How To Host a Seduction, page 8
But she still kept going, kneeling at his feet, fingertips working along his calves, his ankles, between his toes. Then she motioned him to turn around. Placing his hands on the tile, he braced his legs apart to shield her from the cooling spray that didn’t bother him in the least.
She started a new game on her way back up his body, driving him slowly crazy when she brushed her nipples against the backs of his knees, pressed her breasts against his thighs, taunted him with the feel of their soapy fullness. She tested his ability to keep his hands flat on the tile, when he wanted to drag her against him, sink deep inside her.
The silence thickened with expectation, and he wondered if she was paying him back for last night.
We haven’t spoken in three months and all you can say is “Don’t go”?
What else had there been to say? He hadn’t wanted her to go. Not three months ago. Not last night. Not now.
Especially not now.
Slipping her fingers between his thighs, Ellen played with him from behind, making his erection jump and his hips buck. She laughed, a soft sound in the waterlogged quiet, but a sound that spiked his appetite as though he hadn’t just spent all night feeding his hunger.
She read his responses easily enough, because suddenly she slithered every inch of her wet skin along his thighs. She molded her body against him, slipping her hands around his hips, lathering, stroking, proving what he’d known all along—that she’d been designed to fit him perfectly.
Why couldn’t Ellen see that?
She’d started to move, riding the length of his body with smooth, wet strokes. Her curves molded him, made his blood pump double-time. She slipped her fingers around his erection, a solid grip that made him press into her hands. He wanted to turn around, wrap her legs around his waist and sink inside her, but they were back to that power thing again. She was going to make him come. Payback for last night.
Christopher just closed his eyes.
Her hands started up a mind-blowing rhythm. Each stroke lifting him to an urgent place—the promise of explosive orgasms had made him seduce a woman who said she didn’t want to be seduced. All because he needed to feel her hands on him, needed to know what they shared was real.
She pressed kisses along his back, and every time she nipped his skin with her teeth, he bucked hard. Only Ellen had ever made him lose control this way, left him gasping for breath, straining in her hands as he exploded in one of those unbelievable orgasms.
Bracing himself against the wall, he hoped his legs didn’t buckle. “Damn.”
Suddenly she was up on tiptoes, her face in his periphery, her chin propped against his shoulder. She smiled that bewitching smile and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
“Since we’re going to make the most of this reunion…one good turn and all that, y’know.”
Christopher could only grunt in reply. Looked like staying in control around Ellen for the next four days was going to be another one of those challenges he supposedly thrived on.
IN A VAIN ATTEMPT TO FASTEN the buttons on her gown, Ellen performed contortions she’d had no idea her body was capable of. She eyed Christopher enviously as he emerged from the closet, shrugging on a buff-colored frock coat without calisthenics.
He’d already donned his costume; dark brown trousers, silk brocade vest and a bow tie neatly tied at his throat, looking as if he’d just stepped off the cover of a romance novel. Not flashy and absurd like Mr. Muscle-Butt in his cape at the convention last week, but scrumptious and too handsome to be real.
“You’d need four arms and eyes in the back of your head to fasten all those buttons without help,” he said, accurately assessing her situation in a glance.
Striding across the suite, he brushed aside her hands and met her gaze in the mirror. “I’m your partner for this event, which means—”
“I know what it means.” She lifted her chin a notch.
“Then, let me help. It’s only fair since I undressed you.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
“You’re the horniest man I know.”
“You do have that effect on me, love.”
“Blame me for your lack of self-control, why don’t you.” She huffed. “Now if you’re going to help, please do.”
“My pleasure.”
Ellen folded her arms across her chest and steeled herself against his touch as he turned his attention to the row of tiny pearl-shaped buttons. The skimpy chemise she wore didn’t offer her much protection against his hands, so close to her skin.
Every nerve in her body went on alert and this wasn’t just a result of all the intimacies they’d recently shared. This was another of those phenomena she’d conveniently forgotten in an effort to put Christopher behind her.
But her memory was working just fine now. That absurd breathlessness that constricted her breathing. Those trembly little shivers that made her shoulders rise and fall enough for him to notice. And a flash of dimples indicated that he had indeed noticed.
Of course, she wouldn’t have been shivering at all if he wasn’t brushing his fingertips against her neck, her shoulders, and any other place he could touch her.
“Having fun?” she asked.
“I am—”
The arrogant man didn’t sound the least bit repentant.
“Have you figured out what plausible excuse you’re giving Miss Q, or will you trust me to handle the situation?”
“I’m still in denial,” she said.
He glanced up and his laser-blue stare caught hers in the mirror, no less potent as a reflection.
“I’ll be heroic and come to your rescue.”
“Really? Exactly how will you do that?”
“I’ll tell Miss Q that I held you captive so I could make love to you all night. She won’t hold you accountable. She knows you couldn’t possibly resist me.”
Ellen wouldn’t even dignify that with a reply.
“Don’t like that one? Well, how about I tell her that you took me hostage in the shower? No self-respecting romance hero would have turned you away. Especially while getting the best hand job of his life.”
