The Lover Page 14

  A picture of her standing in Madame René’s dressing room wearing only her hat, stockings, and shoes slammed through him.

  She should be dressed in the finest silks and velvets—not grenadine and wool, he thought savagely.

  Reaching out, Michael grasped her by the waist and swung her out of the cab. The gold handle of his cane dug into her corseted waist, just a cane. A gentleman’s accessory; not an assassin’s tool.

  This time.

  Head flying up, eyes wide with surprise, Anne grasped his shoulders.

  It was obvious she was not used to being helped out of a carriage. Not used to being complimented. Wanted.

  But he wanted her. She would never know how much.

  Deliberately he pulled her against him until her breasts flattened against his chest and the jointure of her thighs notched his penis.

  Her nipples were hard.

  He was hard.

  “A man’s sperm …” Anne’s breath bathed his lips. Her cultured, husky voice was whisper soft. Sunlight turned the tips of her short, brown eyelashes into gold spikes. “What is it called in French?”

  Desire lanced through Michael’s testicles.

  He knew where this was going.

  He knew he should stop her.

  But he couldn’t.

  “Came.” He eased her down his body, savoring the weight of her breasts and the press of her stomach, making her feel his hardness … his readiness …. The heat of her body penetrated her cloak and wool dress; it matched the heat of her breath. “Sauce. Blanc.”

  “Blanc.” She tasted the word, feminine need and curiosity fully aroused. “Is your sperm … white?”

  “It’s white,” he said roughly. “Hot. Thick.”

  It swelled inside his testes, straining—The cabby loudly cleared his throat.

  Shamed awareness shone in Anne’s eyes. She had allowed a man familiarities in public, her expression said—something that no self-respecting lady allowed.

  She recoiled from Michael’s arms, attempting to become the self-possessed woman that her appearance proclaimed her to be.

  But he knew better.

  She had agreed to give him complete access, and that was what he would take. There was no place on her body that he had not touched. That he would not touch again.

  Michael released her only long enough to toss a coin to the cabby. Before Anne could further collect her composure and shy away from her natural sensuality, he urged her up the walk. Purposefully he flattened his palm against the small of her back—there, where he had supported her the night before when she straddled his lap and, overcome by his dimensions and her orgasm, had cried out her release.

  The memory was as firmly implanted in her mind as it was in his. He could feel the pulse of her recollection all the way through her layers of clothing.

  The brass knocker gleamed in the sunlight; no name was etched into it to identify either Michael or Michel as the occupant. The white-enameled door was unlocked; it swung forward on oiled hinges. The sweet perfume of hyacinth welcomed him.

  Death, too, possessed a sweet odor. It lurked beneath the stench of rot, luring the unwary.

  But there was no beauty in dying.

  Or killing.

  Anne stepped forward, away from him, when he paused to close the door behind them. Chill air enveloped his fingers where but moments earlier the heat of her body had warmed him.

  He forcefully locked the door—a useless precaution; neither locks nor bars would keep out the man—before turning around.

  Her spine was rigidly straight. A pale line of skin shone between the stiff black collar of her cloak and her light brown hair, which disappeared underneath the black hat.

  What had she been like eighteen years earlier?

  How could he have overlooked her in a crowd of simpering debutantes and overperfumed belles?

  Bending his head, he lightly nuzzled aside flyaway strands of baby-fine hair, seeking the scent of her underneath the camouflaging odors of benzine, shampoo, and soap.

  She stiffened.

  Pain spiraled through him. The hunter rejected by his prey.

  Michael briefly closed his eyes, his senses fine-tuned to the pulse of her body. “You said you weren’t ashamed of me.”

  “I’m not,” she replied in a hushed voice, as if the walls had ears capable of overhearing her lapse of decorum.

  And perhaps they did.

  “Then you’re ashamed of touching me,” he said flatly, stepping back, the lover spurned. “Of wanting me.”

