not that easy.” Her mouth was set in a firm line. “I don’t want or need your offer of money, or anybody else’s for that matter.”
“Don’t take me for a fool, Mademoiselle. And I won’t take you for the innocent that you pretend to be,” he said in a softly uttered threat. “You know how to play Le Comte for a puppet, and you know exactly how to convince him to relinquish the score to you.”
The confusion and embarrassment clouding her eyes was a fine bit of acting, he thought, looking at her drift away from him a few steps, in perfect time with the music’s rhythm.
“Tell me, is Le Comte sparing with the purse strings?” he continued ruthlessly as his strong arms propelled her back toward him. “One should think those emeralds around your lovely neck would keep you satisfied. Or are you trying for diamonds?”
“Stop it,” she whispered under her breath, then in the next instant lifted her gaze to him boldly as though changing her mind. “Rubies, actually,” she said with a brittle voice. “I’m trying for rubies, if you must know.”
He didn’t like the answer or her bravado. “Then perhaps we should turn up the heat.”
She gave him a mockingly sweet smile, for his benefit or for their audience, he wasn’t sure. “And how do you propose we force Le Comte’s hand?” she asked.
“With the utmost discretion, of course,” he said, fooling neither her nor himself. “As strategies go, you of all people must know how potent the combination of seduction, jealousy, and deception can be, Mademoiselle,” he explained, his voice rough velvet as he led her from the center of the ballroom to the protective shadows of a grouping of leafy plants.
She was a tall woman but he still towered over her, backing her into a corner. In the wavering candlelight, he thought he glimpsed uncertainty and fear in her eyes as she refused to lower her gaze, staring steadily, courageously into his face. Vulnerability was difficult to feign and for a moment, Blackburn questioned his own powers of observation. He watched the tip of her tongue slide from her lips, the gesture deliberate, which he didn’t know. All he knew was how his body reacted with a blast of heat.
As though to make it easier for her, his shadowed face moved fractionally closer as he slid his fingers deep into the mass of her hair to tilt her face upward. It was just one way to fight the battle, he persuaded himself, before taking her face in both palms. Her mouth trembled beneath his, moist, pliant, and intensely female.
The tension eased out of her by slow degrees as his lips brushed lightly against hers. Instead of drawing away, Devon drew unconsciously closer, her lashes lowered, closing her eyes. He teasingly nipped her lower lip, his tongue licking inside. She surrendered her mouth, opening to the voracity of his deepening kiss while the strains of violins and the protective covering of fronds receded in the distance.
More insistent and demanding, the pressure of Blackburn’s lips increased in a velvety heated stroking as his tongue suggestively explored, caressing her sweetness, tasting her mouth with a lazy greed. Slow and inexorably consuming, his mouth devoured hers until she gasped for breath. He heard her groan as she pressed her breasts against him, oblivious to the sharp edges of the pilaster biting into her back, sighing against the succulence of their hot, ravenous play.
“We should have done this from the very first,” Blackburn whispered roughly, and plunged again for her pliant tongue as his hands stroked their way down her back and to the sides of her breasts.
Against his mouth, she whispered, “This makes no sense…” But she wound her arms around his neck, shuddering at the feel of his palms molding her breasts. She sank into his kisses, long, leisurely, wet incursions that left her so weak he had to hold her up in his arms.
As if he had all the time in the world, and as if a good number of Le Comte’s guests had not spied their impromptu rendezvous, Blackburn traced a voluptuous trail along her parted lips, her smooth cheek, the curl of an ear, the highly sensitive, he discovered, curve of her neck. He moved his mouth to the softness of her shoulder and felt Devon shiver at the touch of his mouth, his teeth, the soothing stroke of his tongue.
No longer distant nor in complete control of the encounter, Blackburn felt himself become harder, tauter, his body contemptuously mocking his attempt at detachment. Her skin was like rich cream beneath his lips, her body sinuously lush as it melted into his. She drew a shuddering breath and, against his will, his hard fingers slid from her breasts to the back of her head where they tangled in her thick hair. His mouth, a hot brand, closed over hers once again.
His eyes closed in self-defense and he immediately saw her naked beneath him, warm and soft and ready. He groaned against the tidal wave threatening to overtake them both. Her open and ardent sensuality startled him like nothing had in a very long time, and he had drunk from the very depths of decadence, manipulating, controlling the most sophisticated of carnal games.
He forced his eyes open, pulling back and releasing her by slow degrees with small kisses, erotically tugging at her lips, willing himself to ignore the clamoring of his heated blood, willing his erection to subside. She was just another of de Maupassant’s women. His pulse slowed, he tensed and ice water began to replace the blood in his veins.
The objective was to have her secure the Eroica, at whatever cost.
Blackburn looked at the woman in his arms, his body responding all out of proportion to those full lips, ripe and parted in longing, at the eyes widening in alarm as she intuitively realized his intent. She made a small sound at the back of her throat.
This was a woman who could destroy a man.
He felt the iron rod of his erection mocking him.
He would give her one more night with her lover.
Blackburn’s hands tightened on her waist, struck from nowhere by the thought that he would not be able to pry his hands from her body. He couldn’t let himself imagine her lying naked beneath him, open to the incredible pleasure he’d give them both.
Anger washed over him, fresh and raw. “Go to him, Devon,” he growled softly.
Devon spared him a frantic look, allowing him to remove her clutching hands from his shoulders. He firmed his resolve, blocking out any feelings bleeding around the edges. With this woman, he needed every advantage he could get.
“I’ll give you one more night.” His tone was simultaneously ferocious and cold and, sensing her shock, he wanted to make sure there were no more misunderstandings.
Her hands fisted by her sides, her body taut in rebellion. “This is absolutely barbaric,” she whispered, searching his face for explanation.
“Dispense with your pretense of bourgeois morality, Devon.” A slow burn ignited in his stomach. “You clearly have no problem sharing your favors with me, so what’s your problem with de Maupassant? The fate of Europe and England hangs in the balance while you’re busy playing ingénue.”
“I am fully aware of the implications,” she said, her voice quavering slightly. “It’s not that simple…you don’t understand.” She drew a breath, diverting his attention to the smoothness of her shoulders and to the perfection of her breasts rising like offerings from the shimmering fabric of her dress.
The need for her was strong. His erection strained against his breeches and he swallowed, giving himself a hard mental shake. “Tonight, Devon.”
She licked
