'You'll want to. It's in your nature, Vivien. You can't change what you are.'
His matter-of-fact statements infuriated her. 'I won't want any man from now on. Especially not you.'
Her defiance seemed to trigger something inside him, unleashing a grim determination to prove something to her...and to himself. Swiftly he pulled her into his arms, before she had time to think or react. He carried her to the bed and deposited her on the neatly folded-back covers. His dark face obliterated the glow of the fire as he leaned over her.
'No,' Vivien gasped.
There was a cruel edge to his mouth, but when he fitted his lips over hers, the kiss was soft, slow, utterly consuming. He placed his hands flat on the mattress on either side of her head, not touching her with any part of his body except his mouth. Had she wanted, she could have rolled away from him easily. But she stayed beneath him, transfixed by the sweet, hot flowering of sensation that spread rapidly and made the downy hairs all over her body rise. She lifted her hands to his face in a halfhearted gesture to push him away, but he angled his head and kissed her harder, and any thought of resisting him disappeared. His tongue ventured inside her mouth, teasing, stroking. He tasted of coffee, and some pleasant masculine essence that lured her own tongue to respond timidly. The feathery touch seemed to excite him. Breathing deeply, he twisted his mouth over hers in long, searching kisses, each one more tender and intimate than the last. Vivien relaxed helplessly beneath him while a heavy, delicious ache formed in her breasts and low in her stomach and between her thighs. Her dazed mind no longer comprehended what was happening, or even cared. All that existed was sensation, every part of her focused on the consuming heat of his mouth.
With a suddenness that stunned her, Morgan tore his lips away and pinned her with a simmering gaze. 'You see?' he said hoarsely. 'Now tell me what kind of woman you are.'
It took a moment for Vivien to understand what he had said. Ashamed and furious, she rolled to her side. 'Go away,' she gasped, pressing her hand over her exposed ear, blocking out any words he might utter. 'Leave me alone.'
He obliged at once, leaving her curled on the bed in a silent huddle.
Barely aware of where he was going, Grant made his way downstairs, his mind overtaken by questions, sensations...'Vivien,' he muttered more than once, the name alternately a curse and a prayer.
He found himself in the library, a haven of leather and oak, fitted with comfortably worn chairs and specially designed bookcases. The cases were fronted with beveled glass, and brass grillwork on the bottom shelves. He collected books obsessively--anything between two covers would do. The stacks of newspapers piled on desks and tables often moved Mrs. Buttons to complain that the house was the greatest fire hazard in London.
Grant never sat for a quiet moment without a book or paper close at hand. When he wasn't working or sleeping, he read. Anything to keep himself from thinking about the past. On the nights when regrets lingered in his head like ghosts, driving out all possibility of sleep, he came to the library and drank brandy and read until the words blurred before his eyes.
Prowling past the shelves of leather-bound talismans, Grant sought something to divert his attention. His fingers trailed lightly over the cool, shining glass doors, opened one, brushed over a row of books. But for once, the touch of leather repelled him...His hand ached for soft female skin, for silken hair, for round breasts and hips...
He caught sight of his reflection in the glass, his face set and miserable.
Turning away with a groan, Grant went to the sideboard fitted between a pair of small matching cupboards. One of the cupboards was used as a cellarette for wines. He rummaged in the cabinet until his hand closed around the flattened lozengeshaped body of a brandy bottle, sloshing with dark liquid. Uncorking it, he drank directly from the bottle, the fullness of expensive French brandy rolling down his throat. Waiting for a familiar warmth to spread in his chest, he felt only emptiness.
His mind returned to the image of Vivien, the sweetness of her mouth, the innocence of her response. As if she weren't used to kissing, as if she were an awkward but willing pupil in the hands of an experienced teacher. All an illusion. 'Innocence,' he muttered with an ugly laugh, and poured more brandy down his throat. Vivien was prime quality goods to be sure, but she was a whore nonetheless. And he was a fool for feeling protective of her, wanting her, and worst of all,liking her.
He sat in an armchair and braced his feet on the edge of his desk, and silently acknowledged the mortifying truth. If he didn't know who and what Vivien was, he would be mad for her. What man wouldn't? She was lovely, intelligent, and seemingly vulnerable. Her response to the news that she was a courtesan had been a perfect blend of anger and bewilderment. The way an innocent woman would react. His instincts and his brain had rarely given him such opposing messages, and the few times they had, he had been inclined to trust his instincts. But not in this case. He knew all about Vivien's unique brand of faux innocence. It didn't matter how she behaved at present, she would sooner or later revert to character.
Therefore, he couldn't let himself be taken in by her.
But hell and damnation...it wasn't going to be easy.
CHAPTER 5
Vivien curled up in one corner of the acre-wide bed, fuming and worrying until she finally drifted into a fog of oblivion. But there was no peace to be found in sleep, only a bizzare dream that became increasingly sinister.
She hurried through a shadowed street, pursued by faceless strangers. Occasionally she paused to laugh and taunt them, then turned and ran just before they reached her. Approaching a bridge, she climbed onto the embankment wall, surmounting a pier topped with a bronze statue of a river deity. The men below her clamored to reach her, climbing after her, but she laughed throatily and kicked them away. Suddenly, to her horror, the massive bronze statue beside her began to move. Huge metal arms wrapped around her, imprisoning her in a cold merciless embrace.
Crying out in terror, she fought the statue, but it clutched her, turned toward the river...and plunged into the black, bitterly cold depths. Its weight pulled her down quickly, the surface receding far above her. She screamed beneath the water, but no one could hear her, and the choking liquid filled her mouth and throat--
'Vivien. Dammit, Vivien, wake up.'
She started awake, still fighting the arms around her...then saw Morgan's face above hers. He wore an anxious scowl as he hauled her into his lap, one hand smoothing the damp hair back from her face. His upper torso was covered only by a thin linen shirt, open at the neck to reveal the hollow at the base of his throat.
Disoriented, Vivien fought to catch her breath. She glanced at their surroundings, realizing they were on the floor.
'You fell off the bed,' Morgan said.
'I-I had a nightmare.'
'Tell me,' he said softly. As she remained silent, he stroked the ruffled arc of her eyebrow with the pad of his thumb. The intimate gesture somehow moved her to speak when words would have failed. Vivien gnawed her lower lip nervously. 'I dreamed I was drowning. It was so real...I couldn't breathe.'
A gentle, sandpapery sound came from his throat. He patted her back in a soothing rhythm, rocking her as if she were a child. The heat of his body permeated the layers of clothing between them, warming her. For a moment she was tempted to push him away, the memory of his distasteful accusations still fresh in her ears.
But she stayed motionless against him. Although he was hateful and arrogant, he was also large and safe. At the moment there was no more appealing place in the world than his arms. A delicious scent clung to him, a blend of brandy and salt and linen...smells that reminded her of something...someone...whose comforting image was locked deep in her memory. A father or brother, perhaps? A lover she had held dear?
Confused and frustrated, she chewed harder at her lip as she strained to remember.
'Don't do that,' Morgan said, touching her mouth with gentle fingers. 'Try to relax. Would you like a drink?'
'I don't know.'
He held her for a moment longer, cradling her in his lap, until the frantic jerking of her heart slowed to a normal pace. His hand slid over her leg and hip and settled at the curve of her waist, and in a despairing flash, Vivien sensed that his touch was somehow familiar and natural. As if she belonged in his arms, against his body...as if they had indeed been lovers. She moved her face, blotting her tear-dampened cheek against his shirt, and she felt his mouth brush over her hair.
