The Secret Gift (28 page)

And it felt
bloody
good.

Finally, as the sun was dipping over the western suburbs, they got off the bus and ducked into the quiet, intimate café that was Graeme’s favorite haunt in South Kensington.

The owner, a grinning, barrel-chested Pole named Jan, whose wife, Marianna, did all the restaurant’s cooking, greeted him by name.

“Dobry wieczór,
Mr. Mac! It has been too long since we’ve seen you, yes?”

Jan showed them to a candlelit two-seat table in a cozy corner that overlooked a cobbled courtyard mews that had centuries earlier been the stable block for the neat row of noblemen’s town houses that stood around the corner. Now, in the twenty-first century, it housed a collection of studio flats, boutiques, an artists’ studio, and this quaint café, which in summer was filled with the perfume of the fragrant wisteria bushes that clung to the wall outside. Faint strains of Polish folk music drifted from the speakers in the ceiling while the little terrier dog belonging to the restaurant’s owner sat perched on his favorite rug by the bar.

Since Libby wasn’t familiar with anything listed on the menu, Graeme gave their order in his grandmother’s native tongue. Libby watched him, fascinated as he conversed with the waitress. She had no idea what he was saying, and it didn’t even matter. There was just something about the sound of him speaking, even the gestures he made with his hands, that was all so incredibly sexy. In a moment he had gone from cultured, formal Englishman to sultry Eastern European. Even the expression on his face was different, mysterious, seductive. It was the most arousing transformation Libby had ever seen.

The food that was brought out in what seemed a continuous succession of heaping plates was truly out of this world. It wasn’t overly spicy as she had expected, but flavored with herbs she recognized from her mother’s garden—rosemary, chives, and thyme. They were simple entrées, but flavorful, and by the time they brought the last course to the table, Libby felt certain she couldn’t possibly take another bite.

And then Graeme ordered dessert.

“No, I couldn’t ...”

But she managed a couple of bites of the chocolate-and-poppyseed cake that arrived at the table with their after-dinner coffees.

While Libby excused herself for the ladies’ room, Graeme made two quick calls on his mobile. The driver was waiting for them when they emerged from the restaurant, and soon they were on their way.

“Will it take us long to get to the heliport from here?” Libby asked.

“We’ve one last stop to make before we leave.”

“Oh. Where?”

“I should probably ask first—you’re not afraid of heights are you?”

“No. Why?”

Graeme merely smiled in response. He refused to divulge anything further.

Libby had her face pressed against the window when, fifteen minutes later, the car rolled to a stop before one of London’s newest and most visible landmarks.

“We’re going on that?”

Standing at nearly four hundred fifty feet, the London Eye was the world’s largest observation wheel, looking rather like a carnival Ferris wheel but built on a far grander scale. Instead of seats that swung in the breeze, there were thirty-two glass-encased “pods,” each able to hold up to twenty-five passengers standing. The great spoked wheel, standing on the banks of the River Thames, turned at a snail’s pace, taking thirty minutes to make just one rotation. On a clear day passengers could see as far away as twenty-five miles.

At night, however, the experience was truly breathtaking.

As they approached the boarding platform, Libby spotted the placard that read
CLOSED. PLEASE CALL AGAIN DURING OPERATING HOURS
.

“Oh,” she said, turning to him. “We’ve arrived too late. It’s closed.”

But Graeme simply smiled and took her hand, leading her onward. “Let’s just say I know someone who knows someone.”

The pod was open and waiting as they walked up the platform.

“Evening, sir,” said the operator and tipped his hat to Libby. “Miss.”

Ten minutes later they were climbing to the stars with the torchlit streets of London stretching out before them.

It was a clear night, and Libby could see the Thames glistening beneath the moonlight while lovers walked arm in arm along the river’s embankment beneath them. The higher they climbed, the more the rest of the world seemed to vanish, until people were no longer visible and they could see only the headlights of the cars driving along the Strand.

When they reached the highest point, the wheel drifted to a stop.

“Oh, Graeme, it’s so beautiful.”

And it was.