Pulling back, Ellen tipped her face up to his, unable to bear her reflection when her cheeks suddenly glowed red. She refused to blush. And if she was blushing, she refused to look. “Since when have you become an authority on what constitutes a decent romance hero?”
“Since I decided to come to Félicie Allée to seduce a romance editor. Seemed opportune to look into the subject.”
Premeditated seduction. Well, she couldn’t exactly fault him for doing his homework.
Rule number three of sound business strategies: Always take the time to research and prepare.
Shaking her head, she turned back around. “I’ll handle the explanations myself, thank you.”
He finished the last few buttons and said, “All done.”
She chanced a glance to find him surveying her with a slight smile, not enough of one to start up the whole dimple thing again, but enough to let Ellen know he liked what he saw.
And she twirled around, an absurd impulse she couldn’t seem to resist. The lightweight fabric held the shape of the dress without bulky crinolines. Even though she wore a chemise—she’d drawn the line at wearing panty hose—she could still feel the breeze drifting into the suite through the open French doors.
“Miss Q had a local designer create an entire line of Southern Charm Mysteries costumes.” He tugged the lapels of his jacket.
“Toni Maxwell.” She’d noticed the label. “I’ve visited her shop with Lennon.”
Miss Q obviously hoped to further the seduction by having Toni Maxwell design a lot more than costumes. Ellen assumed that Southern Charm Mysteries didn’t provide all its guests with a dresser full of sexy undies that bore about as much resemblance to historical bloomers as Christopher in his frock coat did to Mr. Muscle-Butt in his cape.
Bras padded to lift her breasts so high her nipples popped over the lace. Chemises so transparent she’d have been less exposed naked. The thongs were so skimpy she needed a Brazilian bikini wax to wear them. Garters. Silk hose. Very sexy lingerie. If Christopher had any idea what she was wearing under this gown—or not wearing—they’d likely miss the next event.
“It’s a departure from your usual style,” he said.
Tailored suits for work. Upscale casual after work. “I don’t look ridiculous, do I?”
“Love, you could wrap yourself in a grocery bag and look edible.” The dimples made a cameo appearance.
“Thank you. I must say you look rather dashing yourself.”
And he did. But he only inclined his head in acknowledgment of her compliment and strode toward the dresser, where he picked up a brush and raked it through his hair. She glanced back in the mirror, arranged a ruffle at her throat to cover the faint discoloration there.
Despite her discovery of a telltale hickey, the moment was a companionable one as they went about the mundane business of grooming in silence. Growing up with three siblings meant privacy had been in short supply. As a result, Ellen preferred not to share her space. She hadn’t lived with a roommate since college, typically avoided rooming with anyone at family functions or conventions if she could help it.
But she’d slipped right back into the easy camaraderie she’d once shared with Christopher. How could she have forgotten how well they’d gotten along?
Because it had been less painful to forget.
“All set, partner?”
His deep voice sent a shiver through her, a shiver that had nothing to do with the breeze sweeping up from the bayou. She turned to find him closing the French doors.
“All set.”
He extended his arm and she looped hers through. “What do you think of the courtyard? Reminds me of your balcony back home. An oasis.”
“On a grand scale,” she agreed. “Miss Q must be trying to get on my good side by putting us in this suite. She knows how much I love gardens and she’s managed to find one that has all my favorite flowers and plants.”
“Is she succeeding?”
“Maybe a little.”
“She’s only trying to help.” He steered her out of the bedroom. “She’s convinced we’re meant for each other.”
“And committed to making us see it, too. Don’t get me wrong, Christopher. I realize her heart’s in the right place.”
“Good” was all he said, before ushering her out of the bedroom.
Collecting her purse on her way through the sitting room, she glanced inside to check the battery on her cell phone, to discover… “That’s odd. My phone’s off. I hope the battery didn’t die.”
She turned on the power, only to have the phone plucked from her grasp.
“You could leave it off.”
Oh, now she understood. “Did you turn my phone off?”
“You needed your rest.”
“My parents might have called.”
He frowned down at the phone. “If your parents had known how much energy you expended in bed last night, they’d have wanted you to get some sleep.”
“Insufferable man. I suppose your phone is off so your office can’t reach you.”
The dimples again. “As a matter of fact it is. I left it and my watch in the bedroom.”
“And your watch,” she said dryly. “Wow, you’re taking a real vacation this week, aren’t you.”
“You should take one, too.”
“I am.” She plucked the phone back out of his hand, pressed the power button on and dropped it into her purse. “A vacation from work. I won’t take one from my family.”
On their way through the suite, Ellen glanced at the antique wall clock, and stopped short. “Three-fifteen? I’ve never slept this late in my life,” she said. “What did you do, knock me out when I wasn’t looking?”
He glanced down at his wrist, frowned. “That clock’s not right. Let me grab my watch.”
“Don’t bother.” She already had her phone. “Eight forty-five. Oh, thank goodness. Owning up to last night is bad enough without having to explain away a whole day, too.”
