She slipped, and he was there to catch her, lifting her out, the towel a thin layer between them, his hands on her naked back as he held her.
He looked down at her, surprise clear on his face. A moment later it was gone, replaced by the sardonic languor she was fast growing accustomed to. "You're much too thin," he observed. "I can feel your ribs." His cool fingers stroked her heated skin. "But I find you're much more interesting with your clothes off."
She yanked herself out of his arms, wrapping the towel around her. He caught her arm before she could move completely out of reach, and he picked up a thick strand of her hair. Once she'd washed it she'd let it hang over the edge of the tub and it was almost dry, its familiar strawberry-blond color warm in the firelight. "And your hair is quite lovely. Such an unusual combination--chocolate-brown eyes and strawberry hair."
She froze. Fifteen years ago he'd teased her, flirting with her, telling her she had chocolate eyes, and it had been a joke between them. She allowed herself a brief, searching look at him, but he didn't appear to have made any connection. He'd probably seen any number of women with chocolate eyes.
"The bed is in the adjoining room," he said.
"Wh...what?"
His smile was wry. "You were going to take a nap, remember? Unless you've changed your mind?"
"Please release me," she said in response. She couldn't think straight when he was touching her. Even the simple hold on her wrist sent waves of heat through her body, to places she didn't even want to think about.
"Why?"
She yanked, but he didn't let go. "If you bruise me your fellow degenerates might complain," she said bitterly.
"I expect they'll bruise you far worse than I will. Why do you want me to take my hand off you?"
"Because I don't like you."
"Try again. Don't you have any idea why you shiver when I touch you?"
"Revulsion? Extreme dislike? Nausea?"
His slow smile widened until it was absolutely wicked, and he trailed his other hand up her bare arm, to the base of her neck, letting his fingers dance over her racing pulse. "No. But then, you wouldn't be likely to recognize it. Try this."
And before she realized what he was going to do he'd leaned forward and brushed his mouth against hers, a light, clinging kiss, pulling away before she could react.
She stared up at him in consternation. "Why did you do that?" she whispered.
"To make a point. It's called sexual attraction, my innocent one. It's a powerful force when it hits this hard. It's animal instinct, the mating urge, and for some bizarre reason it exists between you and me."
"Ridiculous." She barely managed to get the word out.
He was trailing his hand up and down her arm while his other one captured her wrist. "Not at all. It's perfectly natural. It's just surprising it's so powerful between us. You're hardly my type."
Her heart was thudding against her breast, so hard she thought he might hear it. The touch of his mouth had been devastating, and he was right, she wanted more.
"Let. Go. Of. Me."
He smiled ruefully. "Of course," he said, and released her, stepping back. "There are clothes waiting in the other room, though I have to admit I'd rather you didn't put them on."
"Whore's clothes?"
"On the contrary. You're missing the point. They want you because you're innocent. For all I know they'll dress you up like a nun."
She slammed the door behind her, then looked for a key. Of course there wasn't one, but he didn't seem to be interested in following her. The clothes that lay across the bed were pristine and lovely--fresh white batiste undergarments, modest and understated, with nothing to cover them. She dressed quickly in what they'd left her--shift, drawers, petticoat and light corset. She laced it loosely, then climbed up onto the bed. She wasn't going to think about it, wasn't going to think about anything. She was going to fall asleep, immediately.
Which she did. But as she drifted off she remembered his mouth on hers, his hand brushing against her neck, and she wanted to weep.
Alistair Rohan stared at the closed door for a long moment. This was quite the most interesting day he'd had in a long time, perhaps years. It wasn't the birth of the Heavenly Host after months of drunken planning, it wasn't the incipient erotic events coming up. It was his own reactions that astonished him.
He wanted her. That pathetic little dab of a thing--who wanted anyone but him--and he was more aroused by her than by the most experienced, beautiful women in Venice, Paris or London. She was too thin, she was absolutely ignorant of any kind of pleasure, and, while her eyes brought back some hazy sense of a long-lost happiness, they weren't enough to account for this powerful attraction.
He'd like to believe it was her animosity, but there were any number of women were wise enough not to want to have anything to do with him. His reputation was widespread--most women with sense would keep their distance.
