Lady Be Good Part 4

Then there was that mouth ... and her energy.... He smiled as he thought about having all that enthusiasm squirming naked underneath him.

Now he intended to use her to keep himself from thinking about Augusta, Dallie Beaudine, and a life that seemed increasingly pointless. Yes, sir, Lady Emma was just what he needed.

Emma dropped the potato peeler for the third time. It was a sleekly designed state-of-the-art German instrument. She bit her lip and returned her attention to the carrots. In a few more hours it would be over.

"How are those potatoes doing?"

She dropped the peeler for the fourth time and spun around.

He grinned as he sauntered toward her.

She took in the tan slacks he'd changed into while she'd been trying to nap, along with a black polo shirt bearing an American Express logo. Those neutral colors combined with his dark hair and tanned skin made a breathtaking contrast to his violet eyes.

He opened the oven door, picked up a paring knife, and poked at the potatoes. "These are about done. You got that chicken ready?"

"Chicken?" She'd forgotten about the chicken.

He straightened and nodded toward the carrots she'd just peeled. "If Bugs Bunny happens to drop by for dinner, he's going to be one happy rabbit."

She blinked and looked down. Instead of peeling just a few, she'd peeled an entire package. Enough for a dozen salads.

He gave her a knowing grin, then combined a couple of lazy stretches with retrieving a bowl and pan from separate cupboards. Somehow a canister of flour appeared, along with a stick of b.u.t.ter. With a slow flick of his hand, he dredged the chicken and set it sizzling in the pan. "You watch those while I get us some wine."

She stared at the chicken. Her pulses were jumping, and her stomach felt as if it had dropped to her toes. For a moment the extent of what she was losing overcame her-a decade worth of daydreams about a comfortable, scholarly husband with leather elbow patches on his jacket and ink stains on his fingers. Other women might fantasize about taming some dashing scoundrel with thick black hair, a magnificent body, and violet eyes, but that had never been what she'd wanted.

Kenny returned from the garage with a bottle and lowered the heat on the chicken, which was starting to smoke. "Lady Emma, you got to relax or you're gonna expire before we get half near the bedroom."

"I am relaxed! Perfectly relaxed!" She took a deep breath as she realized how foolish that sounded when it was obvious she was as tight as the cork in that wine bottle he was carrying. "Please call me Emma. I never use my t.i.tle."

"Uh-huh. If you're so relaxed, how's come you jump every time I look at you?"

"I don't jump!" She swallowed as she watched his hands turn the corkscrew, taking all the time in the world. She thought about those lazy hands taking their time with her, then reminded herself there was no ink stain on his thumb, no pencil callus on even one of those long, lean fingers.

"All right, then. I'm putting you to the test." He tugged out the cork, pulled several exquisite crystal wine goblets from a cupboard above the stove, and poured. "Here's what I'm gonna do. Just to make a point, mind you. I'm gonna touch one of your body parts, and while I'm doing it, you've got to stay perfectly still. If you jump, then you lose and I win."

"You're going to touch me?"

"The body part of my choice."

"Oh, I don't think that's a good idea."

"It's an excellent idea." He handed her a gla.s.s of wine. Their fingers brushed, and she jumped.

"You lose." Triumph gleamed in his eyes.

"That's not fair!"

"Why not?"

"Because ... when you said body part ... well, naturally I thought-"

He lifted an eyebrow at her. "You thought what, Lady Emma?"

"Just Emma! I thought-Oh, never mind!" She s.n.a.t.c.hed up a cuc.u.mber. "You're right. I am am a bit nervous. But that's only natural. I've never ... never done anything like this." She gazed down at the cuc.u.mber she was squeezing, realized what it was, and dropped it like one of the potatoes baking in the oven. a bit nervous. But that's only natural. I've never ... never done anything like this." She gazed down at the cuc.u.mber she was squeezing, realized what it was, and dropped it like one of the potatoes baking in the oven.

He chuckled. "You've never bought a man for the night?"

"Oh, dear ... must you say it like that?"

"I was doing my best to put it politely." He flipped the chicken. "Now, why don't you finish up that salad so we can eat?"

