"Are you saying you're good with a needle and thread?"
"I'm a fast learner. So . . . care to sew with me?"
"I'm afraid I've got nothing like that to attend to."
"Is there something else I can help you with then," he said in a low voice. "Some kind of ache I could soothe. Some fire I could put out--with my mouth, maybe?"
Lizzie closed her eyes, and swayed in her chair. "Oh . . . God . . ."
"Wait, I've got it. How 'bout I take you to the second floor and we mess up your bed--then we can remake it."
When she finally looked over at him, her lids were low and her eyes were hot. "You know . . . that sounds like a perfect plan."
"I love it when we're both on the same page."
They stood up together, and before she could stop him, he went over and picked her up.
"What are you doing?" She pushed at his hold as she started to laugh. "Lane--"
"What does it look like." He headed out of the kitchen. "I'm carrying you upstairs."
"Wait. Wait, I weigh too much--"
"Oh, please."
"No, I really--I'm not one of those tiny little females--"
"Exactly. You're a real woman." He hit the stairs and kept going. "And that's what real men are attracted to. Trust me."
She let her head fall on his shoulder, and as he felt her eyes search his face, he thought of what Chantal had done with his father. Or at least, what she had said she'd done.
Lizzie had never betrayed him. Not in thought Not in deed.
She simply wasn't hardwired like that.
Which made her a real woman, and not just because she was no hundred-pound, social X-ray.
"No, you don't have to say it," he murmured as the old steps creaked under his feet.
"Say what?"
"That this doesn't mean anything in the larger scheme of things. I know you want me as a friend only, and I accept that. You should be aware of one caveat, though."
"What's that," she breathed.
He let his voice deepen. "I'm prepared to be a very patient man when it comes to you. I will seduce you for however long it takes--give you space if you need it or follow you tight as sunshine on your shoulder if you'll let me." His eyes locked on hers. "I lost my chance with you once, Lizzie King--that is not going to happen again."
TWENTY-SEVEN
As Edward sat in his chair, he was floating on a cloud of Beefeater gin, his body numb to the point where he was actually able to entertain a fantasy of potential strength and flexibility. In fact, he could imagine that getting to his feet would be an impulse easily followed, an uncomplicated, unconscious change of location requiring nothing more than a passing thought and a pair of thigh muscles that were happy enough--and capable enough--to do the job.
He was not drunk enough to actually give it a try, however--
The sound of a knocking on his door brought his head up.
Well, well, well. Given that he wasn't prepared to try the whole verticality thing, at least this arrival represented another alternative reality he could partake in.
And this one he would not deny.
With a grunt, he tried to sit a little straighter in his chair. There would be no going and opening the way for the woman, and he felt badly about that. A gentleman should always perform such a service for a member of the fairer sex, and he didn't care that his guest was a prostitute--the female deserved to be treated with respect.
"Come in," he called out, slurring his words. "Come on in . . ."
The door opened slowly . . . and what was on the other side, standing directly under the porch light was--
Edward's heart stopped beating. And then began to hammer.
"They got it right," he breathed. "Finally, Beau got it right."
The woman blinked. "I'm sorry?" she said roughly. "What did you say?"
The voice, too. How had they matched the voice?
"Come in," he rasped, motioning with his free hand, the one that didn't have the glass in it. "Please."
And do not be afraid, he thought to himself.
After all, in his current position, he was sitting in darkness, the illumination on the countless trophies in those shelves not quite reaching his face or his body. Which was deliberate, of course. He didn't like looking at his own self--there was no reason to make the whore's job harder by forcing her to have a clear picture of him.
"Edward?" she said.
In his drunken haze, all he could do was close his eyes as he went both limp . . . and hard in a very critical place. "You sound . . . as beautiful as I remember."
He hadn't heard Sutton Smythe's voice in person since before his trip down way south, and after he'd returned, he'd been unable to listen to any of her voice mails.
To the point where he'd ended up throwing that particular phone and number away.
"Oh, Edward . . ."
Dear Lord, there was pain in that voice. As if the woman were looking into his soul and responding to the tangle of anguish he'd carried around with him since he'd been told he was, in fact, going to live.
And indeed, it was so close to what Sutton actually sounded like. Funny, during his captivity, he'd lost consciousness three times over the course of the eight days he'd been held. Each time he had been in the process of fainting, Sutton had been the last thing he'd thought of, envisioned, heard, mourned. It hadn't been his family. Not his beloved business. Not the house he'd grown up in, nor the wealth, nor all the things he was going to leave undone.
It had been Sutton Smythe.
And that third time? When he'd been unable to see anymore, when he'd been unable to tell what was his sweat and what was his blood, when the torture had taken him to a place where the survival switch had been flipped off and he no longer prayed to get free, but for death . . .
Sutton Smythe had, once again, been the only thing on his mind.
"Edward--"
"No." He held up his hand. "Don't speak anymore."
She was doing so well already. He didn't want the woman to get ahead of herself and screw it all up.
"Come here," he whispered. "I want to touch you."
