Dancing on the Wind

Chapter 13

Kit raised her gaze to his. "I have nothing to say to you."

"What, no more fanciful tales to spin? I'm disappointed," he said with delicate sarcasm. "You're one of the most creative liars I've ever met."

"You should talk," she retorted. "I doubt that you have an honest bone in your body. You had everyone in the theater convinced we were lovers."

"I'm honest when it's convenient and doesn't cost me anything," he said blandly. "We have much in common. Are you sure you can't conjure up another cheated brother or journalistic investigation for me?"

She shook her head. "I'm tired of lying. As I said earlier, I am under no obligation to answer your questions, so I won't. I give you my word that I do not intend harm to any innocent person. More than that I will not say."

"I wish I knew what you consider guilt and innocence." He studied her face. "Clever of you to pretend to be L. J. Knight. Since no one knows what the fellow looks like, your claim is hard to refute. It might even be true, though I wouldn't bet a ha'penny on it. It's more likely that you are merely a regular reader of Knight's work. Care to comment?"

"I'd rather ask a few questions myself." Her eyes narrowed. "I think you have secrets of your own, for your behavior is hardly that of an honest, upright citizen. Why are you so determined to interrogate me?"

"I find it hard to restrain my curiosity about a female who routinely practices fraud, burglary, and assorted other capital crimes." He accompanied his explanation with a smile that made her breath falter.

Even if Strathmore wasn't the villain she sought, he was certainly a threat to her and her mission. That being the case, why was she still drawn to him? The memory of the kisses they had shared was as vivid as the flames burning on the fireplace grate. As warming, too.

She must leave before the atmosphere became any more intimate. "If you think I'm a criminal and have the evidence to prove it, you should call a magistrate," she said steadily. "But if you decide to hand me over to the law, remember that I am not without influential friends who would come to my assistance."

That produced a dark flash in the depths of his eyes. "It would be a waste to send you to prison, my dear. You wouldn't like it, and you would be of no use to me there."

"I assume that your purpose is seduction, but I must decline the honor." She rose to her feet. "I'll see myself out."

When she moved around the table toward the door, he raised a hand. Though he didn't touch her, she came to a halt, caught in the web of his formidable concentration.

"Seduction implies taking advantage of a reluctant or defenseless female," he said. "You are neither of those things."

"Thank you, I think," she said dryly. "But I have already declared my unwillingness, Lord Strathmore. Do you intend to keep me here by force?"

Softly he said, "I don't think force will be necessary."

He was seated, which made him seem less threatening. But his eyes-ah, his eyes were still dangerous, for they promised delights that would strip her soul bare. Steeling herself against his potent allure, she said, "If you hope to persuade me into your bed, think again."

He gave her a lazy smile. "I have infinite patience, as long as I get what I want in the end." He took her hand, linking his fingers through hers. "You refuse to call me Lucien."

She swallowed hard, trying to resist the subversive effects of his warm clasp. "To use your given name would imply an intimacy between us that I want no part of."

"No?" His gaze holding hers, he drew her toward him, then raised their joined hands and kissed the inside of her wrist, his tongue tracing the blue shadow of a vein…

The effect was shocking, causing every cell in her body to thrum with desire. She tried to edge away, yet though his hold was gentle, it was inexorable. He began caressing the sensitive hollow of her palm with his thumb, and she could not summon the will to free herself. A little desperately, she said, "To be an actress does not make a woman a whore, my lord."

"No, but it implies that a woman might be… less conventional than most." He gave a slow smile. "And the one thing I do know about you is that you are not conventional."

He increased the pressure on her hand, yet it was the golden light in his eyes that drew her toward him. Her breath quickened, as much from anticipation as alarm.

He had an uncanny ability to read her mood, for instead of a kiss, he pulled her into his lap. "You must be tired." Softly his arms came around her. "Should I call you Cassie, or Jane?"

"Cassie is a stage name. I really am named Jane."

He began to knead the nape of her neck with gentle skill. "Jane. Such an undistinguished name for a remarkable woman."

