Captives of the Night (Scoundrels 2)

Here, Ismal could listen to—and feel—her working, making her magic with such humble implements: pencil, brush, paint, canvas, paper. He possessed many gifts, but this had been denied him. Her talent intrigued and excited him—the mind, the hands...those beautiful, restless hands.

They were working now, making their mysterious artist's love to pencil and paper.

He wondered if he'd become her subject again. He hoped so. He wanted her to attend only to him, and fix on him...and come to him. He wanted her to come and caress him with the honey of her eyes…and with her passionate artist's hands…and bring her mouth to his as she had done the other night.

She'd done so against her will, because it could not withstand his. This time, however, Ismal knew he must work harder. This time, she must believe it was all her own doing. And so, once more he concentrated his will upon her, but with more dangerous cunning, for he let his breathing become steady and even, as in sleep.

Leila glanced at the clock. He had lain there more than an hour without moving a muscle. He must be asleep. She looked down at the sketch she'd made. She drew what she saw, and this was a body in repose, a face of almost childlike innocence. So the adult countenance often appeared, in sleep.

It was past two o'clock in the morning. She had to wake him. And send him home.

She shouldn't have to. He had no business falling asleep on her sofa. If he wanted to think—or sleep—he should do it in his own house. Really, his audacity was beyond anything. He was beyond anything.

Her glance flicked from the drawing to the subject and back again.

He was very strange, even for a Frenchman.

One should not generalize, she knew...but that countenance was not French. Somewhere in that noble bloodline some past Delavenne had mixed his blood with something...exotic.

She advanced a few steps, her head tilted to one side. But he did not look exotic—not in the dark, mysterious way one associated with the Orient, for instance. Perhaps not so far east, then. Perhaps no farther east than one of the Italian states. Certainly Botticelli had found his like centuries ago in Florence.

At the moment, the count seemed even more fragile than a Botticelli creation. But he often gave that impression even when awake, she thought as she neared the sofa. She knew he was about as delicate as a jungle cat. And just as dangerous. She'd seen them in menageries. They looked like big versions of house cats, some of them like kittens. They would look up at you with those big sleepy eyes, and you'd want to stroke them. Until they moved. Until you watched them prowl their cages, muscles rippling under the sleek coats.

Her face grew very warm, recalling: a dance, when she had stumbled...that moment, at Francis' door, when she'd fallen apart...strong arms wrapped around her...the confusion and the dangerous warmth. And the other night...I need you, he'd said. And in an instant he'd made her need him, desperately.

Though she had reached the sofa, she only stood there, gazing at his hands. His left arm lay across his flat stomach. His right, angled upon the pillows, partly framed his head, and the hand—that poor broken and mended hand—was curled as though it lightly clasped some invisible object.

She wanted to slide her fingers into the beckoning curve.

Into danger.

Her gaze slid lower, to the pale gold hair, slightly tousled now.

She wanted to slide her fingers into that silken disorder and muss it more.

Two silken strands had fallen over his eyebrow. She ached to smooth them back. Ached unbearably.

Don't, she told herself, even as her hand lifted to his face.

She brushed the hair from his forehead...and his eyes opened, and before she could snatch her hand away, his long fingers closed round her wrist.

"No," she gasped.

"Please."

He simply held her, exerting no pressure at all. She might have withdrawn, knew she ought, but she couldn't. It was as though the blue depths into which she gazed were some vast sea, and she were caught in the undertow. Heart hammering, she brought her mouth to his.

She met a too familiar tenderness and a sigh like welcome. He slid his fingers into her hair—to hold her, but so gently, as though he'd lured a bird into deep into her mouth. Then his arms lashed about her, and in one surging movement he pulled her off balance and onto the narrow sofa. His powerful body closed about her, a human trap of steely muscle, weight, and heat. The languorous pleasure vanished like any dream. In its place throbbed the reality of six feet of potent male animal, stirring now, restless…and dangerous.

She told herself to break away—now, before the restlessness blazed to masculine impatience. But already his hands were dragging over her, searing her flesh through layers of bombazine, cambric, and silk. She knew how to fight—she'd done it often enough—but she didn't know how to fight herself and him at the same time. She didn't know how not to want him—his scent, his heat, his hard, powerful body.

