The Promise (8 page)

The whole suite seemed to cocoon her in eroticism. It was just the art nouveau decor, she told herself.

Except there was one more thing. The obvious costliness and, in most cases, museum quality of the furnishings didn’t entirely explain why she felt as if she shouldn’t touch anything, perhaps, in fact,
shouldn’t even stay.

Was it SwanSea, she wondered, protecting its own? Did the great house somehow sense that if her plan were successful, there would be a child with Deverell blood running through his or her veins who would never be able to claim it as home?

She touched her forehead. “Lord, Sharon, you are really losing it,” she whispered. “And not only that you’re talking to yourself.”

At that moment the storm broke. Rain pounded against the windows, and overhead thunder boomed like an angry god.

She jumped, then shook her head at her foolishness. She noticed her luggage neatly stacked on the padded bench at the end of the bed and decided to unpack, grateful she had found a distraction. Assuming Conall would arrive around six, she had a few hours to put away her things and accustom herself to her surroundings.

But at seven that evening a message arrived from Conall, letting her know he wouldn’t be able to make it for dinner. She frequently ate out alone, but SwanSea was having a strange effect on her, and she elected to have dinner brought to her room.

The noise of the storm eventually receded, though the rain continued. By ten o’clock she was soaking in the incredible seashell-shaped marble tub in her bathroom, trying to soothe nerves by this time strung painfully tight.

Her lips quirked at a thought. She would have felt better if she and Conall could have arrived together and gone right to bed. As it was, this wait was giving her ample opportunity to review every doubt and every fear she had ever had about her plan.

There was something wrong, something bothering her, something very important she felt she had overlooked. She just wished she could figure out what it was.

Once out of the tub, she dried off and automatically slipped her arms into her chenille bathrobe and wrapped it around her. She hadn’t known what sort of clothes to bring with her, so she had brought a little of everything, including her much-loved chenille robe. Over the years it had faded from its original dark blue to a whitish-blue, and frequent washing had claimed a portion of its chenille tufts. But it was soft and warm and whenever she put it on, she felt comforted.

She could think of nothing else to do, so she went into the sitting room and spent the next couple of hours curled up on a deep-green velvet couch in front of the fire.

At midnight, when Conall finally arrived and opened the door to the suite, he found the sitting room shadowed, with light streaming into the room from the bedroom to his right, and a red-gold glow coming from embers in the fireplace.

Sharon turned.

“Did you give up on me?” he asked her, waving the luggage-laden bellboy toward the left bedroom.

“I didn’t know what to think,” she said truthfully. There had been moments when she’d been afraid he wouldn’t come; then there’d been the fear he would.

“It was a day of problems," he said, crossing the room to sink wearily onto the couch beside her, a cushion away. “I just couldn't seem to break free.”

Her senses, already deluged, strained beneath the burden of his nearness. The sensual environment of their surroundings enhanced the impact of his masculinity in spite of the fact that the lines of his face seemed harsher tonight, his skin paler. “You look tired.”

He eyed her thoughtfully, then propped his elbow on the back of the couch and rubbed his forehead. “And you look tense.”

“I am a little. Waiting for you here, alone, with nothing to do . . .” She shrugged.

“Didn’t you get out of the suite?”

“I decided to wait. Swansea is a little overwhelming.”

“Overwhelming?” He frowned. “You’re not intimidated, are you?”

“I’m not sure if
Intimidated
is the right word.” She paused, attempting to clarify her impressions. “It’s simply that I’m getting the strangest feeling, as if there’s some uncertainty here about whether or not to welcome me.”

His gaze sharpened. “Are you telling me the staff—”

“No, no. They’ve gone overboard to be hospitable. It’s the
house.
Or hotel, or whatever this place is. It’s
SwanSea.”

He laughed, then abruptly groaned and increased the pressure of his fingers, rubbing them back and forth across his forehead. “I had no idea you were so impressionable.”

