pantalettes . The vision evolved, became one of sentient ivory nakedness behind drifting folds of tissue silk. Then she was covered by swirling material forming a simple oriental robe of robin's egg blue edged at the low-dipping neckline with the icy sparkle of perfect diamonds.
He should have looked away, but could not find the will. “Mesmerizing,” he said, and meant it. God help him.
Something must be done to counter the effect of her ploy. Hot, he was so hot; he had to cool off. Yes, of course; that should help. He added with false concern as the temperature in the room began to drop precipitously, “But I hope you won't be too chilly in your light draperies.”
She was apt, inconceivably so, in her intuition. And she had no hesitation in the attack.
“It's doubtful I will freeze,” she answered as log fires laid in the marble-faced fireplaces under the mirrors at either end of the room burst into flames. “But a fire is so much more enjoyable on a rainy night. Think how lovely it would be to lie before it, even to make love there to the music of the rain.”
Outside, a slow and steady downpour began. It pattered and drummed into the garden, releasing the fragrances captured there so that they penetrated into the closed house. The rhythm of the rain was hypnotic and infinitely inciting. Renfrey listened in stony silence while he conquered the tightening in his groin.
When he spoke at last, his voice had a much lower note. “Rain as an aphrodisiac? To my mind, it has no power unless you can see and hear it without impediment.”
The windows along the far side of the room swung open, along with the doors leading from the vestibule. Chill, wet air swept inside on a gust of wind.
“Very nice,” she said without a shred of truth. “But you derided my storm earlier. Perhaps you have discovered that the elements can be exciting, after all. Who knows what thrilling effects we might create if we join forces.”
Hard on her words, thunder rolled, cracking in the distance with a mighty roar. The wind picked up speed and power. Rain splattered in at the windows and splashed onto the malachite flooring of the vestibule.
He should stop it. He would in a moment, when he could tear his gaze away from her as she sat opposite him with her perfect skin beaded with chill while her face was flushed with angry desire. God, but he did not know whether he wanted most to subdue her with force or with tenderness.
As if in answer to his thought, the wind rose to a tempest. Somewhere a priceless antique vase smashed and scattered across the inlaid floor. The lusters of the chandelier overhead jangled, sending bits of broken crystal sparkling downward. A picture frame bumped against the wall, then fell with a jolting impact.
She wanted him to stop her, he saw, for that would be an admission that she could affect him. She would see, then, what a storm could be with his greater aid.
The wind whipped into the house carrying lashing torrents of rain. The water flooded across the floor, wetting the Turkish carpet and pushing it into crumpled folds. It boiled into the fireplace and doused the leaping flames, extinguishing all warmth. Cold, drenching, it soaked the tablecloth and sent silver rattling to the floor. Carita's wine glass overturned so rainwater-diluted burgundy poured across the table, dripping to the floor like fresh blood.
And the wind and wet molded her oriental robe against her slim form with utmost fidelity, making the silk quite transparent. Renfrey , retrieving his own wine glass, isolated himself from the storm in a protective cocoon of air and leaned back to watch the spectacle.
Carita made a brief, abortive gesture with one hand as if to cover herself, then desisted. Abruptly, her hair came loose and its pins tinkled on the floor like silver bells. The thick lustrous swath of her hair slid downward to become a silver curtain that enticed more than concealed. The wind caught it then. Her smile, as the
He should have looked away, but could not find the will. “Mesmerizing,” he said, and meant it. God help him.
Something must be done to counter the effect of her ploy. Hot, he was so hot; he had to cool off. Yes, of course; that should help. He added with false concern as the temperature in the room began to drop precipitously, “But I hope you won't be too chilly in your light draperies.”
She was apt, inconceivably so, in her intuition. And she had no hesitation in the attack.
“It's doubtful I will freeze,” she answered as log fires laid in the marble-faced fireplaces under the mirrors at either end of the room burst into flames. “But a fire is so much more enjoyable on a rainy night. Think how lovely it would be to lie before it, even to make love there to the music of the rain.”
Outside, a slow and steady downpour began. It pattered and drummed into the garden, releasing the fragrances captured there so that they penetrated into the closed house. The rhythm of the rain was hypnotic and infinitely inciting. Renfrey listened in stony silence while he conquered the tightening in his groin.
When he spoke at last, his voice had a much lower note. “Rain as an aphrodisiac? To my mind, it has no power unless you can see and hear it without impediment.”
The windows along the far side of the room swung open, along with the doors leading from the vestibule. Chill, wet air swept inside on a gust of wind.
“Very nice,” she said without a shred of truth. “But you derided my storm earlier. Perhaps you have discovered that the elements can be exciting, after all. Who knows what thrilling effects we might create if we join forces.”
Hard on her words, thunder rolled, cracking in the distance with a mighty roar. The wind picked up speed and power. Rain splattered in at the windows and splashed onto the malachite flooring of the vestibule.
He should stop it. He would in a moment, when he could tear his gaze away from her as she sat opposite him with her perfect skin beaded with chill while her face was flushed with angry desire. God, but he did not know whether he wanted most to subdue her with force or with tenderness.
As if in answer to his thought, the wind rose to a tempest. Somewhere a priceless antique vase smashed and scattered across the inlaid floor. The lusters of the chandelier overhead jangled, sending bits of broken crystal sparkling downward. A picture frame bumped against the wall, then fell with a jolting impact.
She wanted him to stop her, he saw, for that would be an admission that she could affect him. She would see, then, what a storm could be with his greater aid.
The wind whipped into the house carrying lashing torrents of rain. The water flooded across the floor, wetting the Turkish carpet and pushing it into crumpled folds. It boiled into the fireplace and doused the leaping flames, extinguishing all warmth. Cold, drenching, it soaked the tablecloth and sent silver rattling to the floor. Carita's wine glass overturned so rainwater-diluted burgundy poured across the table, dripping to the floor like fresh blood.
And the wind and wet molded her oriental robe against her slim form with utmost fidelity, making the silk quite transparent. Renfrey , retrieving his own wine glass, isolated himself from the storm in a protective cocoon of air and leaned back to watch the spectacle.
Carita made a brief, abortive gesture with one hand as if to cover herself, then desisted. Abruptly, her hair came loose and its pins tinkled on the floor like silver bells. The thick lustrous swath of her hair slid downward to become a silver curtain that enticed more than concealed. The wind caught it then. Her smile, as the
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