hair at his nape was like silk, and her fingers slid through the dark length of it, pressing against the clean lines of his skull, embracing the whispers he voiced against her cheek and temple. For now, for just these short minutes snatched from all time, she cherished the man, welcomed his strength and the passion he offered.
And even in her limited experience, she knew it was an offer, not a demand.
Should she so choose, he would take her hand and lead her up the curving staircase to his bed, and there allow her the gift of his body, even as she presented her own into his keeping.
For how long? The words echoed in her mind as temptation ran riot within her. When he tired of her, as surely he must—eventually—would he send her away? And would she be better off than before? The urgency of desire was alive in her blood; unknown and unexplored, it flowed in every vein, and she was inflamed by its presence.
Yet, he did not press her further, only touched her with firm lips and strong hands, his arms encircling her with a promise of more to come, should she choose to accept his loving and the offer of a life here with him.
A life as his mistress.
Her breath caught in her throat and a sob escaped, the sound seeming loud in the silence. Nicholas lifted his head and she met his gaze, her eyes filmed with tears. His smile was singularly sweet, she thought, tilting one corner of his mouth as he accepted her unspoken denial of what he offered.
He bent to press one last kiss against her soft lips, and she responded with a movement of her mouth that held him motionless for a heartbeat.
And then he stepped back from her, bowing his head in acknowledgment of her choice. “I’ll light a candle for you, my dear,” he said gently. “Mind your step on the stairs.” Still holding her gaze, he whispered a soft invitation, his eyes warm with admiration.
“If ever you should change your mind, I’ll be waiting. And if you don’t—” His shoulders lifted in a gesture reflecting the patience in his gaze. “If you don’t, I’ll understand.”
Chapter Four
New York City, May 1897
Vincent Preston’s desk was neat and orderly, and the man sitting behind it appeared every inch the gentleman. Perhaps a stranger might hesitate at that assumption, given the harsh line of his mouth, or the chill light of disdain in his gaze, but in the business community of New York City, he was offered the respect due a successful man.
This morning, he waited for news from far-off. Halfway across the country, in fact. A simple matter he’d considered cut-and-dried only a month ago had now taken on the proportions of a problem he would have to go about solving on his own hook. His time was too valuable to waste, he’d told his lawyers and had, accordingly, expected them to provide him with a solution forthwith.
It had not happened. The child was gone. Whisked away from his grasp, and, to all reports, into the hands of a blood relation, her mother’s half brother. He hadn’t known Irene had a brother, half or otherwise. The woman had not only robbed him of his child, but made arrangements for his part in the girl’s conception to be unknown.
No one else but him knew the circumstances of Irene’s pregnancy. Probably the fool Irene married, he amended. And he’d thought Joseph Carmichael was an astute man, until he’d snatched up Irene and eloped with her, almost without warning. And had, when a daughter was born only eight months later, accepted the child as his own.
Now it went against his grain that a man of his stature should be put in the position of proving that the five-year-old child named Amanda Carmichael belonged to him. To Vincent Preston.
No matter. The girl was of no value to him. But the estate she’d inherited was another matter, consisting of one half of his company, plus a sizeable bank account.
He clenched his fist, and the paper he held crumpled into a ball of linen stationary. He knew the words it held, had read them over again, twice, and then for the third time. Now he waited for the messenger who would deliver an address into his hand.
There must be hundreds of small towns in Texas. But only one of them was the home of Nicholas Garvey.
A home where Vincent Preston’s daughter was in residence.
The door of Nicholas’s study closed behind her and she leaned back against it, aware of his every movement as he approached. “Mr. Garvey—”
His uplifted hand halted Carlinda’s words of address. “Begin again, please,” he said quietly. “My name is Nicholas.”
Her eyes focused on his throat as she hesitated, and he almost relented as she swallowed and inhaled deeply. But he’d chosen this time to set a precedent, and his hands twitched as he considered touching her chin and lifting it upward, the better to see those dark pupils that examined his collar so intently.
“After the other evening in the foyer, I’d have thought we were beyond the point of formality, Carlinda.” He refused to vary his stance, aware that he was purposely intimidating her, crowding her against the door of his study. Yet he was unwilling to allow her room to step aside. Her body vibrated with some emotion he hesitated to name, but was eager to examine.
Whether it be anger or passion, it mattered little. She reacted to him at a basic level, and furious as she might be, she could not control the response he brought forth from her slender body.
“Carlinda?” He pressed her for an answer, his hand lifting to touch her, hovering an inch above her shoulder, then settling firmly at the nape of her neck. She shivered at the pressure of fingers against her hairline there, ducking her head as if she would dislodge his grip.
“I’m not going away,” he said softly. “Just lift your chin and look at me, please.”
“You’re a bully, of the very worst kind,” she said bluntly.
He watched her jaw tense, caught the sound of an indrawn breath she forced through her nostrils, then smiled into her eyes as she met his gaze. “That’s better. Now repeat after me, my dear. Nicholas.”
She glared impotently, looking, he thought, like a child being reproved. Her lips pressed more firmly together and then, as if she shared his thought, they twitched at one corner and she was lost, the smile gaining strength as he met it with one of his own.
“You’re treating me like a schoolgirl, Nicholas.” She spoke his name, even as she shook her head at his nonsense.
“Sometimes you remind me of one. Now repeat it. One more time,” he whispered. “Nicholas.”
“Don’t push it,” she said flatly. “I understand the message. And I agree that we have passed beyond the boundaries set by polite society.”
“No one knows but the two of us,” he told her quietly. “And we did nothing wrong, Lin.”
“That’s not my name,” she told him, her chin lifting defensively.
“You’ve been Lin to me since the first time I heard Amanda call you by her pet name.”
“She’s a child.”
“But I’m not.” His breath caught and his voice deepened as he
