Susan Johnson: Seduction in Mind

"After meeting her for ten minutes?" Ranelagh snorted. "You're drunk."

"And you're putting golf balls at seven o'clock when you're never even home at seven."

Sam tossed his club aside. "Let's go."

"Are you going out like that?"

The viscount offered his friend a narrowed glance. "None of the girls at Hattie's will care."

"True," Eddie muttered, heaving himself up from the leather-covered couch. "But don't do that to me again. It scares the hell out of me."

Sam was shrugging into his jacket. "Do what?"

"Change the pattern of our dissolute lives. If you can be touched by cupid's arrow, then no man's safe. And that's bloody frightening."

"Rest assured that after Penelope, I'm forever immune to cupid's arrow," Sam drawled. "Marriage doesn't suit me. As for love-I haven't a clue."

"I'll drink to that," Eddie toasted, snatching up the brandy bottle as Sam moved toward the door.

But by chance, their route took them past the studio of Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, an artist as celebrated as Leighton, and a small carriage parked at the curb caught Sam's eye. He recognized it from Leighton's. Knocking for his driver to stop, he turned to Eddie. "I'll meet you at Hattie's in a few minutes."

"Why are you getting out here?"

"I need some air."

"Why?"

Sam was already swinging down from his carriage. "No special reason," he said, pushing the door shut. "I'll see you in ten minutes." Glancing up, he gave instructions to his driver.

"You're sure now?" Eddie looked perplexed.

"You'll be entertained at Hattie's with or without me, but I should be there shortly."

"You're acting very strangely tonight."

"You're drunk," Sam replied pleasantly, and nodded to his driver.

The carriage pulled away.

But Eddie was right, Sam realized as he stood on the curb before the commanding entrance to Alma-Tadema's pseudo-Pompeian palace. He was strangely out of sorts tonight, or curiously ruminative, or, more precisely, in rut for the tantalizing little bitch who had turned him down that afternoon. And he wondered for a moment if his vanity was involved, if he wanted her simply because she'd said no.

But he wasn't so crass, nor was he vain. Although he had no explanation for his motivation other than lust. Or none he could comfortably accept. So lust it was that made him stop-and propelled him toward the door.

Alma-Tadema was feted in society; they'd met before, but Sam had never crossed the threshold of his home. Taking note of the dearth of other carriages, he wondered if the artist's wife was out of town and he might be intruding on a tête-à-tête. His consideration was fleeting, however. He really didn't care.

Unconsciously straightening his cravat, he walked to the huge double doors, lifted the polished brass lion's-head knocker, and let it drop.

A young servant girl came to the door. No one so pretentious as Leighton's Kemp was there to greet Alma-Tadema's guests. Her curtsy was unpolished, her face scrubbed and rosy, and Sam decided that in spite of his wealth, Sir Lawrence was considerably more natural a man than the head of the Royal Academy.

He asked to see her master, and when the maid inquired whom she should say was calling, Sam said, "If you don't mind, I'd like to surprise him." Offering her a warm smile, he placed a twenty-pound note on her palm, winked, and added, "Miss Ionides and I are friends."

She didn't hesitate; the sum represented several months' salary. "Right up the stairs, sir, and turn to your left," she directed, taking the hat and gloves Sam handed her. "His studio be those double doors at the end of the hall."

When Sam reached the doors, one of them was ajar, revealing a portion of the studio and a fascinating view that brought his erection surging to life. A golden twilight bathed the room, gilding the naked flesh of the woman who had consumed his thoughts. Miss Ionides was languorously disposed on a large sable rug that was draped over a running course of marble plinths. The backdrop represented the partial ruins of a Roman temple-Alma-Tadema's speciality in history painting, as was his virtuoso depiction of female flesh. An alabaster bowl of white lilies at the lady's feet was no doubt meant to be metaphorical, or perhaps paradoxical, because this was no innocent maiden lying before him.

Miss Ionides embodied a flamboyant wantonness. Lying partially on her side, her supple body was flexed faintly at the waist so the curve of her hip was thrown into provocative silhouette. Her head and one shoulder rested on a sumptuous pile of plum-colored brocade pillows, the small feather fan she held over her mons the only nod to modesty in the flagrantly sensual pose. The contrast of her warm, glowing flesh against the cool marble backdrop and the luxurious fur was riveting, as was the voluptuous splendor of her body. Her breasts were enormous and plump, dangling like delicious ripe fruit with the slightly forward twist of her torso, her waist was hands-span narrow-which enchanting thought added dimension to Sam's arousal. As for her slender, shapely legs, he reflected, his gaze traveling leisurely down her form, surely they were made to be wrapped around him.

He was so hard, he was aching, the eroticism so explicit and palpable, he was hard pressed not to stride up to her and carry her off like some marauding barbarian at the gates of Rome.

Suddenly aware he might not be the only man on the scene so inclined, Sam shot a glance at the artist, who was applying paint to the canvas with a decided ferocity. Moved to action by the sight, Sam shoved open the door and strode in. "Forgive me for intruding." His voice was too curt for true apology. "I have a message for Miss Ionides."

Masking her shock, Alex didn't know if she should be gratified or angry at Ranelagh's intrusion. Her second irrelevant thought was that he hadn't changed, as though it mattered a whit that he still wore his day clothes when she wore none. She sat up as Sir Lawrence moved to intercept Sam's progress.

"We're busy, sir," the artist said gruffly, standing solidly in Sam's way. "You must leave."

"This won't take long," Sam replied, coming to a stop, glancing at the man's crotch. Either Alma-Tadema had enormous restraint or was a eunuch, he decided. His affability restored, Sam's voice took on a new degree of courtesy. "My compliments on your painting of the lady, Sir Lawrence. Could I buy it?"

The artist hesitated, wondering if he'd imagined the rude glance. Sam's expression was completely benign. "I'm afraid it's already sold," he finally said, giving the viscount the benefit of the doubt.

"To whom?"

"Mr. Cassels."

"A shame. It's very beautiful."

"Alex is an exceptional lady."

"How so?" The words were suddenly abrupt, cool, all traces of amiability stripped away.

The painter squarely met the displeasure in Sam's gaze. "I don't see that it's your concern."

Both men were large, fit, and obviously disinclined to back down, Alex suspected, if their pugnacious poses were any indication. Since she had no wish to become the center of an embarrassing altercation, she said quickly, "Never mind, Larry. I'll speak with Ranelagh."

"You see?" Sam nodded a cool dismissal at his opponent.

Sir Lawrence cast a searching glance at Alex.

"I'm fine," she asserted. "Really."

As Sam approached the dais, Alex tried to curb the heat rising to her face. He seemed larger than she'd remembered, and disconcertingly more handsome. Forcibly tamping down the flush of excitement that gripped her senses, she said crisply, "You shouldn't be here, but since you are and since I prefer you not grapple with Larry, kindly state your business and be on your way."

It took him a fraction of a second to answer because the view at close range was glorious.