“I’m not normally. In fact, I can't ever remember feeling this way before. Conall, are you all right? Is there something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. And I’m sure once you learn to find your way around SwanSea you’ll be all right. We can explore tomorrow.”

If she hadn’t been watching him so closely, she would have missed the wince he gave, because he quickly schooled his expression to normality. “Conall, what’s wrong? Why are you rubbing your head like that?”

“I told you, it’s nothing. Just a slight headache.” 

“Have you taken anything?”

“No. It’ll go away.” He dropped his hand to the back of the couch. “So, tell me, besides this very peculiar reaction you’re having to the house, is everything else to your liking?”

"What’s not to like? It’s fabulous.”

He glanced over her shoulder and saw the light streaming from the second bedroom. “You decided to use that room?”

“Mr. Lawrence told me you always take the other.”

“Separate bedrooms, Sharon? That’s going to make it rather difficult for you to get pregnant unless you know something I don’t.”

“I don’t have to
sleep
with you.” She made a vague gesture. “I’ll go back to my room after . . . afterward.” Instead of the sarcastic retort she had expected, she received a grunt. He was rubbing his temple again. “Your head really is hurting, isn’t it?”

“It’s nothing.”

She made a disgusted sound. “Honestly! Men are either complete babies about pain or they refuse to acknowledge it. I might have known you’d be the type to refuse to acknowledge it.” 

“You sound like an expert on men.”

“I’ve worked with enough over the years,” she muttered, scooting across the cushion to him. “Let me see if I can help.” She placed her hands at his temples and began to rub in tiny circles over his forehead, down the side of his face to the back of his neck, then returning to his forehead to repeat the process.

At first he kept his eyes shut. There was an exquisite quality to her touch as she attempted to smooth away his pounding pain. He liked the way her breath lightly fanned his face. And he enjoyed inhaling the clean, lightly floral, definitely feminine scent of her. Slowly awareness began to replace pain.

“Does your work do this to you?” she asked softly, concentrating on applying the correct amount of pressure.

He opened his eyes. "Sometimes.”

“If you take into account all of the Deverell holdings, you must have thousands of employees. I can’t believe out of all those people, there aren’t at least a few who could take part of the burden from you.” The softness of her tone carried a hint of anger.

“I have top-flight people working for me, Sharon.”

“Then you must not be delegating properly.” Now she sounded as if she were scolding him. If he didn’t know any better, he would think she was concerned. “I can delegate all day long,” he said quietly, “but I’m still the person at the end of the chain of command. I always have to be right.” “I guess I’ve never thought of it in quite that way before,” she murmured, giving consideration to what he said. Conall had an empire and all the benefits that went with it, but it seemed the cost of those benefits was quite high.

“You have a wonderful touch,” he whispered. “It’s almost worth the headache.”

The intimate timbre of his whisper caused a flickering of warmth in her. She tensed, hoping to avoid a fire. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yes.”

He reached out and lightly stroked his fingers down the side of her neck. “I like your robe.”

She had forgotten how close she was to him or even what she had on. “It’s very old. ” She quickly sat back.

His mouth twisted wryly. “I see there are still a few thorns.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Thoms, remember? If I tried to hold you right now, I’d get stuck and probably bleed. I guess it’s the price I have to pay for leaving you alone the last five days.” 

“You were busy.”

“Yes, I was. Besides that, it was probably best I stayed away from you until now. I couldn’t have been with you without wanting to make love to you." His finger found her collarbone and lightly caressed its length. “What about you? What have you been doing for the past five days?”

Breath lodged in her throat; a mild panic set in. She had to remind herself that his question signified nothing more than casual interest. “Winding things up.”

He nodded. “The company you work for has a good reputation, although we’ve never done business with them.”

“I know.” Humor sprang to life in his eyes, deepening the color of blue and catching her attention.

"Sounds like you checked it out before you went to work there.”

She fought against a smile, however brief it would have been. “I did. I didn’t want to be employed by a company where I might have to come into contact with you.”

“But in the end you sought me out.”