She forced herself to concentrate, and, after a few more missteps, they were seated at a gla.s.s-topped dining room table supported by a pair of sleek black marble pedestals. The place settings seemed to have materialized out of nowhere: white linen mats with matching napkins, china banded in navy and gold, heavy sterling with swirling handles. Her companion certainly knew how to pick his friends. She'd met a few of Kenny's counterparts in England, and she hadn't liked them-handsome penniless men who bartered charm for their friends' hospitality.

The idea of eating made her nauseated, so she took a sip of wine. It was lovely-fragrant and obviously expensive. He began to eat, and she noticed that nervousness hadn't interfered with his appet.i.te. She took a nibble of baked potato. It stuck in her throat.

He seemed perfectly comfortable with the silence, but she wasn't. Maybe some conversation would relax her. "Your friend has exquisite taste."

He gazed around at the luxurious dining room as though he were seeing it for the first time. "I suppose. Some sports posters'd be nice, though. A couple of La-Z-Boys in the living room. And a big-screen TV to watch ESPN while we're eating."

His cheerful denseness annoyed her, although he probably wasn't a bad sort, just too lazy to make anything of himself. Maybe no one had ever taken the time to suggest a better way. "Have you ever had second thoughts about your method of earning a living?" she asked.

"Not really." He dug into his chicken. "Escort service suits me just fine."

She succ.u.mbed to her natural instinct to help others build character. "But doesn't it ever present a problem for you when someone asks what you do for a living, and you have to say that you're an escort?"

"Problem?"

"People must know that's a-well, forgive me if I'm being too blunt, but a glorified term for a ... well ... a gigolo."

"Gigolo!"

She hadn't intended to be rude, and she began to frame an apology, only to have him grin. "Gigolo. I like that."

"It's a pejorative term," she felt duty-bound to point out.

"Maybe in that socialist state you live in, but here in the land of the free, home of the brave, people have respect for a man who's willing to make it his life's work to service lonely ladies."

"I am not lonely!"

"Or ones who are s.e.xually frustrated."

She opened her mouth to deny it, only to shut it again. Let him think what he wanted. Besides, she was was s.e.xually frustrated, even if that wasn't her motivation for using his services. She fumbled for her wine gla.s.s. s.e.xually frustrated, even if that wasn't her motivation for using his services. She fumbled for her wine gla.s.s.

He slipped his knife into a second piece of chicken, and she noticed he had excellent table manners. Regardless of the task, he performed it with a combination of lazy grace and minimal motion.

Too often in her life she'd set her own wishes aside out of deference to others, but tonight she wasn't going to do that, and she steeled herself for what needed to be settled. "This evening ... during our ... our interaction ... I want to make certain you understand that I can call a halt to the proceedings at any time."

"Oh, that's no problem at all."

"Good."

"Because I guarantee you're not going to want to call a halt to a single proceeding. Unless, of course, you happen to be a lesbian. Although, even then-"

"I'm not not a lesbian." a lesbian."

He had the gall to look disappointed.

She plunged on. "I simply think it would be better if we established certain ground rules."

He sighed.

"I am, after all, the customer, and as a customer-"

"You gonna eat that baked potato or just poke at it?"

She dug her fork into her potato. "I'm merely pointing out-"

"Upstairs."

"What?"

"Go on upstairs." He pushed back from the table and rose. "I can see I'm not going to be able to enjoy my meal until we get our business over with."

She gazed at his empty plate.

He gestured toward her wine gla.s.s. "You can take that with you, if you want. Or-Here, let me carry it. I know how much you like having other people haul things around for you."

"I can carry my own wine gla.s.s." She s.n.a.t.c.hed it away from him. "It's my suitcase that-" Before she could finish her thought, she was somehow on her feet and being steered toward the stairs.

His hand settled warm against the curve of her back. "We'll use my room. The bed's bigger, and I like having lots of room to maneuver." They reached the top of the stairs. "Dang, I forgot the tire chains."

Her fingers nearly snapped the stem of the winegla.s.s. "What?" "What?"

He rolled his eyes. "I'm just kidding. You're taking this way too seriously."

There was no response she could think of that wouldn't make her look even more agitated, so she held her tongue.

He steered her through the door, flipped on a light switch, then dimmed it to a golden glow. Like everything else in the house, this room was furnished elegantly. Eggsh.e.l.l white set off shades of deep navy and forest green. All the furnishings seemed to be pieces of art-the sleekly designed bureau, a towering armoire finished in silverleaf, an art deco bed with a silverleaf headboard.

