Duchess Quartet - A Wild Pursuit Part 32

Seducer nothing, she thought as she closed the door behind him, wishing she could close the door on her rampant thoughts as easily. Ramsey Sage looked like the kind of man who would take whatever he wanted, whoever he wanted, whenever he wanted, the rest of the world be d.a.m.ned. And the wantee, Claire was certain, would go along quite willingly, and when it was over, be left feeling as if she had just experienced the highest summit of joy.

She followed Mr. Sage into the living room, but following him left her gazing, however involuntarily, at his backside-all right, so maybe it wasn't all that involuntary-and she couldn't help noting, dammit, that his backside was every bit as noteworthy as his front side had been. Because his faded jeans hugged his taut hindquarters and strong thighs with much affection, and his denim work shirt strained against the muscles of his broad back. His arms were nicely bulked with sinew without being overblown, his biceps and forearms curving appreciably with muscle, his skin bronzed and powerful beneath that oddly erotic, barbed-wire tattoo.

And, strangely, Claire found herself wanting to trace the circ.u.mference of that tattoo with her fingertips, and oh, my, but that endless-summer-night thing was starting up again, growing more and more graphic and explicit in her mind-and on her body, too, she had to admit-with every pa.s.sing moment.

Clink, clink, clink went the chains on his boots as he walked.

And zing went the strings of her heart.

"Won't you sit down, Mr. Sage?" she said as he continued across the living room to where Chandler stood to greet him upon his arrival. And also as she continued to ogle his backside. "This is Handler, ah, I mean Chandler. Chandler Edison. He's my, um... my attorney."

Boy, she was really going to have to be careful. Because in addition to misintroducing Chandler by a moniker that had been what Claire was thinking about doing to Mr. Sage's backside, she had almost called Chandler her "b.u.t.torney." That would have really been embarra.s.sing.

"Mr. Edison, good to finally meet you," Ramsey Sage said as he approached Chandler, politely extending his hand again, and surprising Claire once more with his manners.

"Mr. Sage," Chandler replied as he shook the proffered hand, though with none of the easiness Ramsey Sage exhibited, and with all of the reluctance one might expect of Chandler, seeing as how he had a nasty aversion to denim.

"Call me Ramsey," Ramsey told Chandler. Then he turned to Claire and added, "You, too, Miss Willoughby."

Claire told herself to extend the same courtesy to him, but something prohibited her. She wasn't sure she could be responsible for her actions if she heard her given name spoken in that dark, velvety baritone of his. So she only nodded her acknowledgment of his comment and decided to skirt the issue as best she could by calling him nothing at all. The last thing she needed to do anyway was slip up and address him as Mr. Hunka Hunka Burnin' Love.

And just what had gotten into her anyway? she demanded of herself. This was getting silly. Ramsey Sage was a walking, talking warning label for decent women everywhere. He was unkempt, unclean, and uncompromising. Not to mention potentially dangerous. She was probably crazy to even invite him into her home, whether he approved of it or not. And she was even crazier to think there was any chance he would be able to care for Anabel. She bit back the panic that began to rise in her throat and wondered what she was supposed to do. If Ramsey Sage couldn't take on the care and feeding of his niece, then who could? Claire certainly didn't want to be responsible for the little girl any longer than she had to be. She didn't know the first thing about children.

How had she gotten into this mess? And more to the point, what was she going to do to get out of it?

Jack Parrish CONFIDENTIAL!.

in Daisy's Back in Town by Rachel Gibson Coming February 2004 Name: Jackson Lamott Parrish Nickname: Jack Hometown: Lovett, Texas Car: Red '63 T-Bird with red interior First kiss: Daisy Lee Brooks... in her cute little cheerleader uniform Super secret: Has been known to hang out at The Road Kill bar "My, my," his voice drawled in the darkness, "if it isn't Daisy Lee Brooks."

It had been fifteen years, and his voice had changed. It was deeper than the boy she'd known, but she would have recognized that nasty tone anywhere. No one could pack as much derision into his voice as Jack. She'd understood it once. Known what lay behind it. She didn't kid herself that she figured him out anymore.

"h.e.l.lo, Jack."

"What do you want, Daisy?"

She stared at him through the screen and shadows, at the outline of the man she'd once known so well. The knot in her stomach pulled tighter. "I wanted to... I need to talk to you. And I thought..." She took a deep breath and forced herself to stop stammering. She was thirty-three. So was he. "I wanted to tell you that I was in town before you heard it from someone else."

"Too late." The rain pounded the rooftop and the silence that stretched between them. She could feel his gaze on her. It touched her face and the front of her yellow rain slicker, and just when she thought he wasn't going to speak again, he said, "If that's what you came to tell me, you can go now."

There was more. A lot more. She'd promised Steven that she'd give Jack a letter he'd written a few months before his death. The letter was in her purse; now she had to tell Jack the truth about what had happened fifteen years ago, then hand over the letter. "It's important that I talk to you. Please."

He looked at her for several long moments, then he turned and disappeared into the depths of his house. He didn't open the screen for her, but he hadn't slammed the wood door in her face, either. He'd made it clear that he was going to be as difficult as possible. But then, when had he ever made things easy?

