JoAnn Ross - Legacy of Lies

Alex swallowed. “What’s that?”

“A man tires of fashionably bone-thin women.”

His unwavering gaze was rife with sexual promise. A woman could drown in those eyes, Alex mused. And this man wouldn’t lift a finger to save her. Such thoughts, which should have frightened her away, strangely only made her want this passionate, talented man all the more.

Conversation lulled as they sat close enough for their thighs to touch on the red banquette, exchanging glances that grew longer and more heated as the evening progressed.

When she suggested they have their after-dinner drinks at her apartment, Alex was only following her heart, bringing things to their natural conclusion.

Their lovemaking, she told herself as they stood side by side in the slow, creaky elevator, had always been inevitable. With the single-mindedness that had allowed her to achieve, at the relatively young age of twenty-six, so much of her dream, she couldn’t put aside her belief that she and Debord were destined to be together. In every way. The elevator finally reached her floor. The ornate brass door opened. Alex walked with Debord down the hall, her full skirt swaying.

When she went to open her apartment door, the key stubbornly stuck in the lock. She twisted it viciously. Nothing.

“Allow me.” Alex could have wept with relief when Debord took over. The door opened, as if by magic.

“Would you like something to drink?” Suddenly horrendously nervous, Alex found her arsenal of feminine allure had mysteriously deserted her. “Some wine? Cognac? Coffee?”

“Cognac will be fine.”

“Cognac it is.” Although it cost far more than she could comfortably afford, Alex had purchased the expensive Rémy Martin that afternoon. Just in case.

She poured the dark brandy into two balloon glasses, handing one to Debord. His fingers, as they curved around the glass, were long and tapered. The thought of those fingers stroking her body sent a jolt of desire surging through her.

As they sipped their drinks, a pregnant silence settled over them. Debord was the first to break it. He put down his glass on the table in front of him, took hers from her nerveless fingers and placed it beside his. Then he turned toward her.

“You are beautiful, Alexandra Lyons.” He trailed his fingers up her throat. “And so very talented.”

They were precisely the words she’d been hoping—longing—to hear. “Do you really, honestly think so?” she whispered.

His hands were warm and strong and gentle as they cradled her head. His smile warmed her to the core. “Bien sûr.”

Desire clouded her mind even as his words thrilled her. Warmth seemed to leave his fingertips and enter her bloodstream, flowing through her, down her legs, through her arms to her fingertips, waves of shimmering, silvery light.

His lips captured hers in a devastatingly long, deliriously deep kiss that left her drugged. She felt hot. Feverish. She wanted to melt into him, she wanted to feel his naked body next to hers, she wanted to immerse herself in the scent of his flesh. Never had Alex known such need! She pressed herself against him. She felt his hardness and wanted him deep inside her.

He stood up and looked down at her for a heartstoppingly long time, his expression unfathomable. When he finally extended his hand, she took it, allowing him to pull her to her feet.

Very slowly, he unzipped her dress. It fell to the floor in a gilt-and-jet puddle at her feet. Alex stepped out of it.

She was wearing a lace-trimmed, strapless, gold satin teddy, and a pair of thigh-high gold stockings. As he carried her into the adjoining bedroom, Alex clung to him mindlessly, eager to go wherever he took her.

She didn’t question how her underclothes were whisked from her. She only knew that they disappeared, as if by magic.

And then Debord’s clothes were gone, as well. He stood beside the bed, blatantly aroused. The ancient bedsprings creaked as he lay down beside her. “You are so voluptuous, ma cocotte.” His fingers closed over her full, aching breasts. “So hot.” His tongue laved her burning flesh.

He touched her, kissed her, licked her all over—her neck, her breasts, the backs of her knees, her stomach, on the insides of her thighs, in the furrow between her buttocks, even her toes.

He lay bare all her feminine secrets, all the while murmuring seductive suggestions in French that thrilled her.

It was torment. Torment mingled with escalating pleasure. The exciting, feverish floating feelings built even higher. Her body flushed strawberry pink.

“Please.” Alex wanted him wildly. Madly. She begged him to take her. “I don’t think...I need...” She could stand this no longer.

But he taunted her with his control, stripping away her defenses layer by layer, leaving her raw and vulnerable.

And then finally he took her. As the passion rose, furiously like a wind before a thunderstorm, Alex clung to Debord, surrendering to the rhythm. To him.

The designer arched his back for a long, charged moment, every gleaming muscle in his body cast into sharp relief. Heat flooded through Alex’s body, echoing his primal cry. It was as if the flame of their passion had ignited into a blinding fireball, searing them together for all time.

Forever, she thought as she lay in the strong protective circle of his arms, her lips curved in a secret womanly smile. The final phase of her life’s plan had blessedly come true. Just as she’d always dreamed. She and Debord were now inexorably linked—creative minds, spirits and bodies. Forever.

London

Located in the heart of modern London, The City, as it was known, was considered by many to be the wealthiest square mile on earth. It was also synonymous with power. Roman legions had once camped on land now taken over by towering high-rise office buildings, medieval guilds had plied their trades here, and swashbuckling capitalists—men who financed wars and countries—had transacted million-pound deals on the strength of a gentleman’s handshake.

These days, Americans and Japanese were rushing into The City in droves, clutching stuffed briefcases and folded editions of the Financial Times. The deals now made in The City tended to be about French films, Arab oil imports and shopping centers.

“You’ve come a long way from the bayou, boy,” Zach murmured as he watched a flock of pigeons circling the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral.

“You talking to me?” the taxi driver asked, looking at his fare in the rearview mirror.

“No. Just thinking out loud.”

The driver shrugged and concentrated on making his way through the crush of traffic.

The business day was coming to a close. Workers poured forth from the buildings, headed toward the Underground which would take them back to their homes in Knightsbridge and Mayfair. Buses forged their way through the crowded streets.

Tomorrow morning the same people would all rush back, talking fast, working hard, coming up with innovative new ways to make dizzying amounts of money. Because one thing that never changed was that money remained the lifeblood of The City.

Just as money was the reason for Zach’s being in London. He’d come here on Lord’s business. Or at least that was what he’d been trying to tell himself.

But the minute Miranda’s butler opened the door, Zach knew that the overriding reason he’d flown across a continent and an ocean was to be with the woman he’d not been able to get out of his mind for the past three weeks.

He knew he was behaving uncharacteristically. He couldn’t remember a time, even during his horny teenage years, when he’d been so obsessed with sex. Of course, he’d never met a woman like Miranda Lord before, either, Zach mused as he followed the dark-suited butler into the drawing room.