She gazed at the bed and thought, That's where it's going to happen That's where it's going to happen. There, beneath a headboard designed for a museum, with a man she was paying to do the job, she would finally lose her virginity. It suddenly seemed like the saddest thing that had ever happened to her.

"I-I need to use the w.c."

"You go right ahead." He removed the wine gla.s.s from her hand. "There's a black silk robe hanging on the back of the door. Why don't you slip your clothes off and put that on before you come back out?"

Just like a doctor's office, she thought.

"Or ... I can undress you." His hand reached toward the small pearl fastening at the neck of her sweater.

She fled into the bathroom.

As the door slammed shut, Kenny smiled to himself. Lady Emma might be all tied up in knots, but he was having one heck of a good time. "That robe feels real good against bare skin," he called out.

Nothing but silence from the other side of the door.

He'd already noticed that Lady Emma liked his chest, so he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside. After he'd rid himself of his shoes and socks-but not his pants, because he wanted to build the antic.i.p.ation-he opened the armoire to get to his stereo system and pulled out a Michael Bolton CD. He didn't care much for Michael Bolton himself, but it was good make-out music, and, despite what he'd said earlier, he could perform just fine with music playing. As a romantic ballad filled the room, he decided the best part of making out with her would be the fact that she couldn't kiss and give orders at the same time.

Thinking about that mouth sent heat shooting right through him. It was funny that Lady Emma didn't seem to have a clue what kind of ammunition the Good Lord had armed her with. Her lovers must have kept that secret to themselves.

He sank back into one of the room's comfortable chairs to finish her wine. It was a real nice 1995 white burgundy. He sipped it leisurely as he stared at the door, willing it to open.

It didn't, and he finally realized he was going to have to go in after her.

He also realized the waiting was having a dangerous effect on his libido. Instead of calming him down, he was hotter than his short game at last year's Western Open. If he didn't get himself under control, he wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel, let alone the thirty dollars she thought she was paying him. And it was all because of that mouth, not to mention the curvy little body that he hadn't gotten to see nearly enough of.

He set her gla.s.s on the carpet and made his way to the bathroom door, which he rapped once with his knuckles, then eased open.

"Lady Emma?"

She stood frozen in the middle of the bathroom floor, dressed in his black silk robe with her clothes folded in a neat pile on the counter.

Oh, man.

His robe clung like hot water to every one of her curves. As he watched, two luscious buds appeared, disturbing the smooth curl of silk over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Right there, he nearly lost it.

Then he noticed that her hands were clutching the robe at her side, and he saw how truly nervous she was. As he took in her tousled b.u.t.terscotch curls and those fearful warm-brandy eyes, what was left of his honor reared its unwelcome head, and he was ashamed of himself. "You know, Lady Emma, you don't have to do this if you don't want to."

Her little chin shot up, her shoulders levered back, and those full lips set in a stubborn line. "Nonsense."

She pushed past him into the bedroom, nearly knocking him over as she swept by, and his sympathy changed to irritation. She had a way about her that riled him right down to his toes.

He followed her into the bedroom.

Her fingers clutched the sash of her robe. "You may proceed."

He'd proceed, all right. He'd proceed to drive her right out of her bossy little mind.

He unfastened his leather belt, and her eyes locked on the buckle as if she were watching a bomb getting ready to detonate. He let it hang open instead of pulling it from the loops. "Before we go any farther, I need to get the shape of you in my mind." He tucked his thumb in the waistband, right above the zipper, and wandered over to her. Then he made a big show out of closing his eyes and setting his hands on her shoulders.

She jumped, but he was expecting that, and he didn't let it stop him. Instead, he simply allowed his hands to stay there until he felt the barest easing in her muscles. Then he slid his palms along her arms.

After that, he began going where he wanted. Over the slope of her back. Along her ribs. Lingering on the outer curve of her hips.

She stood there as he stroked her through the silk. The brave little soldier. Until he got to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. They slipped into his hands, warm and full and round. She caught her breath as he caressed them. Made a soft, breathy sigh. Her arms came up, and her palms settled on his bare chest in a way that rattled his senses.

He opened his eyes and gazed down to see that her lids had dropped. A faint pucker of concentration had formed at the bridge of her nose. He brushed his thumbs lightly across her nipples. They were hard as flower buds. She gasped, and her lips parted.