Just across the river, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament were brilliantly floodlit in shades of blue, while on the other side stood the great noble dome of St. Paul’s with the Tower Bridge in the distance, connected by a string of lights that stretched all along the curve of the Thames. It was the most beautiful, most romantic sight Libby had ever seen.

And the sight of her face, the open delight and wonder, was the most beautiful, most romantic sight Graeme had ever seen.

She turned toward him. “Thank you. Thank you for this. All of this. It’s just so—”

She never finished her thought. Graeme reached for her, cupping her chin in his hands as he tipped her face upward and captured her mouth with his.

He’d been wanting to do this all night, and all day, as he’d ridden with her on that bus, had shared a bite of cake with her at dinner, even when he’d been watching her haggle over the price of books at that shop. Truth was, he’d been wanting to do this long, long before that.

Here, high above the city, no one could interrupt them unexpectedly, and no photographer’s lens could capture them for the morning edition. So Graeme took his time and kissed her slowly, deeply, pulling her close against him, wrapping her in his arms, making it last as long as he could as they stood virtually on top of the world.

When he finally pulled away, Libby was clutching the front of his jacket as if it were a lifeline. She didn’t want to open her eyes for fear she had dreamed it. She had never been kissed like that in her life, had never even imagined being kissed like that. Her heart was pounding, and her legs felt as if at any moment they might buckle. And the only thing she could think was that she would do anything—
anything
—if he would just keep on kissing her.

Graeme nuzzled her ear, his breath hot against her skin. She closed her eyes.

“Graeme?”

He murmured into her hair. “Hmm?”

“Do you think you can delay our flight ...”

He nodded. “I think so.”

“... till tomorrow?”

Graeme lifted his head, looked deeply into Libby’s eyes. “You’re certain?”

She looked back at him, and her voice came in a heavy whisper. “I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”

Graeme crushed his mouth over hers, kissing her deeply, sliding his tongue against hers in long, sensual strokes. He felt her press her hips forward and felt a jolt that shot straight to his groin. It had been so long, perhaps his entire lifetime, since he’d felt so utterly, completely alive.

He groaned into her mouth, seeking release from the tension that was drawing his body taut as an archer’s bow.

If he were the sort of man who prided himself on his conquests, he might consider taking her right there, four hundred and fifty feet above the rest of the world. But that wasn’t him. And that was not this woman.

With Libby it would not be rushed or reckless. With Libby it would be a night to remember.

It took everything Graeme possessed to keep his hands off her as they slowly, and literally, returned to earth.

He led Libby into the car, and then made a quick call on his mobile.

He could have called Claridge’s or even the Ritz, but Graeme knew a place, smaller, more intimate, unique, in fact, one that suited Libby much more.

The Cranbury was housed in two connected Victorian town houses on a quiet residential street in South Kensington. The rooms still bore their original paneling, marble-framed fireplaces, and tall bay windows. But a recent refurbishment had given it every modern convenience.

The manager had their suite waiting when they arrived, with a fire burning in the hearth.

“I’m just going to go down to arrange for a bottle of champagne,” Graeme said. He could have easily used the phone, but he sensed that Libby would appreciate the few minutes alone.

When he returned, she was standing before the tall windows that faced onto the garden square in front of the hotel. She was wearing one of the plush white robes that had been hanging in the closet. It blanketed her, falling nearly to the floor, her feet, toes painted cherry red, peeking out from underneath.

She looked beautiful. Her hair was loose and curling around her shoulders, and tucked behind one ear. Her eyes were alive with light.

Graeme was feasting on her with his eyes when a discreet knock sounded on the door. He didn’t take his gaze from her as he moved to the door and opened it.

“Your champagne, sir ...”

Graeme simply pointed to the table, his eyes still fixed upon Libby. She smiled. Blushed.

The hotel concierge nodded, took the twenty-pound note Graeme held out in tip, then backed from the room.

Graeme poured them both a glass and took one to Libby.

She smiled, but he could sense a sudden nervousness.

“You’re still certain? Because I can call the driver. We could—”

She put two fingers to his lips. “I’m very certain. Are you?”

Graeme’s answer was a long, slow kiss.

