GEORGETTE HEYER,
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sugar Beth let herself inside the carriage house, flicked on the light, and screamed.
“Welcome home, my dear.” Colin slouched in the darkest corner of the room, one hand draped over the arm of the wing chair, the other clasping a crystal tumbler of scotch. The collar of his dress shirt was unbuttoned, and Gordon lay at his feet, one ear flopped over the toe of a polished black Gucci loafer.
“Don’t you ever scare me like that again!”
“I warned you about locking your door.”
She dropped her purse on a chair and shrugged off the jacket she’d tossed over a sweater and a short denim skirt. “You could at least have turned on a light.”
“I wanted to brood.”
“Well, stop it.”
He crossed his ankles, disturbing Gordon’s comfortable perch. “Come now, you must be accustomed to finding angry men on your doorstep. We had a date.”
“You had a date. I wasn’t asked.”
“I believe I left you a note, and we also spoke about it when we talked on the phone.”
“A one-way conversation.”
“I’m not going to sneak around.” He set down his drink with a thud and rose. “That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”
“You’re the one who has to live in this town, dawg.”
He rose to his feet so he was looming over her. “This is your bizarre idea of protecting me.”
“No matter how much the good citizens of Parrish fawn over your famous self, you’re still an outsider, and the welcome mat can be snatched away at any minute.”
“That’s my concern. I won’t have it, Sugar Beth. Any of it.”
“You sound like one of your Victorian ancestors.”
“I don’t need anyone’s protection,” he said, advancing on her with slow, menacing steps. “And I especially don’t need the protection of a woman whose life plan seems to start and end with selling a painting she can’t find.”
“And aren’t we being supportive tonight?”
“Believe it or not, you can live a decent life without diamonds and furs.”
“Thank you, Mr. Gucci.” She moved away.
He curled his hand over the back of the wing chair. “I enjoy the luxuries my money buys, but I don’t need them, and I sure as hell wouldn’t sell my soul to get them.”
“Once again proving you’re the better person.”
“Sugar Beth…”
The low note in his voice suggested the time had passed for another wisecrack. “I’m not a total idiot,” she said. “I’ve never intended to support myself with the painting. I’m going back to Houston and get my real estate license.” It had been such a good idea-it still was-but she needed to work hard to inject any enthusiasm into her voice. “I have a lot of contacts there, and I want to sell high-end real estate. But that’s hard to do without an impressive car and a decent wardrobe.”
“You? Sell real estate?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Not a thing. It’s a perfectly respectable career. But I can’t see you doing it.”
“I’ll be terrific at sales.”
“Until some demanding client pisses you off.”
“I can be tactful.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “Ah, yes, you’re a master of tact, all right.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“I’m simply pointing out what you seem determined to ignore, but then I believe we’ve already discussed your difficulties staying in touch with reality. Witness your lamebrained idea to work at the bookstore.”
“I’m not talking to you about that anymore.”
“Then let’s go back to your plan to sell minimansions.” He was getting steamed up again, and she gave him an uneasy glance as he moved away from the chair. “You need a realistic method of supporting yourself, not some scenario based on finding a painting that was probably destroyed.”
“I know! I’ll go to auto mechanic school.”
“That does it.” With no more warning than the flare of those aristocratic nostrils, he backed her right against the wall. He looked ferocious as he pulled her into his arms and growled, “God help me, I’ve never wanted to do violence to a woman, but we’re either going to make love or I’m going to beat you.”
That finally made her smile. “I choose door number one.”
He muttered a dark curse, then crushed her lips with his kiss. At the same time, he shoved his hands under her denim skirt… and she didn’t do a thing to stop him.
Within seconds, her hose and panties were gone. He clasped the backs of her thighs and lifted her against him. A china vase crashed to the floor near Gordon’s head, sending him scurrying into the kitchen. She wrapped her legs around Colin’s hips. He fumbled with his clothes. Shoved himself inside her.
She was ready for him.
He thrust deep, then groaned and began to withdraw. “No condom.”
She pushed against him, not letting him go. “It’s all taken care of.”
“Thank God.”
He pressed her back to the wall, his fingers digging into her bottom. She took his mouth and gave herself up to the hot, wet rub… the sounds and scents… his fierceness… his care.
She was falling in love with him.
The knowledge had been there for days, but she’d refused to examine it, and now she couldn’t, not when his eyelashes lay in tough dark spikes against his cheekbones, and he felt so good inside her. She sucked at his bottom lip. He moaned, drove deeper, and she abandoned herself to the tumult.
After it was over, she let him pull her upstairs where they took off the rest of their clothes and made love again, this time more slowly and with a tenderness that nearly undid her. She was losing her battle to keep the barriers between them in place.
When they were finally satiated, they took a bath together. She fastened her hair on top of her head. He sat behind her, his big knees bent, an elbow propped on the edge of the tub. “What did you mean about the condom?” His soapy hand stroked the curve of her breast. “When you said it was taken care of?”
The rosy glow from Tallulah’s ancient red Christmas candles made the old bathroom seem like a place out of time. If only that were true. She didn’t want to answer his question, but he had the right to know. “I had an ectopic pregnancy when I was twenty-two, a few other problems. I am, you’ll be pleased to know, incapable of mommyhood.”
He pressed his lips to the side of her neck. “You can’t catch a break, can you?”
He’d stirred dark waters, and she couldn’t manage a reply.
He stroked her other breast, gave her time to recover. Eventually, he tucked a lock of wet hair behind her ear. “How long has it been for you?”
She drew a spiral in the soapy water on his knee. “Emmett got sick two and a half years ago.”
“You hadn’t had sex in nearly three years?”
“Not with another person.”
He chuckled. One of the candles sputtered. He shifted his leg to a position that was only marginally more comfortable, dabbled with her earlobe. She rested the back of her head against his shoulder. Falling in love wasn’t exactly a red-letter event, since she’d done it so many times before. It was her old weakness, but she’d believed she’d gotten past the point where she didn’t feel alive unless she fancied herself in love. Apparently not. At least