Just as it always had, the screen door squeaked when she opened it. She followed him through the living room toward the kitchen. His tall outline disappeared around the corner, but she knew the way.

The inside of the house smelled of new paint. She got an impression of dark furniture and a big-screen television. The outline of Mrs. Parrish's piano pushed against one wall, and she wondered briefly how much had changed since she'd last walked through the house. The light flipped on as she moved into the kitchen, and it was like stepping into a time warp. She half expected to see Mrs. Parrish standing in front by the almond-colored stove, baking bread or Daisy's favorite snicker doodle cookies. The green linoleum had the same worn patch in front of the sink and the countertops were the same speckled blue and turquoise.

Jack stood in front of the refrigerator, his top half hidden behind the open door. His tan fingers curled around the chrome handle, and all she could really see was the curve of his behind and his long legs. One pocket of his snug Levi's had a three-corner tear, and the seams looked like they were almost worn through. Adrenaline rushed through her veins, and she balled her hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

Then he rose to his full height, and everything seemed to slow, as if someone flipped a switch on a movie projector. When he turned and shut the refrigerator door, holding a quart of milk in one hand by his thigh, her attention momentarily centered on the thin line of dark hair rising from the waistband of his jeans and circling his navel. She lifted her gaze past the hair on his flat belly and the defined muscles of his chest. If she'd had any lingering doubts, seeing him like this removed them. This was not the boy she'd once known. This was definitely a man.

She forced herself to look up past his strong chin, the etched bow of his tan lips, and into his eyes. She felt the back of her throat go dry. Jack Parrish had always been a good-looking boy, now he was a lethal man. One lock of his thick hair hung over his forehead and touched his brow. Those light-green eyes and long black lashes that she remembered, that had once looked at her so full of pa.s.sion and possession, watched her as if he were no more interested in seeing her than a stray dog.

"Did you come here to stare?"

She moved farther into the kitchen and shoved her hands into the pockets of her raincoat. "No, I came to tell you that I'm in town visiting my mother and sister."

He raised the milk and drank from the carton, waiting for her to elaborate.

"I thought you should know."

His gaze met hers over the carton, then he lowered it. Some things hadn't changed after all. Jack Parrish, bad boy and all around h.e.l.l-raiser, had always been a milk drinker. "What makes you think I give a s.h.i.t?"

he asked and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

"I didn't know if you would. I mean, I did wonder what you'd think, but I wasn't sure." This was so much harder than she'd envisioned. And what she'd envisioned had been pretty dang hard.

"Now you don't have to wonder." He pointed with his milk carton toward the other room. "If that's all, there's the door."

"No, that's not all." She looked down at the toes of her boots, the black leather spotted by the rain. "Steven wanted me to tell you something. He wanted me to tell you that he's sorry about... everything." She shook her head and corrected herself. "No... was sorry, I mean. He's been gone seven months and it's still hard for me to remember him in the past tense. It seems wrong somehow. Like if I do, he never existed." She looked back at Jack. His expression hadn't changed. "The flowers you sent were really nice."

He shrugged and set the milk on the counter. "Penny sent them."

"Penny?"

"Penny Colten. Married Leon Cribs; she works for me now."

Well, Penny hadn't sent them and signed his name without his knowledge. "Thank Penny for me."

"Don't make it a big deal."

She knew how much Steven had once meant to him. "Don't pretend you don't care that he's gone."

He raised a dark brow. "You forget I tried to kill him."

"You wouldn't have killed him, Jack."

"No, you're right. I guess you just weren't worth it."

The conversation was headed in the wrong direction, and she had to turn it around. "Don't be ugly."

"You call this ugly?" He laughed, but not with pleasure. "This is nothing, b.u.t.tercup. Stick around and I'll show you how ugly I can get." She already knew how ugly Jack could get, but while she might be a coward, she was also as stubborn as ragweed. Just as Jack was not the same boy she'd once known, she was not the same girl he'd once known, either. She'd come to tell him the truth. Finally. Before she could get on with the rest of her life, she had to tell him about Nathan. It had taken her fifteen years to get to this point, and he could get ugly all he wanted, but he was going to listen to her.

A flash of white caught the corner of Daisy's eye a second before a woman entered the kitchen wearing a man's white dress shirt.

"Hey y'all," the woman said as she moved to stand by Jack.

He looked down at her. "I told you to stay in bed."

"I got bored without you."

Heat crept up Daisy's neck to her cheeks, but she seemed to be the only embarra.s.sed person in the room. Jack had a girlfriend. Of course he did. He'd always had a girlfriend or two. There had been a time when that would have hurt.

"h.e.l.lo, Daisy, I don't know if you remember me. I'm Gina Brown."

It didn't hurt any longer, and Daisy was a bit ashamed to admit to herself that what she mostly felt was an overwhelming relief. She'd come all the way from Seattle to tell him about Nathan, and now all she felt was relief. Like an axe had been lifted from her throat. She guessed she was more of a coward than she

thought. Daisy smiled and moved across the kitchen to offer Gina her hand. "Of course I remember you.

