Slowly, erotically, he pushed into her.
"Oh … yes." Half-whimpering, half-sighing, Anastasia wound her arms and legs around him, undeterred by the pain she knew must follow, focused on nothing but the need to be one. "This way. It's perfect."
"Sweetheart, I…" Damen had no idea what he intended to say. His body was inadvertently thrusting, urging him into her, crowding him into her snug, clinging passage. His eyes slid shut, all his energies concentrated on the incomparable feeling of making this woman his. "Anastasia." Her name was a love word, uttered over the roaring in his head, the pounding in his loins. She was so incredibly tight, quivering, poised on the brink of climax. And he wanted to share that climax, to meld his fire with hers, to feel her pulse and shatter all around him while he poured his entire soul into hers.
He reached the barrier of her innocence, and reality intruded in a jarring blow.
Damen froze, his fists clenching on either side of Anastasia's head, leaving deep impressions in the soft pillow below. Every muscle in his body went rigid, tremors of restraint quivering through him as his body screamed its protest.
God, he wasn't sure he could stop.
"Damen."
Anastasia whispered his name—a frantic whisper—and his eyes snapped open. Their gazes met and locked—hers wild, pleading; his hot, frantic.
"Don't stop." Her fingers, which had been clenched in the damp strands of hair at the nape of his neck, moved down his spine, clutched at his buttocks with an urgency as palpable as his own. "Please." She swallowed, clearly at the edge of her control, scarcely able to speak, much less express her desperation. "I need you." Her hips undulated, wordlessly beckoning him deeper. "I ache. I can't … bear it…"
Damen groaned, gave in to the inevitable. Framing her face between his palms, he stared deeply into her eyes, his own glittering with emotion. "I love you," he said fiercely. His hands shifted to her hips, gripped them tightly. "I love you, and you're mine."
He thrust forward; she arched to meet him.
The delicate barrier gave, and Damen couldn't stifle his exultant shout as he buried himself to the hilt, stretching and filling her entirely. At the same time, he was acutely aware of the pain he must be causing her, and he forced himself to still, not daring to move until he was sure she was all right.
Her body gave him his answer.
For the briefest second, she tensed, her body recoiling from the sharp, first-time intrusion. Then, the pleasure took over. She emitted a wondrous sigh, softening and melting, wrapping herself around him and sheathing him in liquid fire.
"Damen." She undulated her hips to feel him deeper inside her, then moaned as the frantic need for completion screamed to life, this time unwilling to tolerate delay. "I'm … dying…" she gasped, her nails digging into his back. "Damen … please."
It was all the encouragement he needed.
Withdrawing slowly, he watched her face, memorizing her expression as he surged forward, pushed even higher inside her, then repeated the motion, penetrating her in one deep, inexorable stroke. He heard her sob, felt her clench all around him, and he thrust forward again, angling his body so he could caress her inside and out, take her over the edge.
She screamed, her entire body dissolving into wrenching spasms of completion, and Damen pushed deeper into her, matching the rhythm of her climax even as his own built to excruciating heights, clawed at his loins until holding back became an impossibility.
He erupted, hot bursts of seed exploding from inside him, gushing into her in torrents. He threw back his head, shouted her name again and again, every fiber of his being focused beneath the onslaught of sensation. Her climax retriggered his, and spasm after hot spasm wrenched at his loins, shuddered through his body.
Finally, they both collapsed, sinking deep into the bed, too weak to move or speak, too sated to try.
Inhaling the scent of their lovemaking, Damen drifted, savoring the tiny aftershocks of pleasure that rippled through him. He cradled Anastasia in his arms, marveling at the extraordinary sense of peace and contentment that pervaded him.
It was ironic. He'd spent his life making investments—for himself, for others—embarking on ventures that altered circumstances, lives. And yet, despite the magnitude of these investments, he'd just discovered one that was far more vast, one that required all one's resources but yielded immeasurable riches in return.
Love, he mused in wonder. The greatest venture of a lifetime. And it's made without forethought, without reason, and without a whit of control—all of which he prided himself on displaying.
Clearly, he wasn't quite the genius everyone believed him to be.
But, damn, he was lucky.
* * *
Chapter 15
« ^ »
Somewhere in the house, a grandfather clock chimed four, and Anastasia stirred, murmuring a protest at even that minimal an intrusion.
Interpreting her action as a sign of discomfort, Damen gathered his strength and rolled to one side, taking her with him. "I'm hurting you," he murmured.
She smiled, shaking her head against his chest. "You never hurt me. Not before. Not now." She stretched, then leaned back, gazed up at him. "I never imagined feelings like that were possible."
"Nor did I." His knuckles caressed her cheek. "Then again, I never imagined you were possible. Thank God I was wrong."
Tenderness softened Anastasia's eyes. "You're turning out to be quite the romantic, you know."
"I know." Regret slashed his handsome features. "And the romantic in me wishes I'd walked you down the aisle, made you my wife, and gave you the wedding night you deserve."
