to spend a few minutes mustering the Barbary Queen before she dared set foot outside their rooms.

She bent over, making a show of fingering one petal, meanwhile fighting the urge to reach up and touch her ear where he had licked it. He made her knees weak with one stroke of his tongue. This was not a magic any cautious woman would encourage.

His tanned hand slid over hers. “This one,” he said, lifting a finger to indicate a rose nearby. “Beautiful,” he said, and then stroked his finger back down hers, delicate as a man admiring the brushwork on a piece of priceless china. The contrast of his tanned skin against hers, the gentleness of his touch and the strength of his hand, riveted her. She almost missed the way his knuckles touched the wall before he removed his hand to his side. “The shade is striking. Dye, do you think?”

Had he not indicated the spot on the wall, she would never have noticed the spy hole. It was minute, pricked cleverly at the tip of one velvet floret.

Assuming, of course, that it was a spy hole, and not simply the shoddy workmanship of an underpaid assistant.

She straightened. “The roses are Gloire de Dijon, Alex. A lovely but not uncommon breed. I do not think dye was required.”

“Oh? I really must expand my knowledge of such things.” He was walking along the wall now, his fingertips lightly dragging across the wallpaper as he appeared to idly inspect the furnishings. A framed watercolor of the Venetian canals caught his interest; he paused before it, staring hard. “Remarkable taste Barrington has,” he murmured. “Have you ever been to Venice?” He glanced at her. “Stayed at the Piazza once. What a view it offered.”

She looked from the painting toward the bed. A very direct view, indeed. If people were spying on them, so much for hoping that he would sleep on the floor.

He walked to the far wall, then stopped before the mirror atop the toilette, brushing down his suit jacket, running his fingers through his hair. It struck her that watching him primp was almost comical; he did not wear spectacles in public, but in all other ways, he seemed to possess very little vanity.

Perhaps he skipped the specs for the same reason she did. She always felt vulnerable when she wore them in public. They stripped her of one of her greatest weapons: her ability to ignore what she did not wish to see.

The idea was curious. What might Alex wish to ignore?

His family.

Any cause to change his itinerant lifestyle.

She cleared her throat. “Have a clear view of yourself, then?”

He turned back toward her, smiling wryly in acknowledgment of the double meaning. “Yes,” he said. “I do wonder if this room is comfortable enough to suit you? I know you prefer something a bit more . . . ornate. We could always take a room in Cannes.”

Two
rooms, even. How very tempting. “Let me take one more look around,” she said, and walked back into the dressing room.

A moment later, he joined her. The room was very small; when he walked inside, the enforced proximity set her nerves to firing. She stood very still, enduring the malfunctioning of these million small cells, which leapt and shivered at the prospect of some accidental contact with him.

It took him less than a minute’s scrutiny to conclude that it was not similarly sabotaged. In the course of this silent survey, some slight adjustment brought his thigh into her skirts. She would not pretend to fidget, would not conspire to heighten this intimacy. It was not even intimacy: his leg was only touching the fabric of her gown.

And yet . . . she could guess now what lay beneath his clothes. He was a tall man, built on lean lines, and she had seen him without his shirt; she knew beyond doubt that his broad shoulders were not merely a trick of his bone structure. Throat to chest to arms to thighs to calves, his body was strapped with muscle. Clearly he disciplined it as firmly as he did his business concerns, not to mention the affection he allowed himself for those who loved him.

And there was the problem, of course. Any other man—a man of more human dimensions—would have taken her last night. Alex
had
wanted her. She was sure of it. But while his refusal might have resembled, by mere mechanical coincidence, the actions of a gentleman, that coincidence should not and
would
not make him more attractive to her. She was not so much an idiot that she would now begin, after all her sad history, to
romanticize
rejection as proof of some admirable quality in a man.