His hand, too sure, too knowing, closed over her breast in brazen possession, and she couldn't raise her own hand to push him away. Her aching flesh strained against the confining fabric, and her fingers itched to rip the cloth and bare herself to him. And while she fought not to betray herself, he was ravishing her mouth with slow, sensuous strokes. It was a sinful promise, a bold mimicry of the act of love, yet it ravished her needy heart, and made her ache to be loved, sin or no. To be his, however he wanted. Even to be wanted, for this moment, was enough. She was burning. She couldn't bear to burn alone. And so she urged him on, sinking into the hot liquor of his kiss, while she gave her body over to the simmering command of his hands.

She heard the low moan, deep in his throat, felt the shudder that ran through his frame and left it taut with tension. If sense or reason or will had remained to her, she would have fled then, in that his hands and the touch were meant only to quiet and reassure, not to imprison. He'd held her so the other night, and still she didn't know how to resist. She could no more fight the light clasp than she could the tender claim of his mouth.

This time, she'd come of her own volition, drawn not by guile or art, but by her own wicked desire...for more of what he'd given her before, though she knew it was a lure to ruin. He'd made no secret of his intentions. Now, he'd know that her rejection had been a lie. But right now, she didn't care. All she wanted was his lazily tender kiss, the caress of his fingers, trailing over her scalp so languidly that he might have been asleep still.

For this moment, she could almost pretend he was asleep, and she was in his dream. She gave herself up to the dream, and to the intoxication of his kiss, and the churning emotion inside her eased and curled into simple pleasure.

So the hand he still so lightly clasped curled in pleasure against the slippery fabric of the pillow. So, by slow degrees, did her taut muscles ease. The sensuous touch upon her scalp seeped under the skin and made slow trails of warmth through her neck and shoulders and on to the very ends of her fingers. In the same way, his lazily tender kiss sent shimmering trails of sweetness through her, to steal deep into her troubled, wanton heart.

She knew he wasn't asleep, that intent and calculation informed his idlest caress. She knew this was seduction, a beguiling prelude to her undoing. But the awareness was Reason's voice. Faint and far away, it warned in vain, because she was lost in him, beyond heeding anything but his coaxing mouth and tongue, his sinfully seductive hands.

He drew her down, and she went without a struggle...and tasted the first spark of fire as he drove last remaining moment before his control slipped. But she wanted him to ache and shudder and grow savage...for her.

He raked his hands down and, roughly cupping her hips, dragged her against his groin. He pushed against her, and through the frustrating barriers of silk and wool she felt the thrust of hot male arousal. He could have had her then, in a moment. He had only to drag up her skirts and tear away the flimsy garments beneath and drive into her. She was ready, hot and damp. But his devilish control wouldn't break. He held her where he wanted her, his

fingers kneading the ripe curves he'd captured, while slowly, rhythmically, he moved against her, a tormenting promise that turned her mind black with lust.

She wanted sin. She wanted to rip away the curst garments and touch that throbbing heat, and make it hers, make him hers. She wanted him inside her, driving deep, overpowering, possessing. She wanted to drown in the hot, drunken rapture he promised.

Wanted. Wanted. Wanted.

So very eager...insatiable...

She saw then, and couldn't drive the image away...herself, writhing in Francis' arms...his laughter…her helplessness…and after…sick and ashamed.

A sob caught in her throat, and she wrenched away, and scrambled up from the sofa.

She was fighting for breath and her limbs were like India rubber, unwilling to support her. All the same, she made herself move—and not look back. She couldn't look him in the eye and see her shame reflected there.

It was her shame. She couldn't blame anyone but herself. She was fully aware of the demoralizing effect her harlot's body had on men, and Esmond had told her plainly enough he wanted that body. She knew he was treacherous. She knew she should have kept away.

Instead, she'd let beauty lure her, and pleasure hold her, then slipped almost instantly to wanting sin, thinking sin. She pressed her fist to her temples and wished she could tear her brain out.

She heard his voice, and knocked the stool aside. It crashed to the floor, drowning him out.

She swept her arm over the worktable. Brushes, charcoal, paints, pencils, jars, sketchbooks, clattered to the floor.

"Madame."

No. She wouldn't look, wouldn't listen. She grabbed the easel and flung it down, and knocked over the glassware. Then she fled the room, slamming the door behind her.

Ismal gazed about him at the wreckage and waited for his heart to slow down. Then he left the studio and headed up the stairs to her bedroom. He knocked on the door.

"Madame," he said.

"Go away. Go to the Devil."

He tried the handle. It wouldn't move. "Madame, please unlock the door."

"Go away"

It took mere seconds to locate a stray hairpin near the head of the stairs. He bent it and returned to the door.