Rendezvous (9781301288946) (23 page)

"So you want to play rough?" he asked
with a low seductive growl. Her struggles to pull free of his
viselike grip on both wrists were futile. She could not match him
for sheer strength. Pausing, she panted for breath, staring up at
him.

As their eyes locked, the laughter
shared between them stilled. Belle became all too conscious of the
intimacy of their position, the hard length of his masculine body
trapping her against the floor, just as she sensed Sinclair's
awareness of it, too. His eyes hazed a smoky shade of green, his
dark hair tumbled over his brow, his pulse beating at the base of
his throat.

"Surrender, Angel." His light taunt
came out somewhat unsteady.

"Never," she said. "You gloat too soon,
Mr. Carrington."

She allowed herself to go limp beneath
him and cast him her most sultry look from beneath the thickness of
her lashes, then slowly undulated her body against his.

He regarded her with astonishment that
soon became a flash of some more heated emotion. When he released
her wrists, she insinuated her hands between them, caressing his
shoulders. Undoing the top button of his shirt, she slipped her
fingers inside the linen, the crisp fabric in marked contrast to
the warm pulsing flesh of his chest beneath.

"You don't fight fair, Angel," he
said.

"Alas, sir," she whispered. "I am but a
poor weak woman. I haven't a gentleman's notions of
honor."

"The problem is, neither have
I."

His arms closed roughly about her, his
mouth seeking hers, claiming her with a searing kiss. He shifted
onto his back, pulling her on top of him, but Belle felt no rush of
triumph, for she was no longer in any more control of the situation
than he.

Like a reckless child, she had played
amongst the embers, and fire is what she had found. She tasted of
it on Sinclair's lips, felt it in the heat of his body beneath her.
As her lips parted, inviting the probing sweetness of Sinclair's
tongue, those same flames flickered to life inside of
her.

She should stop him, but how she had
needed this. Last night had been so endless, she still felt the
chill of it in her soul. Sinclair was all that was warmth, all that
was life, stirring in her desires she had too long
ignored.

He made an effort to put her from him,
although she could tell from the tremor coursing through his arms
what effort it cost him. "Angel, I am sorry—"

"No!" Recklessly she pressed herself
atop him. "Don't stop. Please. I have been alone for so
long."

Her plea dissolved whatever resistance
he had mustered. With a low groan, he reclaimed her lips. She
buried her fingers in his hair, clutching him to her, prolonging
the heady sensation of the kiss, for once casting caution to the
winds. Her whole life had been a gamble, so why was she so afraid
to take one more risk—that perhaps with Sinclair, this time might
be different.

The apartment fell silent except for
the crackle of the fire, the more raging inferno Belle felt
building inside her. Sinclair was just beginning to undo the
braided loops of her spencer when they heard the click of the latch
on the outer door. The sound, soft as it was, seemed to crack
through the apartment with the force of a pistol shot.

She and Sinclair exchanged a startled
glance. The clatter of footsteps on the marble floor of the
antechamber beyond terminated their mounting passion as effectively
as if the casement had been flung open, dousing them with chilling
rain.

Sinclair was the first to react.
Cursing under his breath, he scrambled to his feet. Grasping Belle
by the wrist, he hauled her up after him. She had time to do no
more than draw in a composing breath and attempt to smooth back her
hair before Paulette peeked into the drawing room, rainwater yet
beading upon the covered basket in her hand.

Paulette's lips rounded in momentary
surprise, then her insolent gaze swept from Belle's disheveled hair
to the undone buttons of Sinclair's shirt. Belle was annoyed to
feel a wave of heat course into her cheeks.

"I hurried to finish the
marketing,
chérie
,
for fear you might need me for something else,” Paulette said, “but
I see that my return is most out of time."

Sinclair glared at her, but Belle
straightened, gathering up the ends of her dignity.

"Not at all. It is fortunate you are
back so soon. I will be going out tonight and need you to help me
with, my hair and gown."

"
Certainment
." There was mockery in the
curtsy Paulette made. She raked Sinclair with a hungry gaze. "My
congratulations, chérie. You have the
bon
chance
. Do not allow me to disturb you. I
will be in the kitchen."

Smirking, Paulette backed out of the
room, leaving an awkward silence behind her. Belle turned to face
Sinclair, but there was no question of resuming her place in his
embrace. Paulette's return had effectively shattered whatever
longings had pulsed between them. They regarded each other for a
moment, both feeling somewhat foolish.

"Good fortune, indeed!" Sinclair said,
echoing Paulette's remark. "The pert trollop! Though perhaps we
ought to thank her for the intrusion. We appear to have gotten
somewhat carried away with our role-playing."

"So it would seem, Mr. Carrington."
Belle managed to force a smile.

"I am sorry, Angel. I usually have a
little more finesse than to attempt to make love upon the drawing
room carpet. I don't know what the devil got into me."

His apology was all that was gallant,
but Belle would have none of it. She had ever borne responsibility
for her own actions.

"I was the devil," she said. "I
deliberately provoked you."

"But I am sure you never meant matters
to go that far—"

"Don't try to tell me what I meant. It
is not my way to arouse a man and then play the part of outraged
virtue."

"And it is not my way to compromise a
lady's reputation, either."

"Compromise? Good God, Sinclair." Belle
essayed a bitter laugh. "You talk as though I were some sort of an
innocent—which you well know I am not."

"What you are"—he cupped her chin with
his fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze—"is a woman with a most
vulnerable heart."

His words, the tender look that
accompanied them, pierced her with a feeling so poignant it was
nearly akin to a physical pain. Belle thought it would be far
easier to stand naked before him than have him peer into the most
hidden recesses of her soul.

