At Her Service by Susan Johnson
The door instantly flew open, a woman’s hand grabbed his arm, pulled him in and as he swung her up into his arms and kicked the door shut, he whispered, “I thought I’d never get away.”
“You’re here now. That’s all that counts. How much time do we have?”
“Two hours, three if I make up some story, he said, setting her on her feet. What about you?”
“I have to be home by six or someone will notice.”
They stood for a moment in silence holding each other close.
He was tall with dark hair and swarthy skin, she was his opposite, small and fair with skin pink as rosebuds.
“I tell myself every day that we have to stop,” she whispered, holding him tighter.
“I know. I do the same.” Bending his head he kissed her gently. “But not today.”
Her smile was bright with joy. “Thank you.”
He grinned and, taking her hand, led her to the small stairway leading upstairs. “Thank me later, darling Lizzie,” he said with a teasing smile. “When I deserve it.”
Since Lucien D’Abernon and Elizabeth Milbury were both engaged to others, they were forced to meet clandestinely. Furthermore, Lizzie was sister to Neal, Luc’s best friend, which made it even more difficult to sneak away.
They should or could or might have broken their engagements and carried on their relationship in the open.
If not for some deterrents.
Elizabeth’s fiancé was the son of her father’s business partner. To break off the engagement would possibly jeopardize her father’s future. Not to mention her mother’s overly sensitive notions of propriety.
As for Luc, his fiancée could possibly be disposed of—for a suitable sum, he suspected, and a plausible excuse for the public. If only Lizzie could be induced to change her mind.
But she had been, to date, unmoved by his pleas.
An added fillip to this problematic love affaire was the fact that the old Duke of Westerlands, who continued to protect his family’s interests, knew that Lizzie was involved with his grandson.
Hugh had only recently learned of the liaison, and although he and Kubitovitch had long ago put aside their differences, he viewed the relationship between the two youngsters as both interesting and ironic. While Kubitovitch’s grandson, Neal, had been friends with Luc for a lifetime, there was now a possible merging of the two families should Luc and Lizzie contemplate more than a casual affaire.
A quixotic resolution to the past, was it not?
When Kubitovitch had married, he’d taken his wife’s name, Milbury. He had also, through diligence and hard work, parlayed his father-in-law’s small chocolate business into what was today a worldwide enterprise. One could purchase a Milbury chocolate bar most anywhere on the planet.
As the Milbury wealth had accumulated, a barony had come their way, as was often the case in England. Over the centuries, rich brewers and mill owners, merchants and bankers, had made their way into the nobility by outright purchase of titles or by befriending royal heirs or prime ministers—perhaps paying their gambling debts or pimping for them on occasion. It was all quite normal.
Perhaps it was time to pay a visit to his neighbor, Hugh decided. They could discuss how best to protect their amorously involved grandchildren. From gossip—or worse, should it come to that. Lizzie’s father’s business partner was an unsavory individual. The type who would take advantage of, say—a personal situation.
On the other hand, the love affaire might play out in time.
So many did.
But why take chances? The duke bellowed for a footman. “Have the car brought around,” he said when a flunky arrived. “And tell the duchess when she returns from her tea that I have gone to the Milburys.”
A half hour later, he was ushered into Kubitovitch’s aka Milbury’s study.
Nikolay looked up from his newspaper. “I was wondering when you’d be over to discuss this interesting situation with our grandchildren,” he murmured, folding up the paper. “Please, sit down. Brandy?” At Hugh’s nod, he rose from his chair with a grimace. “Damn rheumatism,” he muttered. “It’s this English damp.”
Hugh grinned as he took a chair. “Better than the cold of Siberia.”
“True. But now you and I have lived long enough to have this problem instead.”
“Not a bad problem to have considering what the alternatives might have been.”
Kubitovitch laughed. “Some people are survivors, eh—my friend?” Turning with two glasses of brandy in hand, he moved toward Hugh. “So tell me, are these two grandchildren of ours serious or not?”
“Who knows.” The duke took a glass from Kubitovitch. “Excellent, as usual,” he said a moment later after taking a sip. “Your cellar is a testament to your good taste. As is our grandchildren’s taste in partners, should it come to that.” He grimaced faintly. “The thing is though, I’m not as concerned about this affaire as I am about your son’s partner…if you don’t mind me saying so. Should Fisher get wind of this, he could cause a considerable scandal. And he’s the kind that might.”
Kubitovitch grunted. “I’ve been thinking for some time—perhaps an assassin for him.”
“Not so easily done anymore.”
“Yet possible.”
“True.”
The two elderly men had survived a war where life was cheap, death was everywhere and whether one lived to see tomorrow was uncertain. And in the intervening years, human nature had not necessarily improved.
“Maybe we should wait until summer is over.” Kubitovitch ran a hand over his thinning hair. “Luc and Lizzie might go their separate ways by then. As for my son’s business partner, the end of summer is probably soon enough to resolve that issue as well.”