Perhaps it was because he felt her strong attraction to him, the attraction she was too innocent to recognize. She was so untutored that she had no idea that it was sexual longing raging in her pure veins.
He could have her later. After Marblethorpe or whoever had finished with her, he could soothe the hurt and show her what love was like. He was sick of this city--he could take her back to England himself. Or even Ireland, to the crumbling old castle that was hardly as bad as this crumbling city.
He was out of his mind. Yes, he wanted to have her. He wanted to stretch her out on the bed and taste every bit of her; he wanted to push inside her, so deeply; he wanted to hear her cry out her release in his ear. He wanted her mouth on him, he wanted to...
Damn, he was hard just thinking about her. It was absurd. She'd sold herself to the Heavenly Host for a pittance and a ticket home, and the sooner he stopped thinking about her the better.
Except he'd put her in his bed. Her skin was warm and pink from the bath, smelling like roses. His sheets would smell like roses.
Marcello was waiting outside the door, the ring of heavy keys in his hand. Despite the munificent sum he paid him, Alistair was perfectly aware that Marblethorpe paid him more. "Don't lock her in," he said.
"No, sir," Marcello said. And Alistair no more believed him than he would have believed Sir Wesley Marblethorpe.
He held out longer than he would have thought. It was late afternoon, and she'd slept at least four hours, while Alistair tried to distract himself with anything he could think of. In the end he gave in. He sent his valet out with instructions, poured an ewer of cold water over his head, and went to his bedroom.
She was locked in, of course. He didn't bother with Marcello--there were other ways. There was a narrow balcony overlooking the canal that ran along the side of the palazzo, one in front of each of the main rooms, with a few feet between them. He simply jumped across to the one in front of his bedroom.
He'd done it before, dead drunk. Sober, it was admittedly easier, and he landed lightly, then pushed open the windows.
She was a small lump in the middle of his bed. She hadn't done anything with her hair--it spread around her, and he wanted to wrap himself in it. She was still asleep. The fire had died, but the room was still warm, and he pushed the windows closed behind him, moving toward the bed.
Kathleen heard him come into the room, and she didn't move. She'd already realized that this was, indeed, his private bedroom. Perhaps he'd just come in search of something and would leave the way he'd come.
And perhaps pigs could fly and Venice had roads. She knew why he was here, and she'd been unconsciously waiting for him. Wondering what kept him so long.
She'd even been able to sleep, which astonished her. But when she slept she dreamed of Alistair, and not the sweet, innocent hero of her childhood. She dreamed of the beautiful, dissolute rake, his hands on her breasts, between her legs, his body naked against her skin. She dreamed of heat and sweat and sex without even knowing what she was dreaming of, and when she awoke he was looking down at her.
"You're not doing it," he said. "Marblethorpe will have to find somebody else."
"I have to," she said wearily, as if to a recalcitrant child who wasn't paying attention. "I have no other options."
"I'm taking you back to England. My valet has secured passage for us on a packet ship that leaves tomorrow morning."
She wasn't sure whether she felt despair or elation. "So I get to be your whore instead of a virgin sacrifice? How is that any better? With the other, I only have to put up with it one time."
"Wretch," he said in his lazy voice. "Move over."
"Now?" Her eyes widened.
"No," he said patiently. "You don't have to put up with anything you don't want. I told Simpson to book two rooms. If you don't want to share mine then Simpson can."
"You're telling me you'll save me even if I don't become your mistress?"
He sat down on the bed, next to her hip, and she scuttled over, afraid to touch him. "I'm telling you..." he began, then stopped, staring down at her. "Why do you look so familiar? Why do I suddenly feel as if I have to take care of you whenever I look at you, when frankly I don't feel the slightest bit of responsibility for anyone else? Which makes life very difficult, because I also want to fuck you, and the two don't go together."
She flinched at the ugly word. What would he say if she told him the truth? Would he remember? After all these years?
And if he did, what would happen? He probably had enough decency left in him that he would leap from the bed in horror that he'd talked that way to Jack Lunning-Strong's little sister.
It would be revenge. It would be rescue. It would be despair.
She'd come this far. She lay in his bed, practically naked, and even the touch of his eyes made her skin warm. If she told him the truth she'd get home safely, her virginity intact, and she'd die that way.