"I'm not remarkable-merely good at creating illusions," she said, and then wondered why she had said so much. He was even more dangerous than she had realized, for he made her want to trust and confide. It seemed utterly natural to have his arms around her, to rest her head against his shoulder. She wanted to pour out her fears and bask in his strength, for she was tired- so infinitely, painfully tired-of her lonely struggle.

Though she was not fool enough to yield to her treacherous craving for union, her initial stiffness soon dissipated. She drifted, content to be in his arms, vaguely aware of the rich scents of food and flowers, the distant sounds of talk and laughter. But that was mere background for the profound reality of Lucien. He filled her senses, his quiet breath stirring tendrils of hair at her temple.

As he had said, he was patient For a long time he simply held her, slowly massaging away the tension in her taut muscles and tendons. His warmth and desire surrounded her, a crucible that gradually raised her temperature to match his.

She scarcely noticed the first soft contact of his lips on her forehead, or how it became a delicate tracing of the planes of her face. A gossamer caress on her closed eyelids; a teasing, erotic exhalation into her ear. Finally, the light pressure of his forefinger under her chin tilted her head up, and with seamless ease his mouth claimed hers.

The velvet stroke of his tongue soothed the raw place where she had bitten the inside of her lip in the carriage. Hard to remember why she had been so frightened of him. Her hazy pleasure thickened, became a craving, when he cupped her breast.

His kiss deepened, exploring, evocative. He slid her Gypsy blouse from her shoulder and she welcomed the cool touch of air and the warm comfort of his hand.

As he teased her nipple to hardness, he murmured, "Since Jane is too plain, I shall call you Lady Jane."

How had he known? The thought jarred her out of her flowing contentment. She raised her head, shaken, and realized her foolishness. "I must go."

"Not this time, Lady Jane," he said huskily.

He bent his head and pressed his mouth to her breast, the lapping rhythm of his tongue matching the pounding of her blood. Her body arched, and she twisted in his lap, guiltily aware that she was not trying to escape, but to offer herself more fully.

One of her heedless movements tilted him off balance and they almost fell. His reflexes saved them from crashing to the floor. After a swift recovery, he swept her up in his arms and carried her the short distance to the chaise longue.

He laid her full-length on the padded surface, then sat on the edge of the chaise beside her. Holding her gaze with his own, he pulled her blouse from her shoulders, then untied the front laces of her corselet. Below it her chemise rose and fell with the quickness of her breathing, until he pushed her garments down to her waist. He brushed aside her modesty with equal ease, for her shyness vanished in the glow of his admiration.

He cupped her newly freed breasts in his warm, strong hands, then leaned forward to suckle them. She gave an involuntary whimper and closed her eyes, deluged by delirious new sensations. The faint prickliness of his chin against her fragile bare skin; his teeth nipping with exquisitely judged force; his hands skimming her limbs and torso as if seeking to memorize every curve and texture. Her slippers had gone missing, and the velvet was a voluptuous caress under her bare feet as she shifted them with restless yearning. There was only him, only this moment…

Yet that was not true. There were far more important things in her life than the gratification of lust In a frantic bid for sanity, she drew up her legs and braced her hands against his shoulders, pushing him away. "Stop! You frighten me."

He went very still, then lifted his head, frowning as he studied her face. "Not, I think, with physical fear."

"No," she said honestly. "I fear going too fast. Doing something I will regret"

The corner of his mouth turned up ruefully. "Will it make you feel better to know that you frighten me equally? You are going to cost me dearly, Lady Jane. In fact, you already have."

It gave her a sense of power to know she could affect such a man. And yet… "It may make me feel better, but not safer."

"Is that why you keep running away from me? For you can't deny that there is something very intense between us." As he spoke, his hand glided down her left leg from knee to foot.

A disorienting shiver ran through her as his thumb made slow, circular motions on the arch of her foot "I won't deny there is attraction," she said, a catch in her voice, "but that doesn't mean I'll surrender to it."

Yet her words were belied by the irresistible impulse to touch. Her hands softened their resistance and moved down his shoulders, feeling the hard muscles beneath his elegantly tailored clothing. She brushed aside his coat and ran her palms down his ribs and narrow waist, her hands open and hungry.

