“No woman would allow you—”
His laugh was short and contemptuous. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve never been one to practice celibacy, forced or otherwise. I’m merely selective in choosing my…companions. You’ve seen evidence of it yourself, so how can you doubt?” Sudden as a snake, his hand shot out and closed around the wrist of her hand that held the shard.
Victoria laughed, a deep, odd sound to her ears. “You speak of the time I saw you and Sara leaving a room, all in dishabille. I wouldn’t put it past you to have staged such a scene; you were so determined to run me off.”
“And showing you evidence of the affection I had for my fiancée would have served to chase you away? If only it had been that simple.” He squeezed her wrist, smashing the bones horribly against one another, and pain shot through her hand. “Drop it, Victoria.”
“Affection for Sara Regalado? You couldn’t have felt anything for her.” Her fingers were weakening under his grip, becoming numb and cold. She tried to jerk her arm away, but he moved too quickly and caught at her wrist with both hands. He was strong, very strong. She had two vis bullae, and she struggled against him.
“I’ll break your arm if need be. Release it.”
“You’d do it, too,” she spat, anger blazing through her.
“I would.” He tightened his grip, his face, his tall body much too close to hers, his eyes dark and intense, his mouth determined. “Let it go, Victoria.”
With a groan she allowed her screaming fingers to open, and the heavy shard tumbled from her hand. It thunked to the ground, landing next to her foot, and before she could reach down to pick it up, Max kicked it out of her reach.
Still holding her wrist, he drew her back up to look at him, grasping her other shoulder so he could glare down into her face. He gave her a little shake, his fingers so tight she could feel them through the heavy wool coat as they bit into her skin.
Though she had dropped the shard, her hand still felt its warmth, and a faint tingle still sputtered along her arm and through her body. She looked up into his eyes, and again she knew just what to say to goad him.
“Are you going to kiss me now?” she asked boldly. He released her with a little shove that pushed her a step back into the branch of a tree, sending a little scatter of drops down the back of her coat’s collar.
“I prefer not to be one in a long line.”
“What are you afraid of, Max?”
Then he smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile at all, but it matched the same unpleasant feeling that was skittering through her. “So you want me to kiss you, do you, Victoria?”
His expression made her want to take a step back, but she stood firm. “Why not?”
The warmth from the shard had eased from her hand, and her fingers felt cold. He moved closer, and she felt the brush of ivy leaves that clung to the wall behind her.
“Why not…indeed.”
As he loomed over her, powerful and tall and so close, Victoria’s heart began to pound as if it were trying to burst from her ribs. Her lungs were so tight in her chest it seemed she could barely draw in a breath, but when she did she brought in the smell of Max—his damp wool coat, the faint smell of wine, and whatever it was that made him who he was.
She felt the brush of the stones behind her, her fingers pushing back into the wall as if to help keep her steady.
Then, hands planted on either side of her head, far enough away that they didn’t touch her, he bent forward, his dark head filling all of her sight before her eyes closed and his lips covered hers.
Max kissed like he did everything else: with arrogance, grace, and consummate skill.
He wasn’t the least bit tentative. There was no light brushing of mouth to mouth as if to test the waters, to sample her taste, or to allow her to twist away if she should have changed her mind.
Nor was it a plunder, the staking of a claim, a long-withheld passion released.
It was…it was Max. Just Max.
He was strong and sensual and very thorough. If she’d ever thought of his lips as stubborn or harsh, that thought was eliminated as their mouths fit together, drew apart, and parted in a sleek, choreographed motion, again and again, until it was all one smooth, slick spiral, curling down into the pit of her belly and beyond.
Her fingers were digging into the wet, dirty wall, and she let her trembling knees relax enough so she could sag gently back against it to keep her balance. Even so, there was still space between them; she sensed the warmth of his nearness in the chill afternoon, but touched nothing but his mouth matching and meeting hers.
When he at last pulled away with a long, gentle nibble at the corner of her lower lip, his nose brushing her cheek, she let her head tip back and felt the wetness of the leaves seep into her hair. Max shifted, his breath warm against her temple as he bent toward her again.
“Now that your curiosity is assuaged,” he murmured, “can we get on with our task?”
And with that he pushed away from the wall, away from her, and, presenting her with his back, crouched to pick up the forgotten shard. He had it up and quickly in his pocket before Victoria had quite caught her breath or thought to demand the splinter back.
Her fingers trembled and her knees were wobbly, but she propelled herself away from the wall before he stood—or turned to see the dazed look on her face.
But she needn’t have worried; he barely glanced at her before making that sharp Max gesture that told her to follow him. “We’ve wasted enough time. It’s getting close to sunset,” he tossed over his shoulder as he started off again along the stone wall.
The same stone wall of which there were now little bits of mortar wedged beneath her fingernails.
Sixteen
In Which Lady Melly’s Courtship Takes on a New Twist
The Conte Regalado, or Alberto, as he’d insisted she call him, was the most charming man Lady Melisande Grantworth had had the pleasure to meet. Or be courted by.
And she was indeed being courted by the bald but dapper Italian count.
The first time she’d met him, when he had found her and Winnie and Nilly in the depths of that spooky old villa, he’d been gallant and gracious—and even though he hadn’t actually taken them to find the treasure and had disappeared most inexplicably, he’d still been intriguing and kind.
And well turned. Indeed, perfectly groomed, with his small, trimmed black mustache and the briefest of beards. His clothing was expensive and fashionable, he wasn’t too tall, and best of all, he had a lovely accent.
Then, of course, there was the day following the treasure hunt at the Villa Palombara, when, instead of calling on her, he’d only sent flowers…that had had her sniffing in disdain. The men in London had done the same; even Jellington had thought to woo her interests by plying her with flowers and jewels and the like.
But Lady Melly desired much more than cold fripperies and greenery that would die after a day or two in a vase. She wanted companionship, and wit, and above all, a man who worshiped her.
“He should be here any moment.” Nilly squealed, her pale face flushed with excitement. She was peering out the window of Melly’s dressing room from between lacy curtains, watching the street below for a sign of the conte’s barouche as her friend was putting the final touches on her toilette.
“I cannot imagine where he is going to take you on such a horrific afternoon. Why, there isn’t a sunbeam to be seen, and the air is positively gray with rain,” Winnie said disdainfully from her chair in the corner. “Your hair will be droopy, and those bonnet feathers! They’ll be plastered to your head before you climb into his carriage.”
“The Conte Regalado offered to drive me to see the Colosseum, and perhaps to Janiculum Hill. I am certain, though we might be a bit chilly, that we shan’t be wet at all.”