They shared a sip of champagne, and then Graeme took her glass and set it on the windowsill. Wrapping his fingers around the thick lapels of her robe, he pulled her toward him for another kiss.

Libby melted against him, tipping her head back to meet his height. She flattened her hands against his chest and felt the drumbeat of his heart through his shirt, steady and strong. Slowly, as he kissed her, she started to loosen the buttons, impatient for the closeness of him, the heat of his skin beneath her hands. She pushed the shirt back and helped him to slip it off, running her hands over his shoulders, down his arms. Then she followed as he guided her away from the windows, toward the four-poster.

Libby could hear her own pulse thrumming in her ears as Graeme lowered himself onto the coverlet, then pulled her down beside him. He slipped away only long enough to loosen his belt and get rid of his pants. He left on his boxers, silk and hugging his lean waist, then pulled Libby to him once again.

He kissed her, and she eased against him, devouring his mouth just as eagerly as he was devouring hers. He kissed her in a way that made her completely forget where she was, what she was doing. She felt his hands slip down to the knot in the robe’s belt, felt him loosen it. Uncertain, she’d left her panties and bra on underneath, and Graeme slipped the robe off one shoulder, kissing a hot path along her neck to where he nibbled at the satiny strap. It was then that he noticed the odd crystal stone hanging around her neck. It had a strange reddish glow to it, as if it were an ember of fire, but it was cool, he felt, to the touch.

He had seen the stone before, that night by the fire, but then he hadn’t thought, hadn’t realized, hadn’t put it all together ...

“This is it, isn’t it? This is that stone we read about at the Mackay Clan Centre.”

Libby opened her eyes, nodded. “My father gave it to my mother. And my mother gave it to me. Without it, I wouldn’t have come to Scotland at all. I wouldn’t be here with you now.”

While she spoke, Graeme slipped a finger underneath the satiny strap of her bra, sliding it off while his hands made good work of the hooked fastening in back and his mouth made good work of the curve of her neck.

Libby sucked in her breath as she felt the bra melt away, felt his hands slip against her to cup her breasts.

Oh ... dear ... God.

She arched her back, seeking more. She felt as if she might ignite from the heat that was burning inside of her. The more he touched her, the longer he kissed her, the more the heat grew, until it was consuming her.

“Graeme, please ...”

She wanted him, wanted to feel him against her, over her, inside her, but Graeme had no intention of rushing.

He breathed in the scent of her perfume, the scent of her body, burying his face in her breasts. He flicked his tongue across one taut nipple, feeling her body sway in response. Her heart was racing; he could feel it against his hands, against his mouth, could see it in the rapid rise and fall of her chest as her breath hitched, held, and her fingers raked back through his hair.

Her pleasure was a heady aphrodisiac.

He moved his mouth downward, across her belly, nibbling at the soft curve of her hip as his hand dipped, delving beneath the lacy edge of her panties, easing them down, down, until they were there no more.

He was hard. He wanted her, wanted her more than he’d ever thought he could want a woman. And she lifted one knee, seeking his touch and he gave it to her, sliding his finger down to the slick center of her until she jolted and gasped. He felt her muscles quivering, saw her tighten her fingers into a fist around the sheet as he gently eased his fingers inside her, out, inside again.

She cried out, climaxing quickly, and from the expression of wonder he saw in her eyes as he rose up over her, he knew it had to be the first time she ever had.

It wouldn’t be the last time that evening.

Her hands were desperate now, wanting him, seeking him, and she tugged at his boxers, pushing them away as he slid back up to take her mouth with his. Her fingers glanced him, caressing his hardness, and Graeme sucked in his breath, easing her back, lifting one knee, opening her to his first thrust.

It was almost too much for Graeme to bear, the tightness of her, the heat of her, the soft, struggled gasps as he drew back from her, only to fill her again ... and again ... and again.

He took her mouth with his, groaning against her. She lifted her hips to meet him, movement for movement, a perfect, age-old rhythm that grew like a crescendo, rising to a feverish pitch until the moment, the very moment that they surged together and she locked her legs around him, her pleasured cry muffled against his shoulder as the force of their climax rocked them both.