Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

Servants had been sent ahead to the empty country home. Juliana preferred using her own staff, although the present owners, who had moved to a larger estate to accommodate their expanding stable yard and nursery, had generously offered theirs.

Juliana had gone to great lengths to discover the count's favorite country food and wines. He was astonished and said so when they rested on the south terrace after a tour of the house and grounds. Seated at a small, glass-topped table shielded from the slight breeze, they enjoyed an alfresco breakfast. After a night of drinking, the food piqued his appetite, and Bernadotte ate seriously until each taste was satisfied.

“How did you know?” he asked when he finished, his tanned hand sweeping over the table. “Everything's perfect.”

“Mental telepathy?” Juliana smiled, and her face took on an appealing softness.

The count raised his brows skeptically and said, “A charming asset. Does it extend to my brand of cigarettes?” After a night of overindulgence, his urge for nicotine was reaching withdrawal proportions. Having hurriedly dressed to forestall Miss Carrville coming upstairs and meeting Mrs. Percy-Wilson without her makeup, he'd forgotten his cigarette case.

“Northern Turkey, handled by Dunhill in London and Jasper in New York,” Juliana said with a studied carelessness.

His brows rose again, this time in appreciation. “And you have some.”

“Of course.” She reached over to a square Meissen box set next to the small vase of yellow roses and lifted the cover.

“Have you forgotten anything? ” he asked, reaching for a cigarette. His mouth curved into a smile. It was all very flattering, and she was pretty in a fresh, healthy schoolgirl way.

“Champagne's chilling upstairs.”

“Are you always so forward?” Although he was familiar with aggressive females, she somehow eluded the stereotype. They rarely came this young.

“Never.” She pointed out the lighter.

Never , he thought and immediately asked the obvious question. “How old are you?” He lit the cigarette, inhaling deeply.

“Seventeen.”

He exhaled the smoke slowly before he said, “I'm forty.”

“I know.”

“Seventeen's too young.”

“Too young for what?” Juliana retorted.

“Too young for chilled champagne upstairs.”

“What if I was nineteen?”

Bernadotte paused for a moment, considering.

“See, you wouldn't say ‘no' right off if I was nineteen.”

“I still would.”

“No you wouldn't.”

“I should.” His brows came together above his fine bridged nose. “That's damn young.”

“Pretend I'm twenty.”

“Where the hell are your parents?”

“Dead.”

“Guardian, then.”

“My brother's sleeping off his hangover with someone else's wife. Don't ask me who. His social secretary has trouble keeping up.”

“So you're on your own, keeping your own social secretary busy with musical beds.”

“I've never slept with a man.”

“Good Lord,” he said softly, but an ungovernable sensuality stirred at her admission. “Why me?” he asked, aware that he shouldn't be asking any more questions. He should be saying a polite good-bye.

“You're beautiful,” Juliana said, staring at him.

“No I'm not, but thank you.” Bernadotte was realistic about his looks. They were unconventional, severe in their modeling, slightly oriental across his cheekbones and eyes, sensual at times, but never beautiful.

“And your body's perfection,” Juliana added, secure in her own assessment of Bernadotte despite his demur. Bernadotte had the physical presence of a natural athlete: broad-shouldered and muscular, with a leanness through his torso and hips, a classical symmetry personified. “You're one of the few men who can tower over me. Your size is unusual for an amateur rider.”

“My family's bred the Fersten hunters for generations to accommodate the Fersten males,” he modestly replied. The Turkish leaf was soothing, like an old addiction, and Bernadotte relaxed against the wrought-iron chairback.

“What does your horse carry?” she asked.

“Ninety-three kilos.”

“The course was wicked yesterday. You didn't make one mistake.”

He smiled at her breathless flattery. “I've been riding competitively since I was eight.”

“I ride at least four hours a day,” she responded, proud of her interest.

“You hunt, then?”

“All season.”

“With the Grendale Valley?”

“No, the Worthington. You're astonishing over the jumps,” Juliana went on in a breathy voice. “Your balance is superb.”

“My father's trainer taught me to walk a high wire. It makes balance in the saddle second-nature,” Bernadotte replied, more comfortable now that the conversation had returned to horses.

“Would you go riding with me, someday?” The question was naked, her voice pleading, her eyes asking for more.

The mood had altered suddenly. “I don't know how long I'll be staying,” he answered evasively, putting out his cigarette, thinking it was time to go.

In her enthusiasm Juliana leaned forward, and her full breasts rose slightly above the shallow scooped neckline of her dress. “ If you stay?” she persisted.

“I'd like to, then,” he quietly replied, his dark eyes drawn to the soft, ivory curve of her breasts.

“I could show you the river and Alder's Bluff and Crane's Nest and-” While she swiftly recited the points of interest in the Worthington Valley, Bernadotte's libido, at variance with his mind's commands, envisioned Miss Carrville's large breasts unclothed. “It would be fun to ride together,” Juliana blithely declared.

Indeed, his carnal urges agreed. She was tall for a woman… and slender, except for those enormous breasts. Indeed, it would be a pleasure to ride her.

“Say you will,” she urged a moment later.

“I'd like that,” he said, and was startled out of his musing when she instantly stood, put out her hand to him, and invited, “Come, then.” Momentarily bewildered, he decided he must have missed something, but he took her small hand in his and asked, “Where?”

“Upstairs.”

He inhaled slowly, feeling the heat of her hand in his, feeling the silky smoothness of her skin against his calloused palm. “No,” he replied on a soft exhalation of breath, and let her hand drop. In the aftermath of a long night's drinking, every nerve, all sensation seemed acute and close to the surface. He could practically feel the damp heat of her body closing around him.

“I don't have any underclothes on,” she said, coming over to stand beside him. He felt his erection rising. “See.” She lifted the yellow and white pique skirt, and suddenly he was inches away from smooth, tanned thighs and pale, satiny hair growing in a faint iridescence pathway up the sleek curve of her stomach.

He should have said, “Put your skirt down,” but instead he murmured, “The servants-”

“Sent home.”

His hand delicately brushed against the pale silky hair. If she wasn't seventeen he wouldn't have asked again, “We're alone?” His dark eyes lifted to hers, and she nodded.

His flaxen head bent to kiss the glossy golden thighs and silvery hair, and she moaned, a low, luxurious sound. Of their own accord his hands came up, and he grasped her gently by the hips.

His palms felt rough on her skin; she'd noticed he'd ridden without gloves. Bare hands on the reins suited his style-no pretense. His touch was light, though, the barest pressure on her slim hips. But heated. She could feel his warmth. And she pressed into that warmth, wanted to be engulfed by the fire of this man whose reputation was torridly wild, whose daring skill as a rider balanced precariously between commanding his fate and plunging into the fires of hell. There were fires burning inside this man, and she wanted to dance in the flames.