A Curse of the Heart

Rebecca thrust her hands on her hips, her mind filled with a loathing for all men who sort to rob her of her free will.

“What would you have me call you — papa? My father is dead, Mr. Stone, and I do not need a replacement.”

He muttered a curse. “I am trying to help you, or have you forgotten that a man has been lurking in your storeroom for over a week.” He stabbed his finger towards the offending room as though parrying with a sword, each thrust more menacing than the last.

“And I thank you for your help, sir, but you’ve fulfilled your pledge to me, to my father or to whatever contrived notion of honour you managed to concoct.”

He reeled from the last remark, the imagined punch weakening his hard stance.

“As you rightly said, there is no curse,” she continued, determined to show him she was in control, “and so now I shall deal with the matter myself.”

He made an odd puffing sound. “Do you think me the sort of man to simply walk away?”

Something sparked and crackled in the air between them: an undefinable force that excited the senses. Her thoughts shifted to those strong arms, to those soft, full lips and she tried to find the strength to condemn her traitorous mind to the gallows.

“You’re the sort of man who leaves a lady to sit outside on your steps. You’re the sort of man who takes pleasure in exerting control, the sort of man happy to call a lady a liar and a thief.” Rebecca regretted the words as soon as they’d left her lips, but she could not reclaim them.

His dark brows arched mischievously. “I should be offended,” he said, and his deep voice sent a ripple of awareness right through her. “Indeed, I am offended. If that’s your assessment of my character, perhaps I should add another transgression to the list.”

As soon as he moistened his lips, she knew what he was he was going to do.

“If you’re thinking of kissing me, then do it, Mr. Stone.” Her tone was strong and firm as she laid down the challenge while her mind was a wreck of fragmented thoughts scattered about a desolate shore.

“Gabriel,” he whispered as he lowered his head. “My name is Gabriel.”

Just one taste, he thought, just once, just to satisfy the craving burning inside him.

It took every ounce of control he had not to ravage her mouth. But he wanted to prolong this moment, wanted to see if it was everything he imagined it to be.

He brushed her lips gently at first, a slow melding of mouths that held a wealth of promise. She did not pull away, and although she lacked experience in such matters, she met him with equal curiosity.

When his hand drifted up to caress her nape, the first pretty sigh left her lips and then he was lost. His tongue traced the line where her lips met, and she let him into her mouth, warm and wet, let him coax and tease. The need to taste her, to possess her, to sate this craving, caused his desire to spiral. He almost growled when her untutored tongue met his with a need that matched his own.

His fingers drifted down from her nape, down the curve of her back and he pulled her to his chest. The feel of her soft breasts pressed against him stoked the fire raging within. Then he lost focus, carried along on a wave of lustful passion, their tongues lost in each other mouths, his manhood hard and throbbing with need.

It was as though she had a magical ability to be everywhere all at once. The smell of lavender filled his head, and some other exotic scent specific to her. He could taste claret, mingled with the potent trace of desire. He could hear her little pants and moans, and he wanted to lay her down and drive into her over and over again until she clawed at his shoulders and cried out his name.

“Gabriel.”

It took him a moment to realise she had whispered his name, the sound caressing his needy body like featherlight fingers. His hands moved lower, cupping her as he lifted her off her feet, pushing her back against the display cabinet.

“Mr. Stone. The … the antiquities.”

It was as though she had thrown a bucket of ice-cold water over him, forcing him to open his eyes, to drag his mouth from hers. “Miss Linwood,” he panted, as his mind tried to assemble what had just happened. He lowered her down until her feet touched the floor and brushed the loose strands of hair off her face.

They stood there, staring into each other’s eyes, their ragged breathing the only audible sound.

He waited for the lump to form in his throat, for a pang of guilt to stab away at his chest, but it did not come. He wondered if he should ask for forgiveness

, but he was not sorry. Watching her put her fingers to her swollen lips made him want to kiss her again.

“Do you want to pretend that didn’t happen?” he said.

In one respect, it would be easier if she said yes. It would be easier to forget how sweet she tasted, to forget she was able to penetrate the wall he’d erected. But the reality was, he would never forget how good it felt to hold her in his arms.

“Do you?” she asked, her vivid green eyes fixated on his mouth.

A smile threatened to form on his lips. “I believe I asked first.”