Opening his eyes, he drank in her approach. Oh, what a perfect silver dress that was, the hem of the gown down to the floor, her surprisingly tasteful jewels sparkling even when the light was behind her. And she also had the kind of clutch Sutton had always taken with her to formal events, the small, silk-covered square perfectly dyed to the hue of the dress even though, as she herself had always said, "matchy-matchy" was "so fifties."
"Edward?"
There was both confusion and yearning in his name.
"Please," he found himself begging. "Just . . . no talking. I only want to touch you. Please."
As her body trembled before him, he felt reality shift and he allowed himself to go with the ruse, falling into a fantasy that it actually was Sutton, that she had come to him, that they were, finally, going to be together.
Even though he was ruined.
God, it was enough to make him teary. But that didn't last long . . . because she stumbled and her eyes grew impossibly wide.
Which meant she had seen his face.
"Don't look too hard," he said. "I know I'm not as I used to be. That's why the lights are low."
Edward reached out and showed her his hands. "But these . . . these are unmarred. And unlike many parts of me, they still work just fine. Let me . . . touch you. I'll be careful--but you have to kneel down. I'm not too well on my feet anymore, and I must confess to having imbibed."
The prostitute was shaking from head to toe as she started to lower herself, and he sat forward, offering her his arm as if she were a lady disembarking from a car--as opposed to a working girl who was prepared to let a cripple have sex with her body in exchange for a thousand dollars.
When he eased back again, a sudden wave of dizziness came over him, testament that more of the alcohol was pumping into his system. Like all drunks, however, he knew that that was a temporary glitch that would se
lf-regulate.
Especially given all that he had to focus on: Even with his fuzzy vision, even with the dimness, even being drunk off his ass . . . he was in awe.
This one was so beautiful, almost too beautiful to touch.
"Oh, look at you," he whispered, reaching out to brush her cheek.
Her eyes flared again, or at least he thought they did--maybe he was just imagining things because of the way she drew in a quick breath. It was so hard to know, hard to track what was happening . . . reality was going all wonky on him now, twisting around on itself until he wasn't sure how much the prostitute actually looked like Sutton and how much he was projecting onto her just because she had long dark hair, and arching brows, and a mouth that was Grace Kelly perfect.
The woman's hair was down, just as he'd asked it to be, and he brushed his hand over the waves until he felt the curve of her shoulder. "You smell so good. Just like I remembered."
And then he was touching more of her, his fingertips traveling across her collarbone, over her diamond necklace, down to the curves of her decollete. In response, she began to breathe harder, the pump of her lungs bringing her breasts close to his palms.
"I love this dress," he murmured.
The gown was just Sutton's style: beautifully put together, tailored to the body that filled it out, made from chiffon that was the gray of a dove.
Sitting forward, he brought his meager chest to her spectacular one and reached around to find the carefully hidden zipper. As he drew the thing downward, the sound of the unfastening seemed so very loud.
He could have sworn she gasped as if he had shocked her. And that was oh, so perfect. Exactly what Sutton would have done.
And then yes, oh, yes, the whore returned his exploration, her shaking hands going up his thin arms. God, he hated all that trembling on her part, but then he was no doubt hard to have sex with.
At least with the way he was now.
"I wish I had done this before," he said in a voice that cracked. "My body was once something worth seeing. I should have . . . I should have tried to have you before, but I was too much of a coward. I was an arrogant coward--but the truth was, I could have withstood anything except you turning me down."
"Edward--"
He cut her off by putting his mouth against hers.
Oh, she was good. As good as he'd always imagined she would be, the slick feel of his tongue slipping into her and the way she moaned like she'd been waiting a lifetime for this making him forget what he had become.
That gown melted away, falling from her body as if it were in on the gig--as if it were perhaps getting a kickback for making the session happen faster. And he took advantage of the skin that now showed, kissing his way down to her perfect breasts, suckling on her nipples, getting greedy fast. Bless the poor woman's heart, she managed to fake things so well, her hands threading into his hair just as he wanted them to, her grip bringing him closer to her, even though that couldn't possibly be what the prostitute actually wanted.
He tried not to be rough with her, but God, he was so hungry all of a sudden.
"Get into my lap," he groaned. "You're going to have to get into my lap."
It was the only way he could have sex. Especially as he didn't want to subject either one of them to the embarrassment of her having to help him off the floor after it was over.
"Are you sure?" she said roughly. "Edward--"
"I have to have you. I've waited too long. I almost died. I need this."
There was a heartbeat's worth of pause. Then she moved with admirable quickness, rising from the floor, kicking the gown free, revealing--sweet Jesus, she had a thong on and nothing else, no stockings, no garters. And rather than wasting time to take the thing off, she pushed it to the side as he fumbled with the belt that kept his pants from falling off his jutting hip bones.
In spite of how the rest of him had faded away, his cock was still as hard and long and thick as ever--and he was oddly grateful to that organ for being the only thing that wasn't completely humiliating about this for him.
Shoving his arms into the chair, he pushed himself even farther forward, and she pretzeled herself, mounting him with enviable coordination--
His arousal penetrated her deeply, and the tight, hot hold she brought to him made him orgasm immediately--but that was not the amazing thing. Apparently the feel of him, by some miracle, did the same for her.