"You will." She lay her palm against his jaw. "Damen, dashing off to Gretna Green is not my idea of a wedding. As for what just happened between us, how could anything have been more romantic, or more perfect?"
He turned his lips into her palm. "It couldn't. Nor could you." He bent down, kissed her tenderly. "At least I compelled you to get some sleep."
An impish grin. "If that's your technique, you're welcome to encourage me to sleep any time you want—now, and for the rest of our lives."
"I'll remember that, with pleasure." He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, noting the reminiscent light that glimmered in her eyes. "What were you just thinking?"
"About something Breanna said earlier. She said Grandfather would be delighted that you and I found each other. And I agree. He would."
Damen reflected on his memories of the late viscount, then nodded slowly. "I think you're right. Your grandfather was an exceptional man—intelligent, shrewd, and compassionate. To find all those qualities in one person is a rarity, believe me." A corner of Damen's mouth lifted. "He must have adored you—your spirit, your fire. And that incredibly sharp mind that puts the rest of the world to shame."
Anastasia smiled at Damen's assessment. "I don't recall putting you to shame. Try though I will, I've yet to best you."
"Ah, but I fully expect you to keep on trying," Damen teased. "Think how exciting our marriage will be—in bed and out."
"True." Her smile softened. "As for Grandfather, he adored Breanna and me—each for different reasons. He was the only person, until you, who never confused us. I suppose he saw differences that escape most people."
"He also saw the equally important similarities. Your loyalty and love for each other, your determination to preserve the Colby family. That's why he entrusted you both with that huge inheritance."
"Yes, I know." Anastasia sighed. "I think about that money often, about what Breanna and I can do with it that would ensure Grandfather's wishes are carried out. I feel as if the answer is right here in our own backyard, only we have yet to see it. But whatever it is, it has to be something that would bind our family together, not only now but for generations—actually, forever, if I had my way."
"I notice you don't speak of investing the money."
Anastasia's chin shot up and she gave an adamant shake of her head. "No. That's not what Grandfath
er wanted. He didn't regard the inheritance as an impersonal avenue through which to increase our funds. He regarded it as a uniting force, a means to entwine Breanna's and my futures, and the futures of our children. Allocating it to a business venture, or worse, to several different business ventures, is out of the question. If we divide it, it loses its impact. And if we invest it, however wisely…"
"…all you could reap is more money," Damen finished for her. "When what you're really determined to secure is something far more valuable." He kissed the pucker between her brows. "I think you've just begun to answer your own question. The rest will come with time. You and Breanna will see to it."
Absorbing Damen's words, Anastasia recognized not only the truth they held, but Damen's part in helping her arrive at that truth. Emotion formed a tight knot in her chest, emotion inspired by his innate understanding of—
The knock startled them both.
Anastasia jolted out of a light doze, automatically reaching for the bedcovers as Damen sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, a black scowl darkening his face.
"Who could it be?" Anastasia whispered.
"I don't know. But I intend to find out."
He yanked on his trousers, striding to the door and opening it just enough to address whoever was on the other side of the threshold.
"What is it, Proust? I thought I made it clear that I wasn't to be disturbed."
Proust. That was Damen's valet. Anastasia popped her head out from beneath the bedcovers, straining her ears to learn what the servant wanted.
"Forgive me, sir. I wouldn't have intruded, but you said to advise you the instant your response from the Paris office arrived. The courier just delivered it." He slipped a letter through the partially open doorway. "I took the liberty of bringing it up. I hope that was the right decision." A tactful silence.
Damen snatched the sealed correspondence, his entire demeanor having altered from infuriated to relieved. "It was absolutely the right decision. As usual, you know me well."
"I try, sir." Proust cleared his throat. "If that's all, I'll leave you to your privacy."
"Yes, that's all. I appreciate your diligence, Proust." Anastasia heard the servant's footsteps fade away. Simultaneously, Damen shut and bolted the door, tearing open the envelope as he walked across the room. "It's from Dornier," he informed her, perching on the edge of the bed and angling the correspondence toward the window to catch the late-afternoon sunlight. "He runs my Paris office."
By now, Anastasia had guessed that this letter concerned Damen's inquiries about Rouge, and she leaned forward eagerly, watching his face as he smoothed out the single sheet of paper. "What does it say?"
Damen scanned the letter, then reread it carefully, his brows knitting more severely with each passing word. "This makes no bloody sense," he muttered. "Dornier says he's totally baffled by my questions about Rouge and his background, given that I'm the one conducting extensive business with Rouge—business that's highly confidential in nature."
"What?" Anastasia sat bolt upright.
"According to Dornier … here, I'll read it to you: 'Some months ago,' Dornier writes, 'I received specific instructions from you advising that the Paris office would be receiving numerous sealed communications to one M. Rouge. Those confidential communications, you directed, were to be set aside and held while a note was immediately dispatched to a specific address…"'
Damen paused, reading the address aloud as if hoping that by doing so he would trigger some memory of its significance. "'4 Rue La Fayette.'" A blank shrug. "'In that note'—" He resumed reading Dornier's words. "—'I was to state that a message addressed to M. Rouge had arrived and was waiting at the bank's main office. Soon after that, I was to expect a courier to appear, presenting my note for identification purposes. At that time I was to give the courier Rouge's envelope, no questions asked.
