Fire's Lady Page 14

  She waited, scarcely breathing, while his tongue slid across her teeth, tasting and savoring all the moist recesses of her mouth. It seemed as if her body were a series of electric impulses, all connected, as violent currents of sensation moved from her mouth to her breasts then down into her belly where they grew more intense.

  Cautiously her tongue touched his and his hold on her tightened. Like a fencing match they dueled in sensual combat until she thought she would go mad from the tension building inside her.

  His hands slid down her waist until he grasped her by the hips, fingers pressing into the softness of her belly, pulling her so close she could feel the hardness and the heat of his loins. She understood his fire for it was hers also, incinerating her inhibitions.

  He urged her on with his hands and mouth, setting off random brushfires impossible to control. Her hands explored the muscles of his shoulders and back, glorying in the very maleness of him.

  "...so sweet..." he murmured low, "...so lovely..."

  He kissed his way down her throat as his hands began to undo her bodice. Reason returned in that instant.

  "No," she said, her voice husky with a desire she'd never before known, "you cannot, Matthew."

  One button, then two, then three. A quick undoing of satin laces and the cool night air whispered over her bare skin drawing her nipples into tight rosebuds. He cupped her breasts and she moaned as he drew his calloused palms across those aroused peaks.

  But it was when he brought his mouth low and his lips touched her breast that reality crashed in upon her and she gathered her strength to push him away.

  "This is wrong," she managed, not really understanding why. "This can't happen."

  "It is right," he said, drawing a finger down into her deep cleavage, "and it is happening."

  "No!" Her hands shook as she started to rebutton her bodice. "It cannot happen. I won't allow it."

  His large warm hand brushed her hair from her face then forced her eyes to meet his.

  "It will happen." His beautiful eyes went dark with passion. "Make no mistake about it, Alexandra. It will happen."

  To her amazement, he brushed away her fumbling hands and redid her buttons and laces.

  They walked back to Sea View in silence but his words—and his touch—stayed with her the rest of the night.

  #

  A damned fool, that's what he was.

  Matthew paced the length of the darkened library, his restlessness fueled by both whiskey and frustration.

  Hell, twice a fool said it better.

  He had no business kissing Alexandra Glenn—and he had no business letting it end.

  He dragged his hand through his hair and stared gloomily out the French doors into the black night. The crash of the ocean mingled with the faint sound of gypsy violins in the distance, and he found the combination strangely compelling.

  What in hell had possessed him to pull her into his arms like that? He was moving too fast, thinking too little. Alexandra Glenn had crept inside his heart in the blink of an eye and he was helpless in her presence.

  Helpless to do anything but pull her into his arms and savor the sweetness of her body.

  He swore out loud as he remembered the way her breasts had swelled to meet his hands, the way her taut nipples had teased his palm. He closed his eyes as he remembered how she looked, tousled and flushed with desire, when he opened the bodice of her gown and exposed her beauty to his greedy eyes.

  She wasn't anything like the women he'd taken his pleasure with since leaving San Francisco. Her heart was soft as a green young tree facing its first spring, not gnarled and hardened with the years.

  Alexandra was everything his wife Madolyn had seemed to be in the beginning, everything he'd hoped for in a wife.

  Yet see how that turned out.

  Another letter from his attorney Edward Strawbridge burned in his pocket, reminding him that Madolyn's life continued at its frenzied pace without him. A Russian count had moved into the mansion and into her bed. Not only was Madolyn lavishing money upon her latest paramour, she had opened the mansion to her European friends for gambling fetes that were quickly diminishing Matthew's funds.

  Put a stop to it, I beg of you, my friend, Strawbridge wrote. Your name, your wealth, your future are being destroyed while you languish back there in New York. If you place any value at all upon my friendship and loyalty, you will heed my words and return to San Francisco post haste.

  "You don't understand," Matthew said out loud to the empty library. It was no longer just loyalty to Andrew that kept him at Sea View.

  It was a girl with golden eyes and gypsy black hair who held him captive as surely as if she'd put him in chains.

  His name had been destroyed years ago with the accident and he'd learned he could live without one. He'd made one fortune and had little doubt he could make another one should the first disappear.

  For too long he had believed the future was beyond his reach but now, for the first time in years, he felt hope.

  Return to San Francisco?

  With apologies to his friend Edward Strawbridge, there wasn't a chance in hell.

  #

  Sea View was alive with tensions.

  Andrew was querulous and inquisitive. He questioned Alexandra about paintings that weren't in the attic, demanding that she go back and search for them. Invariably she came up empty-handed. The simple explanation that he must have sold them long ago did not sit well with the artist and Alexandra's nerves were badly frayed at the end of each morning's modeling session.

  To make matters worse, Andrew's attention span was sorely limited and he frequently fell into a deep sleep during their time together and the ever-vigilant Dayla would bring things to a graceful close. Dayla was always warm and comforting, intensely female in the most positive way imaginable. If it hadn't been for the cutting edge of her jealousy, Alexandra might have liked the woman tremendously.