  A quick inhalation of air sliced through the dim stillness inside the foyer. “I’m not.”

  But she was.

  “If you were not, you would look at me. And take me. Openly. Without reserve.”

  She quickly turned. Shame competed with arousal in her pale eyes. Honesty with self-preservation.

  “Is that what you were referring to when you said you expect everything from me?”

  He would not think of the man. Not now. Not until the night. “Yes.”

  Her chin, more round than oval, firmed with determination. “If a woman wanted to kiss a man’s bitte, what would the French expression be?”

  Michael had expected her question in the cab. Now it took him unawares.

  He was transfixed by the explicit image her words conjured.

  By her desire to taste a scarred whore’s pleasure.

  It had been five years since a woman had wanted to take him into her mouth.

  For a second he thought he would come inside his pants as he had when the madame first caressed him.

  “Bonjour, monsieur.” The sharp, hollow click of hurried footsteps approached them. “Mademoiselle.”

  Anne’s face closed. Once again she became the proper spinster.

  And he would not have it. They had so little time ….

  Michael alertly watched Anne as Raoul deftly took her reticule. He could read her thoughts as clearly as if she spoke them aloud. She had worn the same expression when he introduced her to Madame René.

  The butler must know that she had procured Michel’s services, she thought.

  Her gaze darted lower, to the damp spot up high on Michael’s trousers.

  A red tide blotched her pale skin. It was not the becoming flush of sexual excitement.

  Raoul firmly grasped the gold handle of Michael’s cane, white-gloved fingers brushing scarred flesh. “Are we dining in this evening, monsieur?”

  Anne’s head jerked up.

  It had just occurred to her what the literal translation for sauce, the French vernacular for a man’s sperm, was.

  And yes, it was edible, his violet gaze told her.

  “Yes,” he said evenly. “Mademoiselle and I will be dining in this evening.”

  Anne’s pink tongue darted out, moistened her lips.

  Michael’s body tightened.

  “May I take your chapeau, mademoiselle?”

  She automatically reached to unpin her hat, then halted midmotion, her gaze trapped by Michael’s.

  The splotches of red connected so that her entire face was a crimson glow.

  Her lips quivered, so very sensitive, responsive to pressure. Nibbles. Licks. Kisses.

  They would be equally responsive to the teasing of a feather.

  To the kiss of his penis.

  Slowly she lowered her arms. “No, thank you. I will keep my hat.”

  Michael inhaled sharply. Impossibly, he grew harder.

  “Très bien.” The butler stoically extended a white cotton-gloved hand for Anne’s black silk gloves. “Would mademoiselle care to review the menu?”

  “No, thank you.” Glancing away from Michael, Anne stared at Raoul’s black necktie, the cream-painted wall behind him, anything but the butler’s eyes. Raoul blankly stared at her hat, not at all interested in her discomfiture. Clumsily she unfastened her cloak. “I am sure whatever the cook prepares will be fine.”

  “Très bien.” Raoul calmly took the black grenadine cloak from her. “
Merci.”

  “We will dine at eight, Raoul,” Michael said coolly, his gaze never leaving Anne.

  “I will inform the cook, monsieur.”

  Michael held out his hand, inviting Anne to touch him. Openly. Publicly. In the full light of day. Without shame.

  Face shadowed by the brim of her hat, she stared at his scars for long seconds. At his flesh, which had caressed her. At his fingers, which had probed the depths of her body.

  Squaring her shoulders, she reached out and clasped his hand.

  Her touch was electric.

  Friends. Lovers.

  The bond was complete.

  She would not turn away from him again. And he … he would protect her.

  Somehow. Some way.

  Satisfied—sensitive to her sensibilities now that he knew she would not repulse him—he released her hand and unerringly found the arch of her back. Purposely he urged her toward the stairs, his heartbeat counting their steps.

  “Monsieur, a delivery came.” Behind them, Raoul’s voice ricocheted off of the high ceiling and painted walls. “It is in your study.”