Gently, but firmly, she pushed his hand
away from her. She said as brightly as she could, "I am a woman who
must look a positive fright. I best make some effort to bring
myself to order, or there will be no need to abduct Bonaparte. I
will scare him to death."

Kneeling down, she allowed her hair to
veil her face as she made a great show of searching for her
hairpins. She feared Sinclair would bend down to help her, but
after heaving a deep sigh, he said, "I think it might be best if I
went out for a bit. I could use a breath of air."

She nodded, making no effort to
dissuade him, only saying, "Take care not to get lost. The streets
of Paris are like a maze."

He promised to be careful, and then he
was gone. Belle could hear him in the antechamber beyond, gathering
up his cloak and umbrella. She rubbed her arms, still so conscious
of his touch, fighting an urge to fling open the drawing room door
and summon him back.

How ridiculous, she thought. It was not
as though she would never see Sinclair again. If she truly wished
it; she knew there would be other opportunities to find herself in
Sinclair's embrace, uninterrupted by Paulette.

She was glad of Paulette's untimely
return. It had saved her from rushing headlong into something she
might have cause to regret, gave her more time to think.

Over the years she had learned life
could be far less painful that way, trusting more to reason than
feeling. There was only one problem with such an approach. One
frequently ended with a clear head, but an empty heart.

From the room beyond, Belle heard the
outer door slam and knew that Sinclair had left the apartment.
Staring into the blazing fire, she wondered how the logs could
crackle so, but still leave her feeling cold. And once more she was
conscious of the rain.

Sinclair emerged into the street, his
steps aimless, with no other purpose in mind than to escape from
the apartment, the overwhelming desire to go back and pull Belle
into his arms. He didn't bother opening his umbrella, grateful for
the cold rain that pelted his face and dripped off his hair in
rivulets, cooling his overheated senses.

He must have made a curious sight, he
though wryly, except the other pedestrians appeared too busy in
their efforts to keep themselves dry to worry overmuch about a
madman who would thus expose himself to the elements. A driver of
an ancient fiacre pulled by two raw-boned horses did slow to a
halt, urging Sinclair to hire his vehicle. When Sinclair ignored
him, the cabman cursed and drove on.

Slouching back against a patisserie's
shop front, out of the way of the traffic, Sinclair replayed over
in his mind the recent scene between himself and Belle. He wanted
to curse Paulette Beauvais, but he was forced to admit that her
return truly had not mattered. Even if she had not interrupted
them, Sinclair would have found the strength to thrust Belle out of
his arms.

That would have been a first. He nearly
laughed aloud. The rakehell Sinclair Carrington refusing the
seduction of a beautiful woman. But how could he have done
otherwise, knowing he had been sent to spy upon her, even knowing
he might have to betray her one day?

"So now you're developing a conscience,
Carrington," he muttered to himself. At that moment he realized his
loitering in front of the shop was attracting suspicious glances
from the owner. Prudently Sinclair moved along, the rainwater
pelting his face.

He expelled a breath and patted his
empty breast pocket. He would have given anything for a quiet
corner, the pleasure of one of his cheroots. He always seemed to
think better with a cloud of smoke curling about his head, helping
him to get his roiling emotions under control. But he had forgotten
his cigars, and he was not about to go back to the apartment until
he could put what had happened into some perspective.

He had nearly made love to Isabelle
Varens. That was not surprising, considering that his desire for
the lady had been building all along. But what had driven him over
the edge—that was the surprising factor. Not the scent of her hair,
or the feel of her soft skin, or her lips so sweet and pliant. It
had been that wistful look in her eyes, the whispered plea, "I have
been alone for so long."

"Damn it, Angel," he said,
drawing up his coat collar tighter against the rain. "So have I."
It had taken him until that moment to realize it. He was not a
mooncalf like his brother Charles. He cherished no notions about
romantic love or experiencing the
grande
passion. No, only an inkling
that at last he had found the woman who was more right for him than
any of the others.

A woman who might also be his deadliest
enemy.

But it didn’t matter if she was. That
was the hell of it. Even if Belle was Napoleon's spy, Sinclair was
no longer sure he would be able to do his duty and hand her over to
the British authorities.

No, it could not be Belle, he told
himself, raking one hand back through his rain-soaked hair. "She
cannot be the one. I would stake my life upon it."

That is exactly what you are doing, a
voice inside him jeered. It was the most damnable coil, and he
didn't see any way out of it—no way but one, to trust his instincts
about Belle and lay all his suspicions to rest. To do that he must
find the real spy as soon as possible, a purpose he was not going
to accomplish by wandering through Paris and soaking his head in
the rain.

Sinclair reversed his steps. He had no
difficulty finding his way back to the apartment, for he had not
wandered that far along the Rue St. Honoré. He was within a stone's
throw of the fan shop when he saw a familiar figure emerge upon the
steps. Etienne Lazare paused long enough to pull his red cap down
lower upon his head.

"Well," Sinclair breathed. "Look what
crawled down from the garrets." Some instinct caused him to dodge
within the shadows of the entranceway of a nearby shop.

Thrusting his hands deep in the pocket
of his greatcoat, Lazare cast a seemingly casual glance both up and
down the Rue St. Honoré. He did not appear to have noticed
Sinclair, for he set off to cross the street, expertly avoiding a
passing carriage and all the deeper mud holes.

"Only a raving lunatic would be out in
this weather without some good reason," Sinclair told himself, a
self-mocking smile curling his lips. It might do no harm to attempt
to trail his good friend Lazare, see what the man was up to. After
all—Sinclair winced, feeling the rainwater trickle down the back of
his neck. He was already soaked to the skin.