As she called out his name, she seemed to find her own release as well.
Either that or she'd missed her calling and should have been an Oscar-caliber actress.
Before Edward knew what he was doing, he began to move. It was weak, and rather pathetic, but she followed the lead, that first release soon getting eclipsed by an even greater orgasm for them both. Shuddering, rocking, straining, she held on to him for dear life, her hair getting into his face, her breasts pressing in to him, her body taking him on a ride like nothing he'd ever had.
The sex seemed to go on forever.
When it was finally finished, after a third orgasm for him, he collapsed back into the chair and panted. "I'm going to need you again."
"Oh, Edward--"
"Tell Beau . . . next week. Same time, same day."
"What?"
He let his head loll to the side. "Money's over there. Only you. I only want you again."
Abruptly, probably because he'd exerted himself more in the last twenty minutes than he had over the previous twelve months, he began to feel faint--and indeed, it seemed appropriate to pass out and let the prostitute leave on her own.
He could keep the fantasy going more easily that way.
"Thousand . . . by the door," he mumbled. "Take it. Tip will come . . ."
Edward meant to say "Tip will come later. I'll have someone drop it off at Beau's" or something to that effect. But consciousness became a luxury he could no longer afford . . . and he gave himself up to the oblivion.
Once again, thinking only of Sutton Smythe.
*
Sutton stumbled out of Edward's cottage. Her shoes were off and dangling from their straps, but unlike her earlier trip through the grass around the museum building, the porch boards and then the cobblestone path hurt.
It wasn't as though she cared.
As she bolted for the Mercedes, she was a mass of contradictions, her brain a jammed-up mess, her body all loosey-goosey.
He'd thought she was a prostitute?
But why else had he been talking about money and some guy named Beau? Next week?
Oh, God, they'd had sex . . .
How had they done that? How had she let . . .
Dear Lord, his poor face, his body.
Around and around the thoughts spun in her head, until, as if by centrifugal force, everything weeded out except for the fact that Edward was not at all as he had once been. His handsome looks were gone, the scars on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose and forehead making it virtually impossible to reconstruct by memory the perfection that had once been there.
She'd been aware that he'd been treated badly. Newspaper and television reports, her only source of information because he had refused to see anyone, had detailed the lengths of his hospital and rehabilitation stays--and that kind of extensive treatment did not happen without tragically good reason. But seeing him in person had been a total shock.
He'd been a polo player before the abduction. An event jumper. A runner. A basketball, tennis, and squash player. A swimmer. And because Edward had been a golden boy not just in business, but in every other aspect of his life, he had excelled at all of them.
I wish I had done this before. My body was once something worth seeing.
Sutton struggled to open her car's driver's-side door, her hand slipping off over and over again like she'd had some kind of a stroke and could no longer grip things properly. And when she finally was able to get herself into the car, she ran out of energy and just collapsed into the seat.
I should have tried to have you before, but I was t
oo much of a coward. I was an arrogant coward--but I could have withstood anything except you turning me down.
What had he been saying--and who had he thought he'd been saying it to? Her heart broke with the idea that he was in love with someone like that.
He'd been so drunk. To the point where right before she bolted, she'd checked to make sure his heart was still beating and he was breathing--because, yes, the idea that she might have killed him because they'd . . .
"Dear Lord."
How was it possible that, after years of thinking about it, they'd actually had sex. But only because he'd thought she was a whore he'd ordered from somewhere?
And no, they hadn't used protection.
Fabulous. This veering off the beaten path thing tonight was just all-around wonderful . . . especially because, even though he'd been drunk . . . even though she'd been a head case . . . and in spite of the physical condition he'd been in . . . the sex had been incredible. Maybe it was all that pent-up wondering, maybe it was compatibility, maybe it was because it had been a one-time-only, stars-aligned kind of event.
But whatever the reasons, he had just blown away the few men she had been with.
And, she feared, scorched the earth for anybody else.
Reaching forward, she pushed the start/stop button--and as the car's engine let out a purr, the headlights flared and made her panic. There were other people on the grounds--had to be--and the last thing she wanted was to get caught. She was going to need to figure out how to deal with this, and having the gossip mill get to churning was not going to be part of her coping strategy, thank you very much--
At that very moment, another car came down the alley of trees and, instead of heading for one of the barns or outbuildings, it pulled up right next to her.
The woman who got out was . . . tall, brunette, and dressed in a full-length evening gown.
She frowned as she looked at the Mercedes.
And came over.
Sutton put her window down, because what else was she supposed to do? At the same time, she also started searching for the right lever, button, whatever, to get the sedan into reverse.
"I thought I was on the schedule for this tonight?" the woman asked pleasantly enough.
"I . . . ah . . ." As Sutton stammered, a flush ran through her. "Ah . . ."
"Are you one of the new girls Beau was talkin' about? I'm Delilah."
Sutton shook the hand that was offered. "How do you do."
"Oh, you sound so posh!" The woman smiled. "So did you take care of him?"