But two weeks later, on August 4, 1914, England declared war on Germany, and mobilizing the country for the coming campaign took precedence over love affaires and business concerns.
Lucien and Neal were some of the first young men to take up arms.
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“I thought you went home.” Reed asked the question in the friendliest tone he could muster while his car sat in the direct firing line of Gabby’s anger.
“Not yet.” She scraped her heel against his fender.
He felt the screeching sound echo down to the pit of his stomach. “Yeah, I see that.”
As if sensing his discomfort, she banged her heel a second time.
“Could you not do that?”
“Sit?”
He rubbed his hand over the cool metal and winced when he felt what he feared was a deep scratch. “Vandalize my vehicle.”
“Do you have a better target in mind?” Her voice dripped with disgust.
He pulled back until he stood out of kicking range. “So, the idea of this meeting was to finish me off in the middle of the street?”
She stopped watching the front door of the restaurant and started scowling at him. She may have even snarled.
“What, a man can’t ask a question?”
“You’re making me think finishing you off has some merit.”
Just as he thought. “Maybe we should go back inside.”
“Why?”
“Because there are people in there who can act as witnesses and the ambulance is only a call away.” He adjusted his earphone to make sure she could not see it.
Pete was not talking but Reed could hear him breathing. Reed hoped his lazy partner also had 911 on speed dial.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
That was pretty clear, but her comment did not explain everything. “You have me at a disadvantage here, Gabby.”
“There’s an interesting take on this evening’s festivities.”
“Uh-oh,” Pete whispered on his end.
Reed saw the trap without Pete’s help. Making the lovely lady even angrier was not a good plan. If he knew how to prevent that possibility,
“What are you doing out here?”
“Standing.”
“On my car?”
“Feeling dramatic, aren’t you?”
“You’re the one who threw the wine and beat up my car.” He cleared his throat in an attempt to send an I-mean-business signal. “And, feel free to jump off it at any time.”
She saw his I-mean-business signal and raised him a your-car-is-at-my-mercy look “After everything that’s happened tonight you’re telling me the only thing you care about is the vehicle? Typical male.”
Did not take a genius level IQ to know the comment was not a compliment. “Did I miss the part where you explained why you’re out here?”
“I’m waiting.”
That explained…nothing. “For me?”
He almost hoped she would say no.
“Yes.” She slid off the hood, clanking her heels against the car a few more times before she hit the ground.
“Could you be careful—”
“You have my keys.” Her icy tone made the back of his neck itch.
“I do?” He patted his suit pocket but only felt the wet and sticky remnants of his dinner beverage. No keys. “I don’t have—”
“They’re in your glove compartment.”
Sounded plausible even though opening the door meant turning his back on her for a second. “When did you stick them in there?”
“When we parked. They didn’t fit in my purse.” She waved a square black box in his face.
“Then why buy it?”
Her eyebrow inched up. “Excuse me?”
Words stuttered to a halt in his throat but he forced them out anyway. “Just seems like it would be more practical to carry a bag you can stick crap in.”
“Do you really want to have an argument about my accessories right now?”
“That would be tough since I have no idea what that even means.” Then he saw the flat line of her lips. “And then there’s the part about the lack of witnesses to my potential homicide.”
“You might want to keep that in mind.”
“I am. Trust me.”
Pete’s chuckle echoed in the earpiece. “She is so damn hot.”
“Get my keys.” She said the words like an order.
“You didn’t have to wait out here. You could have…” Reed was not sure how to end that sentence since a return trip to the table likely would have resulted in more liquor throwing. “Forget it.”
“The keys.” She held out her palm. “Now.”
“Sure.” The horn sounded as he hit the unlock button. A few seconds later the glove compartment popped open. “Here you go.”
She grabbed her keys but did not move. “I wasn’t waiting for you.”
“You said you were.”
“I lied.”
“Man. I’d run,” Pete whispered but the warning boomed through the ear speaker and straight into Reed’s brain.
Somehow Reed focused on the furious woman in front of him instead of the wise words in his ear. Probably had something to do with the fact that Gabby held her keys like a weapon.
“My initial thought was to break your car window and get the keys myself.”
So, she thought about using violence. Now there was some bad news. “Lucky for me you came up with a second option.”
“Not yet.” She pursed her lips together as if thinking of her next move or how best to kill him. “I want you to understand something.”
That he was a dead man? Yeah. He got that part. “Which is?”
“What you gave up.” She dropped her keys on the hood.
“Hey, be careful—”
When her lips covered his, he stopped talking. Stopped thinking. Stop giving a damn about his car. She took his breath until he had nothing left. Including common sense.
Supernatural. And super-sexy.
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“You are beautiful, Vivienne. And I would have you.” Such a masculine voice, deep and rough-edged. She loved the sound of it, loved to hear him talk. She sighed. “I know that women never refuse you, Kyril. But I—”
He drew the heavy velvet curtain that hung in voluptuous folds over the window and moved with alacrity to stand in front of her, interrupting her reply. “Will you not stay with me tonight? My carriage is outside and no one will see you leave here.”