Miss Q was the least of her worries. Ellen had no doubt the little whirlwind would be delighted if she sacrificed all the sleuthing to stay sequestered in the garden suite making love with Christopher. But Susanna and Tracy were participating in this event, too, and unlike Lennon, neither was privy to the details of her private life.
Maintaining a balance between professional and personal during this event was something Ellen had just assumed she’d manage with no trouble. But she hadn’t counted on Christopher being her partner. She didn’t want her professional image to suffer as a result, especially when it had already suffered a dent from her recent lack of objectivity regarding heroes.
“I need coffee,” she said. “Badly.”
Christopher only nodded and led her out the door.
He appeared to have familiarized himself with the plantation, because he led her easily back to the great hall, where a magnificent gothic clock read three-fifteen.
“What’s up with this?” Christopher asked. “Two clocks broken at exactly the same time seems strange to me.”
Before Ellen had a chance to comment, an accented male voice said, “Definitely not a coincidence.”
Turning, they found a dark-skinned, perfectly exotic-looking man emerging from the office. Miss Q’s companion, Olaf.
Ellen swallowed back a sigh, grateful that the first person they faced after last night’s faux pas was one who wouldn’t call them on their poor manners.
While there wasn’t anything remarkable about Olaf’s brown suit aside from the proportions, his strapping size and bald head emphasized the elaborately brocaded vest and made his bow tie look like a shoestring tied beneath a bowling ball.
“You intentionally set the clocks for three-fifteen?” she asked. “What for?”
“I get it,” Christopher said. “Old Southern custom.”
Olaf smiled, a bright flash of white in a face as dark as a savage’s. “Whenever the master of a plantation dies, all the clocks are stopped at the time of death. A memorial of sorts.”
“Okay. This Yankee isn’t familiar with that custom,” Ellen said. “But, Olaf, you toured me here last year. Why don’t I remember all the clocks set at three-fifteen?”
“Félicie Allée wasn’t hosting murder mysteries then.”
Christopher held her arm linked close when she tried to pull away. “So the master didn’t really die at three-fifteen?”
Olaf shot them an enigmatic stare from beneath coal-black brows. “We’ve had to bend the rules to fit our mystery. Come on, I’ll walk you to the gallery where the others are having breakfast, and tell you what I can.”
“See, I’m not the only one who bends rules,” Christopher whispered as they followed Olaf down another hall.
Ellen remembered having toured this hall before but today she barely noticed the furnishings.
“There was a body found at three-fifteen,” Olaf said. “The body of a young woman who was visiting the plantation with her father, the governor of Louisiana. When the staff went to report her death to the captain, they discovered he’d vanished without a trace. So he did die, in a manner of speaking.”
“How’d the governor’s daughter die?” Christopher asked.
“Don’t know for sure. She was found dead in front of the fireplace in the parlor. She appears to have fallen and suffered a fatal blow to the head on the outer hearth.”
There was no missing his attempt at drama. “Fallen?”
“Or pushed,” he said, clearly pleased she’d taken the bait. “It’s assumed the captain murdered her and ran away.”
“The captain murdered a young girl and ran away? But he was a pirate.” Ellen frowned when both men looked at her blankly.
She’d gone into romance editing because she loved to read romances, stories where good triumphed over evil and ended with happily ever after. From the time she’d been thirteen years old, she’d never been able to resist a knight in shining armor, a dashing highwayman, a royal spy or a charming cowboy.
And pirates…Ellen had a thing for pirates. There was just something about a man tackling the whimsy of the sea, commanding a ship the way he commanded his lady’s attention.
“Who wrote this script?” she asked. Clearly the author, and these two obtuse men, didn’t understand the fundamental rules for romance heroes. “Murdering a woman is not heroic. If any of my authors wrote a hero who behaved that way, she’d end up revising.” And those revisions would not cast doubt on the editor’s objectivity.
Ellen glanced up at Christopher in time to see him exchange an amused look with Olaf. Pity revision couldn’t whip him into shape, too. As far as she was concerned, the entire male species would do well to read a few romances to get a clue about what women were looking for in a man.
Glancing up at him as he held the door open for her to exit the house, she found him watching her boldly, as though he could somehow pluck the thoughts from her head and know she was measuring him against a real hero. She refused to acknowledge the way her sex gave one poignant throb when she gazed into his thickly fringed eyes.
Maybe he should try reading a few more of those books.
“Is that what this event is all about, Olaf?” he asked. “Finding out why the governor’s daughter was murdered? I thought a murder mystery was about whodunit?”
“Our murder mystery is a whydunit,” Olaf explained. “You’ve got to figure out why the captain murdered the governor’s daughter and you’re going to have a lot of fun while you do.”
Their voices must have carried because no sooner had they rounded the corner of the gallery than Miss Q was on her feet, barely giving Ellen a chance to register who sat at the table that had been erected on the wide verandah.
“Oh, you missed it, dears,” she said, getting right to the heart of the matter with an enthusiasm that made Ellen cringe. “We had a body. Well, it wasn’t really a body, just an actress pretending to be a body, but she was so talented that Harley went for her gun. Good thing her costume bodice was so fitted that she couldn’t wear her holster, or else we might really have had a body.”