“For a personal reason that had nothing to do with business.” She saw him wince again. “I thought you said you felt better.”

“I do.”

“Yeah, sure you do. I’m going to call down for aspirin.”

“No, don’t bother the staff.”

“Bother them? I’m sure they’d gladly bring you a whole pharmacy if you asked them.”

“You think so?” he asked.

Again she saw the humor glinting in his eyes, almost, she thought, as if he were enjoying being with her. “I know so.”

“I’ll tell you what, let’s go swimming instead. It will help both my headache and your tension.” “Swimming? But it’s after midnight.”

“Is there something else you’d rather do?”

She thought of the alternative—staying in the suite and going to bed with him. “A swim sounds good.”

“Did you bring a swimsuit?”

She nodded.

“Good, then get it, and I’ll meet you back in here in a few minutes. And wear a coat. The rain has stopped and the pool house isn’t very far, but it’s a cool evening.”

Conall was already cutting smoothly through the water when Sharon walked out of the changing room and took the ladder down into the pool. The only lights in the cavernous room came from beneath the water. They bounced illumination off the blue-tiled walls in wavering, dreamlike patterns, giving her the feeling that they were in an underwater grotto.

She struck out, her pace slow and steady. She swam the length of the pool and back again, repeating the course until her legs and arms were tired and her lungs were threatening to give out. Then she retreated to the side of the pool to watch Conall as he continued to slice through the water with strong, clean strokes, showing no signs of the fatigue she had seen in him when he first arrived.

Even as a young man he had possessed an exciting power and grace. Now his power was controlled, and his grace had turned to cool elegance. She leaned her head back against the pool’s edge and acknowledged the inevitable. He was still the most exciting man she had ever known.

Suddenly he veered from his straight course and headed toward her. When he stopped, he had trapped her against the wall with a hand on either side of her head.

Water beaded on his broad, muscled shoulders and clung to the thickness of his dark eyelashes; his chest rose and fell rapidly as he drew air into his lungs. The pounding of her heart, she realized, had nothing to do with the exertion of her swim. Without doing anything overtly sexual, without touching her, he was affecting her physically, and she had to be very careful not to let him know. “Feel better?” she asked.

“My headache is completely gone.”

Before she could make a light, casual reply, he leaned down and pressed a deep, wet kiss to her mouth. Her body’s response was instantaneous. Her lips parted of their own volition, accepting his attention with a naturalness that frightened because she had been so absolutely set on resisting.

When he lifted his head, he skimmed his fingertips across her forehead. “How about you? Did the swim release some of that tension?”

She nodded, though she was now coping with a different kind of tension, a type in some ways infinitely more difficult to deal with. “I had to stop, though. I’m obviously not in as good shape as you are.”

He cupped her breast. “There’s nothing in the world wrong with the shape you’re in. In fact, I find it quite alluring.” His caress was light at first, then his thumb began to move back and forth and the pressure of his hand increased, molding the rounded flesh.

Beneath the thin, wet material of her swimsuit, she felt her nipples stiffen. She grabbed his wrist, trying to stop him. “You shouldn't do this. Someone might come in.”

“The pool house is closed this time of night, and I took the added precaution of locking the door.”

“Oh.”

“Feel better about it?” His voice echoed hollowly as if to emphasize that they were the only two people there.

The pool pump was off, the water was still, all was quiet as he waited for her answer. But fighting the rising need had sapped her energies, and desire had closed her throat.

Then his hand moved, sending soft ripples through the water. He delved beneath the top of her suit, tucked its stretch material beneath her breast with a twist of his hand, and took possession of the fullness.

The sound of her gasp rebounded off the walls, parting the quiet.

“We could do anything we want here and no one would interrupt us.”

They were completely isolated due to hour and place, their bodies were slick and scantily clothed, their breath rough and uneven from their laps and their growing passion. In spite of herself, their situation seemed incredibly erotic to her. That it did alarmed her. “Not here, Conall.”