while this slobbery Casanova was all over her? She’d planned to let him make only a few preliminary moves, but it was clear Delancey had far more than just a harmless flirtation in mind.
He sat down beside her on the flowered settee, close enough for her to get a good look at his face. For a man in his late forties, he was still reasonably attractive, his skin relatively unlined, his hair still jet black. But the watery eyes and the sagging jowls were testimony to a dissipated life.
He leaned closer, and she had to force herself not to pull back in repulsion as those eyes swam toward her. To her relief, he didn’t kiss her—yet. The trick was to hold him off while she dragged as much information as she could out of him.
She smiled coyly. “I love your house.”
“Thank you.”
“And the art! Quite a collection. All originals, I take it?”
“Naturally.” Guy waved proudly at the paintings on the walls. “I haunt the auction houses. At Sotheby’s, if they see me coming, they rub their hands together in glee. Of course, this isn’t the best of my collection.”
“It isn’t?”
“No, I keep the finer pieces in my London town house. That’s where I do most of my entertaining. Plus, it has far better security.”
Clea felt her heart sink. Darn, was that where he kept it, then? His London town house? Then she’d wasted the week here in Buckinghamshire.
“It’s a major concern of mine these days,” he murmured, leaning even closer toward her. “Security.”
“Against theft, you mean?” she inquired innocently.
“I mean security in general. The wolf at the door. The chill of a lonely bed.” He bent toward her and pressed his sodden lips to hers. She shuddered. “I’ve been searching so long for the right woman,” he whispered. “A soul mate…”
Do women actually fall for this line? she wondered.
“And when I looked in your eyes today—in that tent—I thought perhaps I’d found her.”
Clea fought the urge to burst out laughing and managed—barely—to return his gaze with one just as steady. Just as smoldering. “But one must be careful,” she murmured.
“I agree.”
“Hearts are so very fragile. Especially mine.”
“Yes, yes! I know.” He kissed her again, more deeply. This was more than she could bear.
She pulled back, rage making her breath come hard and fast. Guy didn’t seem at all disturbed by it; if anything, he took her heavy breathing as a sign of passion.
“It’s too soon, too fast,” she panted.
“It’s the way it was meant to be.”
“I’m not ready—”
“I’ll make you ready.” Without warning he grasped her breast and began to knead it vigorously like a lump of bread dough.
Clea sprang to her feet and moved away. It was either that or slug him in the mouth. At the moment she was all in favor of the latter. In a shaky voice she said, “Please, Guy. Maybe later. When we know each other better. When I feel I know you. As a person, I mean.”
“A person?” He shook his head in frustration. “What, exactly, do you need to know?”
“Just the small things that tell me about you. For instance…” She turned and gestured to the paintings. “I know you collect art. But all I know is what I see on these walls. I have no idea what moves you, what appeals to you. Whether you collect other things. Besides paintings, I mean.” She gave him a questioning look.
He shrugged. “I collect antique weapons.”
“There now, you see?” Smiling, she came toward him. “I find that fascinating! It tells me you have a masculine streak of adventure.”
“It does?” He looked pleased. “Yes, I suppose it does.”
“What sort of weapons?”
“Antique swords. Pistols. A few daggers.”
Her heart gave an extra thump at that last word. Daggers. She moved closer to him. “Ancient weaponry,” she murmured, “is wonderfully erotic, I think.”
“You do?”
“Yes, it—it conjures up knights in armor, ladies in castle towers.” She clasped her hands and gave a visible shiver of excitement. “It gives me goose bumps just to think of it.”
“I had no idea it had that effect on women,” he said in wonder. With sudden enthusiasm he rose from the couch. “Come with me, my lady,” he said, taking her hand. “And I’ll show you a collection that’ll send shivers down your spine. I’ve just picked up a new treasure—something I purchased on the sly from a very private source.”
“You mean the black market?”
“Even more private than that.”
She let him guide her into the hallway and up the stairs. So he keeps it on the second floor, she thought. Probably the bedroom. To think she had gotten so close to it that night.
Somewhere, a phone was ringing. Guy ignored it.
They reached the top of the stairs. He turned right, toward the east wing—the bedroom—and suddenly halted.
“Master Delancey?” called a voice. “You’ve a telephone call.”
Guy glanced back down the stairs at the gray-haired butler who stood on the lower landing. “Take a message,” he snapped.
“But it—it’s—”
“Yes?”
The butler cleared his throat. “It’s Lady Cairncross.”
Guy winced. “What does she want?”
“She wishes to see you immediately.”
“You mean now?”
Guy hurried down the stairs to take the receiver. From the upper landing Clea listened to the conversation below.
“Not a good time, Veronica,” Guy said. “Couldn’t you…look, I have other things to do right now. You’re being unreasonable. No. Veronica, you mustn’t! We’ll talk about this some other—Hello? Hello?” He frowned at the receiver in dismay, then dropped it back in the cradle.
“Sir?” inquired the butler. “Might I be of service?”
Guy glanced up, suddenly aware of his predicament. “Yes! Yes, you’ll have to see that Miss Lamb’s brought home.”
“Home?”
“Take