“I—I cannot.”
He reached up a hand to caress her cheek. Vivienne felt a hot blush suffuse her skin. “Is there no way to persuade you?” Coaxing and tender, his thumb traced the line of her chin.
“No.” But the light sensation of his touch thrilled her all the same. She did not push his hand away. “I must consider my reputation. What is left of it.”
“Bah. Your guests went home long ago and your servants are nowhere in sight.”
“That does not matter.” His determination was flattering but his presence made her uneasy. “I would rather be in my own bed in the morning.”
“Alone?” He inclined his head and pressed ardent kisses to the side of her neck. Vivienne moaned softly—the pleasurable stimulation was almost too much to bear.
“Yes, Kyril. Quite alone.”
He moved down to her shoulders, kissing and stroking her bare skin until languorous, highly sensual warmth spread through her.
“It seems a very great shame.”
His arms stole around her waist in a lover’s embrace. His nearness was overwhelming. Vivienne arched her back, wanting and not wanting to be a little distance from the pressure of his body. She placed her hands upon his chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart through her palms.
“Ah, what you do to me…” Kyril kissed her neck once more and lifted his head. She could not help but meet his eyes. A dark blue, like twilight, they reflected no detail of her face or the room in which they stood—and yet they glowed.
He smiled down at her and Vivienne felt a dizzying vertigo. If not for his arms around her, she would have fallen. For no more than a moment, she had glimpsed something very odd in his eyes…a vision of a wild and forsaken otherworld buried in white. As if that were what he saw and not her. He blinked and the vision disappeared, but his story came back to her…
From the far north came men of a legendary race, born in the shadow of the blue sun that never sets. They ruled the frozen seas and rode its terrible winds…and they were masters of the great ice wolves that are no more…
He had entertained her with the fanciful tale when the servants had at last left them alone by the fire in the drawing room. A fantasy, nothing more, heard and remembered from his childhood in Russia. Suddenly, caught in his possessive, encircling embrace, Vivienne was ready to believe that it was something more than fantasy and something less than real. But what its meaning was, she could not say. She could not think. His warm hand had moved up her back and clasped the nape of her neck. The gesture was both calming and sensual. In an instant, her feeling of falling vanished, replaced by one of stillness and safety…Vivienne straightened. She was not safe. No woman was, with him. With a slight shake of her head, she dismissed the momentary vision and her wayward imaginings. Tonight’s soiree had dragged on too long and she was fatigued, that was all.
He would not possess her.
Since his arrival in London two years ago, the tall, darkly handsome Kyril Taruskin had been much whispered about. His heavy-lidded eyes and full mouth hinted at a talent for passionate lovemaking—and his conquests were many. Vivienne had heard the rumors, but invited him to her soirees all the same, presuming that she, a woman of the world and the former mistress of a duke who still adored her, would be immune to his sensual charm.
Foolish of her.
“Oh!” She breathed the word, startled by what he was doing. The slight pressure of his thumb under her chin brought her face up to his.
“Well, then,” he whispered. “
“N—no. Please go.”
“Vivienne…to satisfy your intimate desires would give me the deepest delight.”
It was just after midnight—she had heard the church bells toll the hour and the candles had burned low. The fireplace held a broken mass of scarlet embers that danced with shivering little flames. She closed her eyes, avoiding his intent gaze, not wanting to see his mouth so close to hers. But Kyril did not try to kiss her.
All he did was touch her once more.
Vivienne steeled herself to resist the brazen sensuality of his caress. His fingertips brushed the side of her neck that he had kissed and then moved lower, over her collarbone, causing her bared flesh to tingle. She should not have worn such deep décolletage. He was smiling down at her again, self-restrained…and somehow…ready to pounce. He embodied masculine elegance, but his dark clothes and immaculate linen only brought out his wildness. That quality too was much talked about—it was something Vivienne found over-poweringly attractive.
She prayed Kyril’s hand would not move lower to the swell of her breasts…but it did. His exploring caress was deliciously stimulating.
Vivienne sighed without knowing it and swayed toward him. Then she came back to her senses. Kyril Taruskin could not get the better of her so easily.
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Sherman cleared his throat. “I’ll speak with you another time, Jessica.” She heard his footsteps heading back to the coffeehouse.
When Sherman opened the door, Smitty tossed out, “Just don’t call her when we’re having sex—which will be constantly!”
Jess waited long enough for Sherman to get inside before she yanked away from Smitty and followed up with a solid fist to his chest. The pain that radiated up her arm afterward—she ignored.
“What is wrong with you?”
“Nothin’,” he said, looking confused. “Why?”
Smitty wasn’t sure what he enjoyed more. Torturing that scrawny dog—and he had tortured him. The poor guy didn’t know whether to be horrified or jealous of Smitty and Jessie going at it. Or had his pleasure come from torturing Jessie Ann? All that was fun, but what he enjoyed the most was having Jessie Ann plastered up against him. She nuzzled real nice, even when she didn’t mean to.