  Michael did not pause. “Thank you. I will attend to it later.”

  Much later. Death was too close. He needed his spinster to hold it at bay.

  Just one more day …

  Head dipping, aigrette dancing, Anne grasped the intricately wrought-iron banister.

  Five years ago the banister had been wooden. Diane had slid down it into his waiting arms, and impaled herself on Michel’s waiting cock.

  She had wanted nothing to do with Michael’s flesh.

  Anne furtively glanced at the hard bulge that tented the front of his trousers.

  Wondering … what?

  How he would taste?

  How she would accommodate him in her other passage?

  How soft a feather would feel, caressing the softest part of her body?

  The tension inside him coiled tighter, hotter.

  Nothing would interfere with their pleasure now.

  Anne would give him what he needed: a few hours of respite to strengthen him for the coming night.

  He would give her what she needed: memories to sustain her in the aftermath.

  “Monsieur!” Raoul’s voice came directly behind—goddamn him. He was following them. “The man who made the delivery said it is urgent that you read this lettre. He said it is from a man whom you recently made the acquaintance of but who is no longer with us.”

  No longer with us raced up the marble stairs.

  The sweet aroma of hyacinth clogged in Michael’s throat. Coldness snaked through his veins.

  How many more would die before it was over?

  The warmth penetrating Anne’s wool dress scorched his fingers, living testimony of the man’s next victim.

  Michael jerked his hand away from the small of her back and pivoted on the mirror-slick floor.

  Raoul held out the silver post tray.

  There was nothing sinister in the offering. Just the unrelenting reality of the butler’s message.

  Anne stood motionless beside him. His for the taking. Already marked for another.

  Face expressionless, Michael picked up the sealed envelope and ripped it open.

  A key fell into the palm of his hand. There was another envelope inside the first. It was simply addressed.

  The handwriting was small, neat, feminine.

  A note was scrawled underneath the lawyer’s name. It was neither small, neat, nor feminine.

  The message was blunt: From one solicitor to another.

  Black dots danced in front of his eyes.

  “Please do not feel compelled to keep me entertained.” He heard Anne’s voice as if through a long, dark tunnel. “I quite understand if you have … personal … matters to take care of.”

  Personal matters.

  Yes, death was very personal.

  The writing on the white vellum paper blurred.

  It would be so much easier if he didn’t like Anne Aimes.

  Had he liked the women in the past who kept the nightmares away?

  Had he liked Diane?

  “Thank you.” Raising his head, he smiled. Anne’s pale blue eyes mirrored two smiling faces—Michael, Michel. Michel, Michael. Condensed, there was no difference in their appearance. “I will only be a few minutes. Raoul, show Mademoiselle Aimes to the library.”

  There were no runners, no rugs, to silence his steps, no carpeting in either his town house or his home in Yorkshire that could ignite in a blazing conflagration.

  The man’s house was also bare of carpeting.

  Twenty-nine years ago he had never known what to expect when he walked into the man’s study. Knowing what he was going to walk into now did not alleviate the fear, or the anger.

  Impotent emotions.

  But unlike the man, Michael was not impotent. His cock continued to pulse and throb.

  Inside his study a black trunk squatted beside the marble-topped desk.

  He was not surprised at its contents, any more than he was surprised at the contents of the letter inside the second envelope.

  Dear Mr. Little:

  My meeting with Michel des Anges was quite satisfactory.

  I know that you were concerned for my safety. Please do not be. I am well and happier than I have ever been before.

  Per the terms of the contract, you may deposit the first quarter of Monsieur des Anges’s payment.

  I will be available at the below address. As I will remain there for the designated month rather than traveling back and forth between my place of residence and that of Monsieur des Anges, I would greatly appreciate it if you periodically visit my town house to ascertain that everything is as it should be.

