He raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching. “Poor Darcy. I think the fellow could do better than a quick fuck.” He moves to sit in the love seat across from me.
“You know who Darcy is?” I ask surprised.
“Many years around women have rubbed off on me,” he says sardonically.
I laugh. “I feel bad for Jane. She must be rolling in her grave for my comparison.”
“You don’t say.”
I shrug. “But it’s true. Ever since Tony came to pick me up in a Rolls Royce early in the evening … your house, I mean Rothschild Hall … the gardens … William … the Picasso and Kahlo”—I look him in the eye—“you.”
Lawrence nods, amusement making his eyes twinkle in the dimly lit room. “So besides knowing art and light-hearted Hollywood films, you know Jane Austen—”
“Faithfully. I mean, there wouldn’t be a Clueless without an Emma.”
“How interesting. Attractive and smart—a deadly combination.”
Without breaking eye contact, I tilt my head to the side and grin impertinently. “And you’re handsome and loaded. An even deadlier one.”
That earns me a smile. An achingly beautiful smile that changes his features from handsome to devastating. As we continue to stare at each other, amusement slowly fading from our faces, the friendly atmosphere dissolves like smoke in the air and an erotic tension fills the space between us. I lick my lips and notice the way his suddenly very dark eyes follow the motion of my tongue. Is he picturing it wrapped around his cock? Is he picturing me on my knees as he sits on that leather loveseat, my head in his lap while I fuck him with my mouth?
The moment is broken when someone knocks on the door before opening it and letting themself in.
“Dinner is ready, Mr. Rothschild,” we hear William say.
“Thank you. You may leave us now, William,” he says, looking toward the door.
He felt it too. I let out a shaky breath and watch him run a hand through his hair. Lawrence turns, composed and detached once again, and addresses me. “Would you like to continue our conversation in the dining room instead?”
“Sure.” I stand up. The slow burn between my legs is yet to be extinguished. As I collect myself, I take a moment to look around for the first time since I walked in the library. Everywhere I look there are rows upon rows of mahogany bookshelves filled with leather-bound tomes, shiny hardcovers, or used paperbacks—a treasure within one’s reach.
“Wow … now this is what I call a library. I think this room rivals my love of Barneys New York shoe floor.”
I turn in his direction and watch an amused Lawrence rise from his sitting position. A half smile graces his manly face as he makes his way toward me, his step sure and firm. I raise an eyebrow and cross my arms on my chest.
“What’s so funny?”
He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he keeps walking until he’s standing in front of me. He’s so close I can smell the spicy undertones of his cologne and I can see the dark stubble contouring the strong lines of his jaw. If I wanted to, I could place my hands on his chest and feel his heartbeat. I wonder if it’s as fast as mine?
The temperature in the room feels as though it has spiked a couple of degrees. “Aren’t you going to say something?” I ask.
Pinning me with his gaze, he takes another step until the space between us is completely nonexistent. I take a deep breath and let it out shakily. “Okay, I guess no—”
He places a finger on my mouth, silencing me. We eye one other as he untangles my hands and guides them behind my back, holding them prisoner there. Captivated under his gaze, I can feel the ends of my hair grazing our skin. My head spins the instant the tip of his nose begins to trace the curve of my jaw ever so gently … the length of my neck. His touch is everywhere, engulfing me.
“How beautiful you are,” he murmurs against my skin.
I swallow hard. “Thank you.”
“No, don’t thank me. I wasn’t giving you a compliment. I was stating a fact.”
“Well, in that case … I guess, I already knew that.”
When he pulls slightly back, his eyes hooded with desire, I think he’s going to kiss me. Instinctively, I close my eyes, stand on my tiptoes, and wait, expecting his lips to touch mine, but nothing happens. Instead, I feel the tickling sensation of his breath behind my ear, before he whispers, “Tell me, Blaire … what happened to that special someone?”
Again, I find myself unable to lie to him. “He made me feel too much.”
“So why aren’t you with him if he made you feel that way?”
“That’s exactly why. He made me feel things. Made me yearn for things that I don’t want. Things that I don’t need.”
“And me, Blaire? What do I make you feel?” He runs the back of his fingers along my collarbone.
“You make me feel nothing, which is everything.”
“Do you love him?”
“Would it make a difference if I did?”
He’s quiet, seemingly waging his answer. “No. Not at all.”
After a quick tour of the place, we arrive at the grand dining room, and the first thing I notice is the lemony smell that permeates the air from the perfectly polished parquet floor. As we make our way to the head of a rectangular dining table, I don’t bother to admire the wood covered walls with their intricate carvings, or the Chinese landscape paintings. Instead, I direct all of my attention to the man walking next to me.
He is wearing a pair of dark denim jeans that sit perfectly on his hips and a light blue button down with the top two buttons unfastened. The hue of the shirt accentuates the color of his skin and the rich dark brown of his hair. It’s easy to see why he’s considered a ruthless man, in and out of bed. After spending no more than thirty minutes in his presence, I can sense that there is an animal, a very dangerous predator hiding underneath the expensive and civilized clothes he wears. There is an untamed wildness about him. He is mystery and darkness, and I have an inkling that many a woman before me has fallen for the illusion that she could be the one to tame him, only to be disappointed when she fails miserably.
As I wait for dessert to arrive, I look at the man sitting to my left. He’s watching me as well, appraising me. He also happens to look as appealing and delicious as that glass of red wine in his hand.
“What are you thinking about? You seem distracted,” I hear him say, bringing me out of my reverie.
“I don’t know … just meaningless stuff, really. You have an enchanting home, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
I reach for my glass of wine and take a sip. “You’re a man of few words, aren’t you? I haven’t shut up since we sat down to eat and you’ve barely said more than two words.”
“Really? I hadn’t noticed,” he says sarcastically, his eyes twinkling.
“Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration, but you get my meaning.”
“There’s not much to say that you probably haven’t already read on the Internet.”
I laugh. “Guilty as charged. It was probably the first thing I did.”
That earns me a smile—a sinful smile that shouldn’t feel as though it’s crawling under my skin, leaving a trace of heat behind, but it does. It definitely does.