Nancy Warren - British Bad Boys

They crept by the marble bust of a Roman emperor, watched on their way by five-hundred-year-old ancestors of George’s looking down on them in various aspects from virtuous nobility to licentiousness. He imagined the naughty ninth earl giving him a nudge-nudge-wink-wink as he made his way, with Rachel’s hand in his, through the long gallery to the guest wing.

Even the tireless Wiggins seemed to have taken himself off to bed, or perhaps was enough of the discreet, trusted servant to make himself scarce when a man took a lady who was not his wife to bed.

They didn’t speak on the way; he felt the warmth of Rachel’s hand in his, heard the slight swish of velvet as she walked.

They entered his room and he noted that the bedside lamp was on, the bed turned down. As in a good hotel, but also, he knew, the way things had been done in Hart House for generations.

Maybe they’d had to downsize the staff, but little courtesies to guests would be one of the last things to go.

Rachel let go of his hand and gazed around, as though surprised to find herself here.

He slipped off his jacket, hung it over the back of one of the wing chairs, and switched on the fire.

She’d walked to the window. Then, obviously realizing she couldn’t distract herself with the view outside, turned.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked her. “No ice, I’m afraid. But there’s”-he looked at the bottles arranged on a silver tray-“port, cognac, scotch.”

“No. Thank you.”

He walked over to her and did what he’d been dying to do all evening. He pulled the pins from her hair. She trembled when he touched her, but didn’t stop him, so he took his time and watched in delighted fascination as the thick curls tumbled around her shoulders. He’d imagined the hair would go on forever, all the way down her back, but no. It brushed her shoulders, thick and wild.

Pushing his hands into it, he found it silkier than he’d imagined, but exactly as sexy.

He gazed down at her, eyeing the mouth he was about to kiss, his body so on fire he could barely think straight, when she said, “I think I would like a drink.”

He noted what he should have seen before. Her eyes were wide with uncertainty, her posture tense.

“Of course,” he said, releasing her. “ Cognac?”

“Yes, fine.”

He poured two glasses, handed her one. She didn’t sip for pleasure; he rather thought she gulped for courage.

He sat in the armchair, leaning back, letting her know in as subtle a way as he could manage that a chat and a drink was fine with him. It wouldn’t be his choice, but he tried to be philosophical. At least he’d seen her with her hair down. It was a start.

She didn’t sit, but wandered the room, touching things. Running her fingers over the bedcover.

When she finally came back to him, she put her drink down on the table. He felt he was losing her, felt he had to make a final try to keep her with him, even for nothing more than talk.

“You have lovely hands,” he said, watching them curled around her glass.

She laughed. “No, I don’t.” She stuffed them out of sight, at her sides.

He reached for her wrist and she let him bring it closer. “I noticed at dinner. You were the only woman not wearing nail lacquer.”

“That’s because I don’t like to draw attention to my least attractive feature.”

“But they’re lovely.” He smoothed the fingers onto his palm and she let him. “These are the hands of an artist.”

“You’re nuts. They’re burned, scarred, banged up by years in kitchens.”

He stroked her fingers. “A warrior’s hands, then.”

“More so than an artist’s.”

“Well, I think you are a little of both.”

He brought her wrist up to his mouth and kissed it, loving the smooth, soft feel of her skin, the skip of her pulse beneath his lips.

He noticed a white scar with a line of Xs emerging from the base of her thumb. He traced it with his fingertip and felt a quiver run through her. “What happened there?”

“I was in a hurry. Tried to core an apple with a carving knife and the apple broke. I don’t recommend it. I think I had seven stitches.”

“So noted,” he said, and kissed the line of Xs.

“Is this one a burn?” He traced the discolored, puckered shininess on the side of her hand.

“Yes,” she said, her voice growing husky. “Industrial oven accident.”

He touched his tongue to the mark.

He’s making love to my hands, Rachel thought in amazement, my ugly, scarred, chef’s hands.

Jack was bent over her, studying her like a very sexy palm reader. His hair was short, but thick. She glimpsed the back of his neck, the pale skin corded with muscle. She felt the warmth coming off his body, smelled the clean, somehow English scent of him.

“These are your war wounds. Honorably acquired and therefore beautiful.” He kissed the misshapen nail on her left hand and she told him without being asked about the time she’d slammed it in the restaurant fridge. She watched him bending over her hands, so intent on her. So interested. Amazement washed over her along with a wash of lust that left her weak-kneed.

Sex in her marriage had been about getting to the main event as fast as possible, reaching orgasm and going to sleep. She thought she and Cal must have had the most time-efficient marriage bed in the state of California. She’d got to the point where she could slide a batch of cookies or muffins in the oven and go have sex. They’d both have their climax, Cal would be snoring, and she’d be back in the kitchen with minutes left before the oven timer chimed.

Cal hadn’t been much for experimentation in bed-he’d found what worked and stuck with it. Unfortunately, he hadn’t felt the same about marriage in general.

Now, here she was, with a man who considered her scarred hands worthy of kissing. His tongue touched her fingertips and heat traveled through her body. When his lips brushed her palm, warm and slightly damp, she wanted to whimper. She started to tremble, deep inside. She’d been on the verge of leaving, thinking she was crazy to throw herself into bed with this man she’d only met a few hours ago.

But he’d seduced her by making love to that part of her that was the most accomplished and the least attractive. And somehow, she knew that a man who took this much time over a woman’s palm was not going to beat a batch of cookies to the finish.

“If this was a movie,” she said, “some schmaltzy music would play right now and I’d say, ‘Come with me to bed.’”

“Have you been with anyone since your husband?” he asked her softly.

Her hand jerked within his grasp. “That’s pretty personal.”

“So is what we’re about to do.”

She blew out a breath. He let go of her hands but not of her, tracing the curve of her waist until his palms rested lightly on her hips. She liked the warm feeling of connection between them while he looked up with those wonderful, serious, but not-serious eyes.

And looking back at him she found she needed the truth between them. “Yes, I have. I really needed to get the taste of Cal out of my system, frankly.” She shrugged, dropping her gaze to the ancient table where their barely touched drinks sat side by side. “It was quick and clinical.”

“Sounds rather like mouthwash.”

She thought back to the shortest affair of her life. “More like washing my own mouth out with soap.”

“You don’t have to do this,” he said.

She looked down at him, felt the warmth of his hands against her hip, felt breathless with the anticipation that a man who could appreciate and find beauty in her hands was going to be something very special in bed.