He didn't mock her weakness, merely smiled into her eyes with quiet triumph as he stroked her leg again. This time the direction was upward and the movement raised her voluminous skirts to expose her anklet. His gaze went to the shining gold. "This does a splendid job of drawing attention to your lovely legs," he said as he followed the circle of gold links around her ankle with a fingertip.

She inhaled sharply, her toes curling into the velvet and her fingers into his ribs. "The anklet belongs to the Gypsy maiden. The plain Jane who is the real me would never be so bold."

"Plain Jane?" His glance was quizzical and a little mocking. "A gold chain can be removed, but this"-he lifted her skirts higher to reveal the butterfly tattoo above her right knee-"exists only to drive men mad. And it has maddened me."

He leaned forward and traced the image with his tongue, his warm breath whispering along her inner thigh. Her eyes widened and her lower body tensed with craving. "Lucien," she gasped. "Oh, God, Lucien…"

The restraint that he had shown dissolved in an instant. He stretched out alongside her, his taut body molding her soft curves. As he kissed her with fierce carnality, his hand moved upward between her thighs, burning across sublimely sensitive skin to the hem of the short drawers she wore when doing her provocative dancing. A warm, broad palm drifted over the light fabric. Fingertips found the open seam and probed through soft curls into moist, heated feminine folds. Sliding deep, profoundly intimate. Sweet, drugging torment.

She whimpered helplessly as passion raged through her, making a mockery of morals and judgment. She could not bear this tumult, this wildness, could not bear it…

Release, when it came, was shattering. She cried out, the sound smothering in the depths of his mouth as he drew her essence into himself. He was absorbing her, yet at the same time making her more fully herself by unlocking hidden desires.

She came to her senses slowly, her lower body pulsing with aftershocks of fulfillment. She was physically sated as never before, and the process had drawn her to Lucien in a way she could not have imagined before this evening.

That recognition was followed by furious self-reproach. Dear God, how could she have been so mad? She could not afford to lose herself in him. Even if she didn't have a desperate mission to fulfill, it would be the height of idiocy to allow a rake to become master of her soul. She had been criminally weak to allow such intimacy.

And the intimacy was about to become greater. He caught her hand and drew it to the ridge of hard male flesh that pressed against her thigh. Through the layers of fabric that separated them, she felt a hot, insistent throbbing.

Cautiously she squeezed. He groaned and rocked against her hand, his eyes closed and his breathing rough. There was deep satisfaction in pleasuring him, and in seeing that he was as defenseless as she had been a few moments before. Dimly, she sensed that this mutual vulnerability was a crucial element of the lovers' bond.

Her musings ended when he started to undo the buttons of his breeches. He wanted to complete their union, and she yearned for that with matching intensity. She longed to enfold him, to make him part of herself, to cause him to lose himself in ecstasy.

But she dared not. She dared not.

Her racing mind sought and found the necessary excuse. She whispered, "Not yet. I… I must take precautions."

His dazed eyes opened, golden with passion. "I'll take care." His feather-light fingertips brushed her temple. "I would never harm you."

His tenderness was as potent a weapon as desire. Breathlessly, she wriggled away before her resolution crumbled again. "It will be better if you don't have to withdraw," she promised when he stretched out his hand to draw her back.

He laughed a little and his hand dropped. "Obviously you know that that is an almost irresistible argument."

Hating herself, she got to her feet and touched his tangled hair. He looked less intimidating than usual-no longer Lucifer but Apollo, born of the sun.

Regret pierced her, yet her wicked, lying tongue continued, "I'll only be a minute… I have what I need with me, and there's a retiring room just down the hall." Hastily, she tugged her disarranged clothing into some semblance of order.

His smile was a caress. "Hurry back, Lady Jane."

She bent forward and kissed him. "I will," she said huskily. "I… I hate leaving you, even for an instant." And that, at least, was the truth.

He settled back on the chaise and rested one arm across his closed eyes. Though he gave the impression of being relaxed, his body was still taut, unfulfilled.

She would never see him so trusting again. Even if they did met in the future under less troubled circumstances, he would never forgive her for what she was about to do.