We were in American Government together our senior year."

"Mr. Simmons."

"That's right."

"Remember when he tripped over an eraser on the floor?" Gina asked, as if she weren't standing there

wearing Jack's shirt and, Daisy would bet, nothing else. "That was so funny. I just about-" "What the h.e.l.l is this?" Jack interrupted. "A d.a.m.n high school reunion?" Both women looked up at him and Gina said, "I was just being polite to your guest." "She isn't my guest and she's leaving." He pinned his gaze on Daisy, just as cold and unyielding as when she'd first walked in the door. "It was nice to see you, Gina," she said. "Same."

"Good night, Jack."

He shoved his hip into the counter and crossed his arms over his chest.

"See you two around." She walked back through the dark house and out the door. The rain had stopped

and she dodged puddles on her way to her mother's Caddie parked on the side of the garage. Next time,

she would definitely call first. Just as she reached for the door, she felt a hand on her arm, whipping her around. She looked up into Jack's face. Security lights shined down on him and the angry set of his jaw. His eyes stared into hers, no longer cold but filled with a burning rage.

"I don't know what you came here looking for, absolution or forgiveness," he said, his drawl more p.r.o.nounced than before, "but you won't find it." He dropped her arm as if he couldn't stand the touch of her.

"Yes, I know."

"Good. You stay away from me, Daisy Lee," he said. "You stay away or I'll make your life a misery."

She looked up into his dark face, at the pa.s.sion and anger that had not abated in fifteen years.

"Just stay away," he said one last time, before turning on his bare heels and disappearing into the

shadows.

She knew she would be wise to heed his warning. Too bad she didn't have that option.

Although he didn't know it yet, neither did he.

Stephen Fairfax-Lacy CONFIDENTIAL!

in A Wild Pursuit by Eloisa James Coming March 2004 Name: Stephen Fairfax-Lacy Nickname: The Puritan Hometown: London Car: A sleek carriage with fine horses (it is the Regency, after all!) First kiss: A gentleman does not tell such things Super secret: Would like to begin a scandalous affair...

The Puritan had arms like steel. He didn't pay a bit of attention to her wiggling, just picked her up and turned her around and then when she looked up at his face, she suddenly stopped protesting.

He didn't kiss like a Puritan. Or an old man either.

He kissed like a hungry man. Bea's first sensation was triumph. So the Puritan had pretended that he didn't notice her charms. Ha! That was all an act. He was just-he was just like-but then somehow, insidiously, she lost her train of thought.

He was kissing her so sweetly, as if she were the merest babe in arms. He didn't even seem to wish to push his tongue into her mouth. Instead he rubbed his lips against hers, danced on her mouth, his hands cupping her head so sweetly that she almost shivered. She quite liked this.

Oh, she felt his tongue. It sang on her lips, patient and tasting like raspberries. Without thinking, her own tongue tangled with his for a second. Then she realized what she was doing and clamped her mouth shut. There was nothing she hated more than a man pushing his great tongue where it didn't belong.

But he didn't. He just nibbled her lips, and his mouth drifted across her face and pressed her eyes shut, and then closed back on hers with a ravenous hunger that made her soften, ache deep inside.

He probably thinks I'm a virgin, Bea thought in a foggy sort of way.

His mouth was leaving little trails of fire. He was nibbling her ear and she was tingling all over. In fact, she wanted-she wanted him to try again. Come back, she coaxed silently, turning her face toward his lips. Try to kiss me, really kiss me. But he didn't. Instead his tongue curled around the delicate whorls of her ear, and Bea made a hoa.r.s.e sound in her throat. He answered it by nipping her earlobe, which sent another twinge deep between her legs.

He tugged her hair and she obediently tipped her face back, eyes closed, and allowed him to taste her throat, all the time begging silently that he return, return, kiss her again... But he seemed to be feasting on her throat and he hadn't even tried to touch her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Men always...

But that was the thought that woke Bea. She hadn't been thinking of grappling in the field when she dressed in the morning. These particular b.r.e.a.s.t.s aren't meant to withstand a man's hand. There was more cotton than flesh.

She opened her mouth to say something but at that moment he apparently decided he had tormented her enough and his mouth closed over hers.

She could no more fight that masculine strength than she could rise to her feet. He didn't coax this time; he took, and she gave. And it wasn't like all the other times, when she tolerated a moment or two of this kind of kissing. The Puritan's kiss was dark and sweet and savage all at once. It sent quivers through her legs and made her strain to be closer. His hands moved down her back, a.s.sured, possessive. In a moment he would bring them around to her front, and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were aching for...

Except those b.r.e.a.s.t.s were covered by wads of cotton.

She tore her mouth away, gasping and stared at him. She didn't even think about giving him a seductive glance. She was too stunned.

"I like you when you're like this," he said, and there was that sweetness to his eyes again. He reached out and rubbed some rain from her cheeks. "You look rain-washed and very young. Also rather startled. It seemed to me that you've been inviting kisses. Was I wrong?"