  As it was, the thought of the dusky beauty entangled in McKenna's arms each night as she imagined they were kept Alexandra sullen and uncommunicative in the woman's presence. The solitude of the carriage house attic after each session was a welcome relief.

  At the dinner table every evening McKenna and Stephen circled each other like male dogs, each looking to stake his claim and Alexandra was left with the horrible notion that she was the claim in question.

  Not that Matthew had so much as spoken a civil word to her since that night on the beach eight days ago. Oh, no, not the arrogant Mr. McKenna, although she knew he watched her from every corner of the huge house, those beautiful blue-green eyes of his taking in every move she made, everything she did.

  He brooded.

  He drank.

  He managed to fill every corner of the sprawling mansion with his dark presence.

  But never once did he allude by either word or deed that the glorious passion they'd shared on the beach was anything but a product of her feverish virgin's imagination.

  Stephen, on the other hand, always managed to maintain his sunny good cheer, providing sparkling conversation at meal times despite the glowering Mr. McKenna who watched them both with hooded eyes.

  The poacher struck again, stealing a dog-cart from the carriage house and some chickens from a farm a half-mile down the road. The gypsies, of course, were blamed for the occurrence and the camp up the beach closed in upon itself. Year-round residents took to carrying weapons and Alexandra decided that venturing forth for long walks on the abandoned beach might be unwise even though she longed for a chance to be with people she understood.

  And so she stayed close to Sea View, growing more bored, more agitated and more confused with each day that passed.

  All that remained of her old life was her sketching and she often sought refuge after dinner in a far corner of the yard with a tablet and charcoal pencils. Andrew's artistic brilliance both intimidated and inspired her, and these stolen hours away were a balm to her troubled soul.

  One evening in the middle of
her second week, Alexandra stole away before the after-dinner coffee had been served. Matthew and Stephen had been particularly unpleasant to one another and the need to escape into a world of her own creation was strong within her. Grabbing her pencils and sketchbook, she slipped out through the kitchen door, trusting Janine to keep her secret.

  The three oak trees at the far end of the backyard beckoned to her as she hurried across the lawn. The sun was lowering, streaking the sky with vivid shades of orange and red. Dusk would soon settle over the eastern end of Long Island and if she were to finish her sketch of the gazebo she must settle down to work soon.

  Alexandra drew swiftly; her hand inscribed the angles of the gazebo, the curve of the azalea bushes with both precision and passion. Her eye calculated the sweep of the sky, the slight tilt of the gazebo's roof and by some miracle of artistic osmosis, her vision of both sky and roof appeared on her sketchpad.

  She finished the first drawing and quickly flipped to a fresh page to capture the remarkable shadows falling across the house and lawn. Joy, deep and exhilarating, erased the pain and uncertainty of the past month and she felt hopeful in a way she'd believed lost. How could she have forgotten? This was why she'd been put on the earth; she could imagine no wonder more magnificent than the wonder of creating beauty where none had existed before.

  "It's almost dark. You should come back to the house soon."

  She started at the sound of a male voice behind her.

  Matthew stood leaning against a weeping willow tree, shrouded in the deep blue light of dusk. Only the pure white of his shirt stood out, throwing the muscular lines of his torso into bold relief.

  "I didn't mean to frighten you," he said from the shadows.

  "You didn't frighten me." She closed her sketchbook. "I simply did not hear you approach."

  "I had believed Andrew to be the only one with such intense powers of concentration." His teeth gleamed white in the darkness as he smiled. "I see now I was wrong."

  Despite her better judgment, Alexandra was deeply pleased by his words. "Any comparison is something to be treasured, even if it is but a comparison of our powers of concentration."

  "Are you any good?" McKenna asked.

  "And what am I to say to that?" she countered. "If I modestly protest, I do myself a disservice; if I praise myself to the heavens, I am rude and pompous."

  "Just tell the truth," McKenna said, stepping out of the shadows.

  She tossed her hair back over her shoulder. "The truth it is: yes, I am very good."

  His laughter was a rumble of low, masculine thunder. "Show me."

  "Are you an art critic?"

  "No, but I know what I like."

  She considered him for a moment then shook her head. "I think not."

  "I didn't take you for a coward, Alex."

  His words worked as he'd intended them to: she handed over her sketchbook, thankful she'd hidden the pencil portraits of him in the bottom of her armoire. McKenna was silent as he flipped through the collection of drawings and she shifted uncomfortably on her bench.

  "If you do not say something within the next ten seconds, Mr. McKenna, I shall not be held accountable for my actions."

  He closed the sketchbook and handed it back to her. "You're right." Once again he favored her with a smile. "You are good."

  How foolish she was to let an idle compliment cause a rush of pleasure to surge wildly through her body. He wasn't Andrew Lowell or an art critic or even a lover of paintings. He was simply a man whose banked fires tempted her more than was wise.

  He reached deep into the pocket of his black trousers and withdrew a tiny round object. "Here," he said, handing it to her. "I would like to know what you think of this."

  It was a miniature in a pewter frame; despite the gathering darkness, Alexandra could make out the handsome features of a man and the lovely face of a woman holding a bouquet of roses.