"'Conversely, should a courier arrive at the Paris office bringing correspondence addressed to the House of Lockewood in London, with the designation, To Lord Sheldrake, confidential—M. Rouge, I was to dispatch that letter immediately, again no questions asked.'"
Damen looked up, an odd expression on his face. "Dornier closes by assuring me that he's followed my instructions to the letter, and asks whether my latest inquiry means I've decided to alter these arrangements. If so, I should advise him immediately. He's awaiting my reply. Dammit!" Bolting to his feet, Damen raked a hand through his hair and began pacing about the room. "Do you have any idea what this means?"
Anastasia's mind hadn't stopped racing since Damen had begun relaying the contents of the letter. Now, she nodded, feeling utterly sick—not only for the situation, but for Damen. "It means that someone is using the House of Lockewood as a conduit for sending information to and from Rouge." She pursed her lips. "Could it be my uncle?"
"No." Damen shook his head emphatically. "Although I'm sure whoever it is is working with your uncle. But there's no way George would have access to the bank's correspondence, most particularly to any letters addressed privately to me. Whoever sent Dornier those instructions has to work at the House of Lockewood." Damen stared at Anastasia, his expression pained. "Someone at my bank is using his position to undermine me and to help your uncle in his sick endeavors with Rouge. Well, I intend to find out who that is. And when I do, I pity him."
He stalked over to the writing desk, yanking out a quill and paper.
"You're writing back to Dornier," Anastasia deduced.
"Indeed I am."
"What are you planning?"
"I'm planning to beat this M. Rouge at his own game."
Anastasia inclined her head, considered Damen's statement. "How? By having the French police storm 4 Rue La Fayette? I doubt Rouge lives there. My guess is that it's just a meeting place."
"I'm sure you're right." Damen dipped his quill and started writing.
"Then what are you advising Dornier to do—snatch the courier when he arrives at the bank? Damen, there's no guarantee the lad turns the letters directly over to Rouge. In fact, there's no guarantee he's even met Rouge. Nor, for that matter, is there reason to believe that Rouge sends the same messenger each time. Anyone who's clever enough to buy and sell women without getting caught is certainly clever enough to cover his tracks with the couriers he uses."
"Again, your logic is excellent. Grabbing the messenger would be futile." Damen paused, his features taut with concentration. "The only way to beat a man like Rouge is to catch him by surprise. I'm going to tell Dornier to continue business as usual. The next letter that arrives from me addressed to Rouge is to be handled precisely the way it's been handled up until now. With two exceptions…"
His jaw set. "One, that I'm to be notified immediately of the letter's arrival by a courier waiting to leave for London at a moment's notice. And two, that a private investigator—one hired by Dornier the instant he receives this reply—is to follow Rouge's messenger from the bank to wherever he takes the correspondence I supposedly sent. Even if Rouge himself doesn't meet up with his messenger, another of his paid lowlifes will. I don't care if this investigator has to follow a chain of gutter rats through Paris and all the way up to Calais—which is where I'm sure the shipments of women first dock. He's going to unearth Rouge. And when he does, we'll grab him and implicate your uncle. Correction—further implicate your uncle. By then, I'll have had George arrested on charges of theft, kidnapping, and Lord knows what else. I'm just getting started."
Anastasia pursed her lips thoughtfully. "How are you going to manage that? With what proof? Never mind," she added quickly, supplying her own answer. "I can guess. You intend to find out who the traitor is at the House of Lockewood and link his activities to Uncle George. I should have known you'd never wait long enough for Rouge to be captured and supply you with his informant's name. You want him now."
"You're bloody right I do. I'm going to expose that bastard myself." Damen stared at the tip of his quill. "My father started the House of Lockewood, Stacie. He opened
our very first bank. He also invested a good portion of his money and all his heart and energy into making us the thriving merchant bankers we are today."
A small smile touched Anastasia's lips. "I think you're being a bit modest. From what Papa told me, you're the family genius—the one who made the House of Lockewood the most influential merchant bankers in England, maybe even in the world. Your business acumen, your powerful connections—why, every European nation seeks your advice and counsel. You might not have opened the bank's first doors, but I'd say you had a hand in establishing the House of Lockewood's reputation."
Damen waved away the compliment. "My financial insights enhanced our bank's reputation. But they didn't establish it. What established it was what brought people in initially, what convinced them to entrust us with their money, their investments. And that something was integrity. My father's integrity. He fostered loyalty and trust in our clients, and he did it by being a fine, decent, and honorable man. Shrewd investing might have increased our number of clients, expanded our number of contacts, but it was the knowledge those clients and contacts had—the knowledge that they could count on us, count on our honesty and dedication—that built our reputation. Well, no one's going to take that reputation away, certainly not some miserable scoundrel who's using his position in my bank to achieve his own crooked ends."