Before remorse could totally unravel her resolve, she darted across the room, retrieving her slippers and sliding her feet into them as she went. She hesitated when she saw the cloak and wig that hung on wooden pegs by the door. She was going to have to walk home, and she would need the cloak to prevent freezing and to cover her absurd, conspicuous Gypsy costume. The wig couldn't be abandoned, either. Silently she lifted both items, then slipped out the door.

The corridor was empty, so she tugged the wig on and hastily shoved her hair under it. Then she wrapped the cloak around her so thoroughly that no one would recognize her.

Almost no one-she ran into the maitre d'hotel as she was on the verge of exiting through a side door. His eyes sharpened at the sight of her dishevelment and solitary state, but he was too discreet to comment. "I hope my lady enjoyed her dinner?"

Donning her most patrician manner, she inclined her head and said in French, "The food was superb, monsieur. As always."

A pleased light in his eyes, he swung the door for her.

Before stepping out, curiosity prompted her to say, "Lord Strathmore mentioned that he had once done you a small service."

The Frenchman's professional manner fell away. He said intensely, "It was not small, mademoiselle. He brought my family safely out of France. For that, my life is his for the asking."

It was one more shock in a night that had already had too many. As she set out for the nearest of her abodes, she silently cursed the earl for his complexity. Though she suspected that he had done many things that would not bear close examination, it was entirely believable that he could act with generosity and heroism. But how the devil had he managed to rescue people from France when the Continent had been closed to the English for most of the last two decades? Perhaps he augmented his income with smuggling or something equally villainous.

Despite the intimacy they had just shared, he was still a man of mystery. And mysteries were dangerous.

Images of Jane haunted Lucien as he awaited her return. Her lithe limbs, her mesmerizing diversity, the soft, smoky-sweet sensuality of her responses. She intrigued him as no woman ever had, and he ached to possess her. Perhaps in the intensity of mating he would finally touch her quicksilver soul.

He wondered about the fact that she carried the means of contraception with her. With most women he would have assumed that was a sign of promiscuity, but in the case of Jane it might only mean that she was too intelligent to let herself be caught unprepared. Yet he could not rule out the possibility he was fooling himself because he didn't want to think that tonight was merely one more casual episode in the life of a free-spirited actress. He was reluctant to analyze his own feelings, but they were most assuredly not casual.

His fingers drummed restlessly on the chaise as he wandered how long she would be. It had been several minutes. Ten, perhaps? Certainly five. It seemed longer. He never should have let her out of his sight.

Never should have let her out of his sight____________________

His eyes snapped open, and with sudden, shattering certainty, he knew that she was not coming back. The selfish little trollop had taken her satisfaction, left him to burn. Christ have mercy, how could he have been so stupid? What was it about this one female that could consistently beguile a mind usually notable for wariness? He had never been violent with a woman, but if Jane were present, there was a very real possibility that he would make an exception.

If she had been present, he wouldn't be feeling violent-at least, not in that way.

Bloody hell. He swung to his feet, furiously grabbed the edge of the dinner table, and hurled it to the floor. The dinnerware hit with a satisfying crash of splintering crockery and jangling silver. His mouth twisted as he watched wine splash across the oriental carpet. This would undoubtedly prove to be the most expensive dinner of his life, in every possible way.

There was a discreet tap on the door, followed by the maitre d'hotel's voice. "Is everything all right, my lord?"

Grimly, Lucien straightened his clothing and his expression. He'd be damned if he would let anyone guess what that little witch had done to him.

As he crossed the room, his anger flared again when he saw that she had stolen his cloak and repossessed her wig. The cold-blooded, scheming, light-fingered…

Opening the door, he said, "A small accident, Robecque. I was abominably clumsy. Send me the bill for the damages."

The Frenchman surveyed the wreckage, keeping his thoughts to himself. "As you wish, my lord."

Lucien paused in the doorway. "Did my lady friend leave safely? I disliked letting her go alone, but she's a headstrong wench-very fond of her independence."

"A woman to remember," Robecque said admiringly. "Her French is exquisite. As good as yours."

"She's a woman of infinite talents." And the next time they met-as they surely would-she would pay for what she had done tonight.