  Sincerely yours,

  Miss Anne Aimes

  Michael stared at his address, neatly written at the bottom of the vellum paper. Lowering the letter, he stared down into Little’s wide, frightened eyes.

  There would be no deposit. The contract had been dissolved.

  Its charred remains protruded from Little’s blistered, blackened lips.

  Death had not brought the solicitor peace.

  He had not known why he must die. Neither would Anne.

  Michael stared and stared at the little old man whose demise he was responsible for. And he could feel nothing.

  No sorrow.

  No regret.

  Just the pulse of his erection that remained stiff and hard while the blood inside his veins turned to ice.

  Tiny images flickered inside Little’s fixed pupils: white egret plumes crowning a black felt hat. Pale eyes aglow with sensual awareness. Dark, bruised nipples. Creamy white breasts. Golden brown pubic hair. A tantalizing peep of swollen pink-lips. White garters. Flesh-colored stockings. Black, pointed half boots.

  The humanity Michael had clung to throughout the years hovered over him, a ghost that could so easily fade inside the dark hole that was his past.

  Little’s murder clearly stated the man’s intentions.

  He would not rest until it was Anne who stared in blank horror. Until it was her flesh that stiffened with rigor mortis.

  Until it was her body that waited for disposal.

  The man had released Diane. Michael had hoped he would do the same for Anne.

  But he would not.

  He did not intend to let Anne live—whether she and Michael were taken together or not.

  A soft knock splintered the silence.

  Not the man.

  His minions would not knock.

  Michael woodenly closed the trunk lid and relocked it. He pocketed the key. “Come in.”

  Raoul’s graying dark head poked through the door. His nose wrinkled fastidiously. “Did you burn something, monsieur?”

  Two solicitors had been burned. The lawyer was dead. The male whore was still alive.

  Or was he?

  “The merchandise inside the trunk was scorched from a previous fire,” Michael said flatly. “What is it that you r
equire, Raoul?”

  “Your dinner, monsieur. Shall you have the usual?”

  Food.

  Dead flesh for the living.

  Live worms for the dead.

  “I shall have whatever is prepared for Mademoiselle Aimes.”

  “Très bien, monsieur.”

  The butler’s graying, dark head withdrew.

  “Raoul.”

  The butler instantly reappeared. “Monsieur?”

  He had bought the Georgian town house eighteen years earlier. Raoul had been in the employ of the previous owner. Michael had allowed the butler to marry the housekeeper; in return Raoul and Marie silently, diligently performed their duties.

  They did not question. They did not gossip. When the town house had inexplicably gone up in flames and Diane with it, they had overseen the repairs and stayed on as caretakers.

  Michael realized how little he knew about his two principal servants.

  “Send a message to Gabriel. Tell him I need him. Tonight. And Raoul—”

  The butler stoically met Michael’s gaze.

  “I do not think I need tell you that I will not welcome any more interruptions.”

  Bowing, Raoul discreetly withdrew.

  Michael stared at the closing door.

  He could not let the man take Anne Aimes. When she died, her final thoughts would be of pleasure. Michael would be the last thing she saw. Not the man.

  Chapter 9

  Anne restlessly perused the rows and rows of leather books lining the library walls. Beowulf. Canterbury Tales. Le Morte D’Arthur, an Englishman’s account of King Arthur and the man and woman who betrayed him.

  The butler’s voice continued to ring inside her ears: no longer with us.

  A euphemism for death, as if the deceased relocated and carelessly forgot to pack their bodies.

  She lightly ran a finger over embossed gold lettering. Shakespeare … Charles Dickens. Wuthering Heights, by Emily Brontë … The leather spine was buckled with wear.

  Anne could not imagine Michel reading a romance.

  She could not imagine a man who was named for his ability to satisfy a woman being vulnerable.

  To a spinster’s words.

  A spinster’s body.

  A spinster’s needs.

  To death.

  The smell of expensive leather and freshly cut lilacs surged through her.

  Death had no place in a house filled with flowers and pleasure.