But I was mistaken to think that his feelings toward me might have turned charitable. He was still bent on revenge. In one lightning-quick motion, he pulled me to my feet. I swayed against him, reflexively reaching out for support. He grunted with satisfaction when my breasts flattened against his chest. Tunneling all ten fingers in my hair and settling them against my scalp, he tilted my head back. He smiled triumphantly, then bent his head and covered my lips with his.
I wasn't prepared for the heat that spilled through me like the finest wine. I attributed the tingling in my limbs to having been bound, but I knew that his lips and what they were doing to mine were responsible. His tongue deflowered my mouth as surely as that other part of him, which I felt pressing firmly against my belly, was about to claim my maidenhood.
He grappled with the buttons of my nightgown. Suddenly I came to my senses and began to fight him. Impatient with both my futile efforts and the stubborn buttons, he gathered a handful of the material at the neckline and ripped the gown in two. His other hand manacled my wrists behind my back. After another long, deep kiss that stole my breath and pitched my senses into chaos, he raised his head and raked his eyes down my exposed body.
The change that came over him then was sudden and drastic. In his dark face, I recognized shades of the carefree, happy youth he'd been before his father's unfair comparisons to his older brother had turned him into the roguish ne'er-do-well he had become.
His eyes, no longer cold and implacable, gazed at me with misty longing. In a sad voice, he told me that I was beautiful and sweet and that my innocence was touching. When he raised his hand and covered my breast, he breathed a sigh of such yearning that my heart filled with compassion for him.
He studied the lazy movement of his thumb upon my flesh as he tenderly fanned my nipple into a tight peak. Then, bending his head down low, he stroked the very tip of it with his warm, wet tongue.
His other hand relaxed, releasing my pinioned wrists. I wrapped my arms around his neck and surrendered to the dewy caresses of his mouth. He splayed his hand wide on my derriere and drew me close, close enough to know intimately the extent of his desire. Outside myself now, and acting solely on instinct, I sent my hand down his chest in search of —
"Mrs Burke?" Elizabeth peered up from beneath the hood of the hair dryer. "Did I startle you? I'm sorry," the manicurist said, smiling apologetically. "I'm ready for you now."
Elizabeth gathered her handbag and followed the manicurist to her table. The visit to the salon had been Lilah's idea. "This is your first official date in ages," she had said. "Treat yourself."
"You're forgetting one crucial point," Elizabeth argued. "Fantasy is open on Saturday afternoons. There won't be time to have my hair done after I close the shop."
Lilah had considered the dilemma for several moments before saying brightly, "I know. I'll mind the store for you."
Elizabeth was far from enthusiastic about the idea. When she was behind the counter in Fantasy, she dressed the part, wearing pastels and lace, soft, romantic clothing reminiscent of a century ago. She doubted Lilah owned anything lacy or pastel. Her black leather pants and vividly striped ponchos would be grossly out of place. However, Lilah had promised to be on her best behavior. Elizabeth would have been ungracious not to accept the unselfish offer. So now she sat docilely while the manicurist worked on her nails, secretly enjoying the respite from her many responsibilities.
Each time she thought of the evening to come, she got butterflies in her stomach. She hadn't seen Adam Cavanaugh since he had asked her out. The hotel grapevine had reported that he was in the building all week. She couldn't help but wonder why he hadn't come by just to say hello. But then this evening wasn't nearly as special to him as it was to her.
There were several reasons why tonight's date was significant. It was her first official date since her husband's accidental death. Her escort was a contemporary equivalent to Prince Charming. And it was a means by which to forget about the man who lived in the house behind hers. In a very short time, Thad Randolph had become a disturbing factor in her life.
She didn't like thinking about what had happened when she'd discovered him sick in his bedroom. She hated remembering what he looked like lying naked in that sexily rumpled bed. Each time she recalled him resting his cheek against her thigh, she ached with arousal. His parting words had been repeated in her head so many times, they should have lost their impact. They hadn't.
She had avoided even glancing toward his house the rest of the week, though she'd sent Matt and Megan over to check on him. They had reported back that he had made a remarkable recovery. So why couldn't she forget the incident and pretend that it hadn't happened?
That's what she tried to do each night when she retired to her bedroom and picked up her notebook and pen. Lilah had pestered her to write out more of her fantasies. So to satisfy her insatiable sister and to distract her own one-track mind, she had done just that. The only problem was that the imaginary men in her fantasies had begun to look like Thad. If anyone, these romantic figments of her imagination should have looked like Adam, who was much more classically handsome.
She had rear-ranged her characters' features and changed their hair colors so they would in no way resemble Thad, but in even the most recent fantasy, the rakehell pirate had looked like a younger version of him.
When the manicurist was finished with her, she led Elizabeth through the salon to the hair stylist who was waiting to comb her out. He removed the curlers, then surprised her by saying, "Throw your head forward." He combed her hair out upside down using only his fingers. When she tossed her head back, her light blond hair fanned out wide and wild around her head.
Well, it was different.
So different that when she returned home, her children gaped at her. "Gee, Mom, you look like one of the Solid Gold dancers."
"Oh, Lord," she said and moaned.
Before Mrs Alder left, she informed Elizabeth that the lady from the dry cleaners had called to say that there was a slight problem with her dress. "What kind of problem?" she asked, thinking of cloth-eating chemicals.
"She didn't say, but I'm sure it's nothing earth-shattering. Have a good time."
It was earth-shattering. One of the cleaners' new employees had sent her only nice dress across town to another Mrs Burke. They'd been trying to reach the woman by phone all afternoon, but hadn't succeeded. "I'm afraid that we might not get your dress to you until the first of next week."
When Elizabeth hung up, she was so dejected she decided to call Adam Cavanaugh, apologize profusely, and tell him that she couldn't make it for reasons beyond her control. Just as she was about to dial the Hotel Cavanaugh, the telephone rang.
"Hi, it's me," Lilah said cheerfully. "I made you three hundred and seventy-two dollars in sales this afternoon, but heaven I'm tired. Before I collapse with a glass of wine, I thought I'd call."
"Oh, Lilah." Elizabeth slumped into the nearest chair and told her about the dry cleaners' snafu. "I don't have anything else to wear that's appropriate."
"Well, if you ask me, this is the best thing that could have happened. That dress makes you look as old as Whistler's mother. I'll bring over something for you to wear."