  "It's magnificent," she said, running her index finger along the intricate carving on the frame. It had never occurred to her he was a collector. "I apologize for assuming you knew nothing about art. You chose well. This will probably be of value someday."

  "Only to me," he said, his voice oddly tender. "Those are my parents."

  "Your parents?"

  "Don't sound so surprised, Alex. I wasn't raised by wolves."

  "I never said you were."

  "No," he said, "I suppose you didn't. But you thought so, didn't you?"

  Certainly so dangerous a question deserved to remain unanswered. "Where do they live?" she asked.

  "They don't. They died over ten years ago."

  "I'm sorry."

  "I am at least happy they lived long enough to savor the benefits of my success."

  Benefits of his success? She had assumed McKenna to be some manner of poor relation living with Andrew Lowell until he could get back on his feet. What other facets remained hidden by his angers?

  "My foster parents are gone also," she said quietly, gazing down at the faces of McKenna's mother and father. "Two years this August and still the pain is fresh and new."

  "It grows easier with time, Alex. I can promise you that."

  The silence between them was a living thing, filled with an understanding she wouldn't have believed possible just one hour before. McKenna knew what she had been feeling for he had suffered the same loss himself.

  "There is some deterioration in the center of the portrait," she said when the silence grew too powerful. She ran her thumb along the spot where Mr. McKenna's hand rested atop his wife's right shoulder. "It follows the curve of your mother's torso."

  He bent down to take a closer look and she caught the scent of soap and sea air. "It's all I have of them," he said. "This and their wedding rings."

  Impulsively, she laid her hand atop his in a gesture of comfort. "I believe it can be repaired, Matthew."

  "With difficulty?"

  "No," she said, her voice catching inexplicably on the word. "I think I can do it quite easily."

  He nodded and in his eyes she saw an emotion she dared not put a name to.

  "Come." He reached for her hand. "It grows dark. I will see you back to the house."

  "That isn't necessary," she whispered, wishing the moment could go on and on.

  "Yes, it is," he said gruffly and this one time she gave herself up to his will.

  #

  On Monday of her third week in East Hampton, Stephen announced that he was sailing for France on Friday and thus would be leaving for Manhattan and the docks on the Thursday afternoon train.

  Even though he knew Stephen would soon be gone, McKenna seemed to take a savage pleasure in plunging one verbal dagger after another into his rival and she had to hand it to the younger man for not lashing back at McKenna in kind.

  "He speaks from the bottle," Stephen told her over breakfast one morning when Matthew was nursing a particularly nasty whiskey headache. "I cannot find it within me to debate a man who is not in full control of his mental faculties."

  Alexandra nodded, fussing with her eggs and sausage. She did not want to be Stephen's confidante in this matter.

  "How long will you be gone?" she asked, steering the conversation away from McKenna. She had restored the miniature for him and he'd thanked her graciously but that feeling of kinship had vanished although the memory, sharp and bittersweet, still lingered within her.

  "At least a month, darling girl," Stephen said, leaning back in his chair and adjusting the daisy in his lapel flower bottle. "One week over, one week traveling back, and at least two weeks visiting the galleries in Paris and London. I have been staying close to Uncle Andrew these past months and have sorely neglected my overseeing duties."

  "Have you informed your uncle of your plans?"

  Stephen poured himself some more coffee from the silver pot on the table. "I will this afternoon," he said. "He has been feeling so under the weather lately that I hesitated to broach the topic."

  That piece of information puzzled Alexand
ra for Stephen had not seemed necessary to Andrew's day-to-day survival at Sea View. Certainly not necessary in the way Dayla was—or even Matthew McKenna, for that matter.

  But that was neither here nor there. In just two days Stephen would be leaving for New York City and she would find herself alone in this huge house with only the overworked Janine for companionship.

  And Matthew.

  She dared not think of McKenna, for her awareness of him as a man was so heightened that she doubted that now she'd be able to sustain a prolonged conversation with him without imagining the taste and the feel of him once again. Perhaps a friendship had never been possible; perhaps that brief moment of true understanding between them that night near the gazebo had been the illusion of a homesick and lonely girl who had been disappointed when he did not try to kiss her again.

  Across the table Stephen extracted a gold toothpick from its black velvet sheath and delicately probed a molar. "We must talk later," he said after finishing his dental exploration. "There is the matter of my uncle's medication to go over."

  Alexandra had hoped he'd forgotten. "I am uncertain about that," she ventured. "Both Dayla and Mr. McKenna seem quite competent to—"

  Stephen leaned forward and took her hands in his. "But they are not you."

  She tried to devise a polite way to remove her hands from his but failed. "I'm certain they have only Mr. Lowell's best interest at heart."

  His pale blue eyes were wide and guileless. "I hesitate to say this, Alexandra, but I fear I do not trust them as I ought."

  "You scarcely know me," she protested. "How can you know with certainty that I am trustworthy?"

  "I know," he said, giving a tender squeeze. "I know."

  There was a theatrical cough from the dining room entrance and Alexandra knew without turning around that Matthew McKenna had overheard their conversation.