puddle at her feet. Alex stepped out of it.
She was wearing a lace-trimmed, strapless, gold satin teddy, and a pair of thigh-high gold stockings. As he carried her into the adjoining bedroom, Alex clung to him mindlessly, eager to go wherever he took her.
She didn’t question how her underclothes were whisked from her. She only knew that they disappeared, as if by magic.
And then Debord’s clothes were gone, as well. He stood beside the bed, blatantly aroused. The ancient bedsprings creaked as he lay down beside her. “You are so voluptuous, ma cocotte.” His fingers closed over her full, aching breasts. “So hot.” His tongue laved her burning flesh.
He touched her, kissed her, licked her all over—her neck, her breasts, the backs of her knees, her stomach, on the insides of her thighs, in the furrow between her buttocks, even her toes.
He lay bare all her feminine secrets, all the while murmuring seductive suggestions in French that thrilled her.
It was torment. Torment mingled with escalating pleasure. The exciting, feverish floating feelings built even higher. Her body flushed strawberry pink.
“Please.” Alex wanted him wildly. Madly. She begged him to take her. “I don’t think...I need...” She could stand this no longer.
But he taunted her with his control, stripping away her defenses layer by layer, leaving her raw and vulnerable.
And then finally he took her. As the passion rose, furiously like a wind before a thunderstorm, Alex clung to Debord, surrendering to the rhythm. To him.
The designer arched his back for a long, charged moment, every gleaming muscle in his body cast into sharp relief. Heat flooded through Alex’s body, echoing his primal cry. It was as if the flame of their passion had ignited into a blinding fireball, searing them together for all time.
Forever, she thought as she lay in the strong protective circle of his arms, her lips curved in a secret womanly smile. The final phase of her life’s plan had blessedly come true. Just as she’d always dreamed. She and Debord were now inexorably linked—creative minds, spirits and bodies. Forever.
London
Located in the heart of modern London, The City, as it was known, was considered by many to be the wealthiest square mile on earth. It was also synonymous with power. Roman legions had once camped on land now taken over by towering high-rise office buildings, medieval guilds had plied their trades here, and swashbuckling capitalists—men who financed wars and countries—had transacted million-pound deals on the strength of a gentleman’s handshake.
These days, Americans and Japanese were rushing into The City in droves, clutching stuffed briefcases and folded editions of the Financial Times. The deals now made in The City tended to be about French films, Arab oil imports and shopping centers.
“You’ve come a long way from the bayou, boy,” Zach murmured as he watched a flock of pigeons circling the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral.
“You talking to me?” the taxi driver asked, looking at his fare in the rearview mirror.
“No. Just thinking out loud.”
The driver shrugged and concentrated on making his way through the crush of traffic.
The business day was coming to a close. Workers poured forth from the buildings, headed toward the Underground which would take them back to their homes in Knightsbridge and Mayfair. Buses forged their way through the crowded streets.
Tomorrow morning the same people would all rush back, talking fast, working hard, coming up with innovative new ways to make dizzying amounts of money. Because one thing that never changed was that money remained the lifeblood of The City.
Just as money was the reason for Zach’s being in London. He’d come here on Lord’s business. Or at least that was what he’d been trying to tell himself.
But the minute Miranda’s butler opened the door, Zach knew that the overriding reason he’d flown across a continent and an ocean was to be with the woman he’d not been able to get out of his mind for the past three weeks.
He knew he was behaving uncharacteristically. He couldn’t remember a time, even during his horny teenage years, when he’d been so obsessed with sex. Of course, he’d never met a woman like Miranda Lord before, either, Zach mused as he followed the dark-suited butler into the drawing room.
“It’s done,” he greeted her without preamble.
“Done?” She stubbed out her cigarette in a Lalique ashtray and crossed the room on a swish of crimson silk. “Do you mean...”
Feeling like a knight returning after a successful Crusade, he set his briefcase on a priceless Louis Quinze table and extracted a single piece of paper.
“Lord Smythe deeply regrets having caused you emotional distress. As proof of his willingness to accept full blame in the breakup of your marriage, not only has he dropped all claims against your assets, but he insists on paying all legal fees having to do not only with his attempt to acquire your Lord’s stock, but the divorce, as well.”
“Surely you jest!” She grasped the piece of paper from his hand, her avid eyes eating up the lines of text. “You darling, wonderful man.” Her voice was a low, satisfied purr. She pressed her hand against his chest, moving it lower. Then lower still. “How ever can I thank you?”
There was nothing subtle about her stroking fingers or the invitation gleaming in her eyes. Zach had come to the conclusion that directness was one of Miranda’s greatest charms.
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” he said amiably.
Much, much later, Zach telephoned Eleanor from Miranda’s antique bed and amazed his employer by announcing that he was taking five rare days off.
Since they couldn’t make love twenty-four hours a day, Zach and Miranda managed to leave the bed from time to time. Miranda proved an enthusiastic tour guide as she took Zach to all the attractions. Hyde Park, the Tower of London, Kensington Gardens.
She also took him to the London Lord’s. For a man in charge of a chain of department stores, Zach was an anomaly in that he’d always hated shopping. But unable to resist Miranda’s polished charms, he spent an afternoon following her through the big store, and while he couldn’t get excited about the aisles of china and linen, he had to admit that the cashmere sweater she selected for him was quite comfortable.
One evening they attended a concert at Albert Hall, immortalized by the Beatles in their Sergeant Pepper album. “Did you know,” Miranda offered, as they climbed into the back seat of the Daimler limousine that was waiting to take them back to her town house after the concert, “when Tom Jones played here, women actually threw their underwear onto the stage?”
Zach arched a brow. “Surely not proper English women,” he said with feigned shock.
Miranda nodded. “So I’ve been told.”
Her eyes glittered like the diamonds she wore at her ears and throat. Her gown was little more than a slip, which clung to every curve of her body, outlining the pert upthrust of her breasts and rounded buttocks in a shimmer of silver satin. It was obvious she was wearing nothing underneath it.
“Sounds like I’m in the wrong business,” Zach said. It had begun to rain; the steady drizzle diffused the streetlights and made the streets glisten like black glass.
Miranda’s sultry laugh promised myriad sensual pleasures. “You have absolutely nothing to worry about in the bedroom department.” She pushed the button that caused the thick, tinted glass to rise between the front and back seats.
Kneeling in front of Zach, she unzipped his slacks, then bent her head, draping his groin in a curtain of blond silk as she lowered her glossy lips over him. With every pull of her mouth, Zach came closer to exploding. When he didn’t think he could hold back another moment, he yanked her back up onto the seat, arranging her so that she was lying across his lap.