“No! What are you thinking?” Daniel’s eyes widened. “A church wedding, you daft man. Or at least a proper man of the cloth. She’ll renege on a civil arrangement the minute things don’t suit her. But a church wedding…”
Terry scoffed. “Gemma’s never been devout.”
“Ah…” Daniel slid forward with a glint in his eye. “But she is our father’s daughter. Trust me, if you want her to stick around, a church wedding is a must, my friend.”
Terry narrowed his eyes. “Why are you telling me this? What do you have to gain?”
The teasing glint left his eyes and Daniel smiled sincerely. “The happiness of my favorite sister, Ramsay. Because, I think you’re good for her. And honestly? She’s half in love with you already, she just doesn’t realize it.”
“Thank you so much, gentlemen. What a pleasure it was to see you all.” Gemma graciously saw their guests to the door the next night. “And Guillermo, please tell Leonor I’m looking forward to seeing her on our next holiday.”
“Of course, Señora.” The Spaniard bent over her hand. “It would be my honor.”
“You’re too kind.”
“Your hospitality honors me and my patroness.”
Gemma batted her lashes at the handsome man, who had made every effort to charm the leading woman of London immortal society all night. He’d simpered and flirted, shooting Gemma deep, meaningful looks every time Terry opened his mouth or one of the guards did something he interpreted as vulgar.
‘How tolerant you are,’ his dark eyes said, ‘to put up with such loutish behavior.’
Terry didn’t know why the Spaniard was complaining. Kincaid had only fumbled the silverware once. If it happened to be a steak knife through one of the Spanish guards’ hands… well, accidents did happen.
Gemma was wearing a slim burgundy suit that hugged her ass and showed off her trim waist and figure. She wasn’t a tall woman. In fact, she was delicate-looking, if you didn’t know better. And she was stunning. Gemma had classic features that were beautiful no matter what the current fashion was. He’d caught more than one of their guests giving her the eye before they caught Terry’s possessive glare.
He watched her with a predatory stare as she made all the polite noises necessary to make their guests leave. He was leaning against the wall leading to their basement chambers as Gemma conferred a few moments with her assistant, then with the housekeeper. Terry muttered the usual goodnights to Carl and Roger before he managed to pull her through the door and secure it so they were truly alone.
She let out a deep breath, crossing her arms and biting her lip thoughtfully. “This is not good. Did you notice how many times Guillermo mentioned the Portuguese coast? What’s going on there?”
“Don’t give a shit at the moment.” He strode toward her as her mouth dropped open in protest.
“Terry, this is impor—”
He cut her off as he pulled her in for a possessive kiss, branding her mouth with his. He reached down and grabbed a handful of her backside, bringing her up hard against him as he spun them around. He guided her backward down the steps. She gave only one muffled protest before her nails were digging into his shoulders and ripping away the silk tie she’d forced him to wear.
Terry lifted his head, grinning around his fangs. Political machinations always stirred her blood.
“You were brilliant,” he said as he tugged at the buttons on her jacket. “Fucking brilliant as always, Gem.”
“Of course I was. Mmm…” She kissed him again, nipping at his lips. Not enough to draw blood though. Oh no, they were quite careful about that, weren’t they? “Kincaid couldn’t have timed that knife better. You were about to explode.”
Damn buttons. There were too many of them on her shirt. “If that bloody Spaniard had batted his fucking lashes at you one more time—”
“I was playing with him, Terry.” She lost patience and ripped his shirt down the middle when they were half-way down the stairs. “Don’t you like to see me toy with my prey?” She reached down and cupped him in his trousers, stroking through the tailored wool as he groaned.
“You can play with that any time you like, luv.”
She gave a throaty chuckle and licked up the center of his chest. Damn her silk shirt. He took it by the collar and tore it away. Then he reached down to the slit at the back of her skirt and rid her of the bottom half, too.
“I liked that suit.” She crossed her arms, pouting as she stood in nothing more than a set of frilly lingerie at the foot of the stairs.
“So did the Spaniards. I’ll buy you another.”
He picked her up as if she weighed nothing, taking her to his room at the far end of the basement where he threw her on the bed before he went back to secure the door. Turning around, he could see that Gemma had already stripped off the last of her lingerie. Terry flicked the tip of his fang and smiled. She always had been admirably efficient.
“Now,” she purred, “where were we? Oh yes, we were talking about the Portuguese coast—and what is probably a smuggling problem—while you got rid of those pants.”
Terry slid the belt from his waist as he slowly walked toward her. “You’re the one who picked out this suit. Don’t you like it?”
“Not at the moment.” She leaned back in the pillows, stretching her arms over her head and arching her breasts up. He hissed and quickly rid himself of his pants, socks, and shoes before he crawled over her.