Chapter 14

She swallowed her ire as he strolled toward his clothes. Food. Drink. She must keep him happy. No matter whether or not it killed her. Then he'd well, the list couldn't be endless, could it?

"I have some brandy and some claret. Which would you prefer?"

"Either. Long as it's good."

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him wedge the apple between his teeth, then tug his shirt over his head.

"Long as you don't go putting any arsenic in it."

"No, and I won't spit in it either." Feel like it perhaps. But that was it. She edged the top off the crystal decanter. At least the wine cellar was reasonably well stocked. That would keep Flint happy enough so long as it didn't stop him performing. "Here."

"Set it down, will you?"

"Certainly. Where would you like me to set it? Down your throat?"

"I'll just spread out over there."

"Where?"

"The bed. Just let me get dressed, like you said."

She tightened her throat as she glanced sideways. She hadn't made any stipulation about the bed. The beautiful silk damask bedcover would be ruined by his boots. He must keep them off. She didn't want an argument with Signor Santa-Rosa that she had left his villa in a worse state than she'd found it.

"Fine."

The bed. It wasn't just Signor Santa-Rosa, was it? The thing the awful thing was she had nothing on Flint Blackmoore that he hadn't already paid for. Nothing she could use against him. Not a bill, not a jotting, not a witnessed statement. Not even the pretense of one. So all she could do was walk to the bed.

Raising her chin, she did just that. So far the evening had been a complete disaster. Well, maybe not quite a disaster. At least she had procured a contender. Even if it was the last man in the world she'd thought it would be.

She set the glass of claret down on the scrolled bedside cabinet. Then she walked around the bed and sat down.

Desire had played such a small role in her life for the last seven years, no wonder her heart hammered now. But she'd stop it.

"Thanks, Fury."

Bending down she eased off her shoes. "You're welcome."

Anyway, after the way Thomas had behaved, she wasn't likely all right, never mind Thomas after seven years, she still knew what this man was capable of.

"You mind if I have some grapes?"

She straightened. Mind? She endeavored not to bore a mental hole in his head. It was tomorrow's lunch after all. But she needed him so she couldn't afford to mind. She was also more than a little preoccupied, a little harried by this. In fact she was bloody furious at this time-wasting behaviour. It outweighed the desire to mind.

"Not at all. Just you make yourself at home."

"I will." He reached into the brass fruit bowl. Then he picked it up by the pedestal stem.

"Have the whole bowl." She gestured graciously.

"All right."

Although it infuriated her, if these were his terms, she'd meet them. So long as he just did this. She huffed out a breath. After the first time, it would be all right. She reached into the drawer on her side of the bed.

"What's that you've got there?"

"The cream, James."

She could get her own back when she wanted to.

"Just let me get something to eat first. These are mighty fine grapes." He tossed one into his mouth. "Then I still got my brandy to get."

"Claret."

"Hmm?" He ambled toward the bed and took a sip. "It's nice." It must have been, because then he took a gulp. He sat down on the edge of the bed and drained the glass. "You got any more?"

"The decanter is over there."

"You don't mind me helping myself?"

"Not at all, please." She held out a hand.

"That's mighty kind of you. I'll just bring it over here. Then I can get comfortable."

He did, with a deep sigh. The mattress sank as he stretched his long legs out, making himself at home, as Captain Flint always did on such a piece of furniture.

"Food. Drink. What more can a man want? And, like I said, this is a nice bed you've got here."

It should be. It cost a maharajah's fortune to rent.

"I forgot." His lazy gaze studied her. "You want me to put my boots back on?"

What she wanted was to get this over with. He sprawled so close, his back against the pillows, and he smelled so heady, her heart raced. But she was she was going to do this. Every stretched nerve ending in her body said she was going to do this. Because she had no choice.

"I don't think that is necessary. Please, just give me a minute." She rose and walked to the screen. It was one preparation she couldn't bear to make before him. God knows how she even managed the lid off the jar, the way her hands shook. But it would be worse to think herself aroused or to let him think she was.

She bent her head. When she'd applied a smooth dollop of cream, she'd walk back to the bed and lie down. The inevitable was now upon her. Why delay?

She lowered her skirt and wiped her fingers dry on a lace handkerchief. Now that was dealt with, she reminded herself of all her reasons to hate him. Not that she needed to when she hated him anyway. Then she walked back to the bed. Her heart racing harder, she spread herself out on the mattress.

"If you have no more demands "

He removed the apple from between his teeth and looked at her. Suddenly even the simple action of what to do with her hands was a problem. On her chest, as if in prayer? Above her head? Absolutely not. By her sides? Possibly.