Nancy Warren: British Bad Boys

He shook his head. “I had a girlfriend. In London, but she didn’t fancy it here. Too far from everything. She ended up wearing wellies more than high heels and a scrubby old jumper instead of designer things.” He shrugged. “She chose London over me. Well, who wouldn’t?”

Maxine privately thought a lot of women wouldn’t.

“And how about you?” He said, suddenly emerging from his gloomy state and giving her a curious glance. “Is there a significant other waiting at home?”

“No.”

“I’m surprised.”

“I work. A lot. I’m out of town, out of the country.” She ran the tip of her finger around her beer mug, frowning. “I’m not home long enough to commit to a houseplant.”

“The rolling stone gathers no African Violet.”

She smiled dutifully, but glancing at him she could see he understood.

“What about a family? Children?”

“Sure, I want them. But not yet.”

Between rounds of darts, when it became clear that she had a natural aptitude as well as a strong competitive instinct, she managed to interview him about his mother. It wasn’t as bad as she’d feared.

“Oh, the match was love at first sight, I understand,” George said. “Father was over visiting America and saw my mother at her debutante ball. They were married within six months.”

“What happened?”

“She loved my father, but hated England. It was all right for the first few years, and then she had my sister and me, so that kept her busy, of course. But as time went on, she began to hate England more than she loved my father. She visited her home in Philadelphia as often as she could and for longer and longer periods. I rarely saw her in the last few years unless I flew to America to visit her. She died over there. Pneumonia. Very sudden.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Father was like a broken man after he lost her. Funny, that. It hadn’t been a very successful marriage, but in his way, he was devoted to her. He died last year, heart attack.”

“A broken heart,” she said softly.

He made a short, bitter sound. “Well, I think it broke much earlier.”

Privately, she thought his mother had been too young and possibly too impressed with the title. And, if George took after his father, there was the whole sex appeal force to contend with. She’d probably married the man before she realized she didn’t really love him at all.

“Same again, George and Maxine? My round,” Barney said.

They exchanged a glance and then Max said, “No, thanks. I’ve got to be up early tomorrow.”

“Right, yeah. Me, too,” said George, rising. She was surprised his buddies didn’t try to talk him into staying on his birthday until she saw the leer on one face, and caught a wink from another.

Men weren’t any different here, that was for sure. So she and George had spent some time having a private conversation. It was business. How could they not see that?

Everyone in the pub knew George, of course. And the final well wishes for his birthday ranged from loud and drunken to quiet and respectful. When they emerged into the quiet, damp night, he said, “Thanks for coming. It was great having you there. I know my friends enjoyed meeting you.”

She snorted. “Why do I think they are right now laying bets to see whether you get me into bed?”

He glanced at her sharply, that unruly and utterly charming twinkle in his eye. “Why would you think that?”

“Because they’re guys. We walked out together.”

“Ah, but how would they know who won?”

“Well, you’d tell-”

He shook his head.

She glanced at his profile and noticed his nose wasn’t entirely straight. Even the tiny jog was sexy. “Come on. You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not. I don’t talk about my intimate life to my friends.” It sounded unbelievably pompous when he said it, but she saw from his face that it was true.

“Why? Is that some aristocratic imperative?”

“No. I may be old-fashioned but I still believe a gentleman doesn’t tell.”

“My God. You’re as archaic as your castle.”

“I probably sound like a total prat.”

“No. I like that you won’t blab. Not,” she hastened to add, “that there’s going to be anything to blab about.”

“Of course not.” By this time they’d crossed the street, entered the castle grounds, and were strolling up the path. The tree-lined walk, the castle rising from its surroundings like a fairy tale, the moon streaked with clouds like a coal miner’s face.

“Why would anything happen between us?”

“Exactly. This is a purely professional relationship.”

“It’s not as though we’re attracted to one another, is it?” His voice was a caress.

“Absolutely not.” She felt as though they were the only two people in the world. It was so quiet here, so romantic. They walked close enough that they were almost, but not quite, touching. “There will be nothing to talk about.”

“Not so much as a single kiss under the moonlight,” he said, turning her slowly to face him. Oh, he was gorgeous. Sexy and desirable even as he remained as steeped in history and tradition as his property. He was broad of shoulder and slim of hip, exactly as a man should be, and when her arms went around him, she felt the muscles and the firmness, the warmth and gentle teasing that always seemed to be a part of him. “Unless you were to take pity on me.”

“Well. Maybe a birthday kiss,” she said softly, raising her face. He brought his mouth down to cover hers and she felt the heat of him. He tasted like beer and hot sexy Brit, but he felt even better. Strong, dependable. Someone she could trust.

And suddenly a semi-innocent birthday kiss was heading way out of control and very far from innocent. He held her against him, pulling her off the road and under one of the hefty oaks that had stood here so long Henry VIII had probably carved his initials in the trunks.

When they stopped moving, she realized George was leaning against the heavy trunk of a tree, and she was leaning on him, pressed against him so her breasts flattened against his chest, their bellies brushed as they breathed, and then their hips jammed together as though their bodies had decided to get together long before their minds had caught up. Hers, anyway.

It had been a while for her, she decided. That must have been why she was having such an incredible reaction to a kiss. It was as though he’d ignited something wild in her and she wanted to climb all over him, take him, right here, out in the open. Well, it wasn’t as though they wouldn’t have privacy. The tree was like a tent covering them and they were probably equally as far from the house as they were from the road.

Probably he’d planned it that way. Not that she cared. At the moment she was blind and deaf to her usual common sense. He kept kissing her, deep, wonderful kisses that made her pulse everywhere with needs she’d either forgotten she owned or had buried in work.

When she pulled away to drag in a breath, he moved down, kissing her neck, that wonderful sensitive spot beneath her ear. Above her was a dark, green canopy of leaves. Her feet were a little cool from standing on damp grass, but it was the only part of her that was cool. She let her eyes close as she took in all the amazing pleasure points dancing for joy throughout her body.

Letting herself go was so rare, and so wonderful, that she ignored all the very good reasons why she-the documentary filmmaker-and he-the subject of the film-should not be getting quite so up close and personal. For once, she let herself follow her instincts rather than her list of shoulds and shouldn’ts.

“You taste wonderful,” he mumbled against her skin.

“Probably like the inside of a pub.”