will be a trial for you."
"No," she agreed with a sheepish grin of her own. "I'm pretty much honest to a fault."
"What do you wish then? A sampling of what's to come or a few more hours to prepare yourself?"
She thought—but mostly that a person could get addicted to making him smile.
"What the hell," she said. "Lay one on me."
"I must lift you," he said, "or this won't be comfortable."
She thought he meant lift her in his arms. Instead, he carried her to the console desk and sat her on top.
Despite its height, she was still a little short for him. He braced his hands on the polished ebony beside her hips.
With his nearness, his heat became a subtle, fascinating force. She couldn't swear to it, but he seemed warmer than he'd been before.
"Relax," he said like a hypnotist. "You have nothing to prove to me."
His words made her neck unkink. She let him kiss her, his lips brushing softly back and forth. They were smooth lips, sensitive and resilient. She was getting used to the feel of them when his arm came around her back. His palm slid slowly up her corseted back.
"Relax," he crooned again, adding a lick to the whisper of his lips.
Her own lips seemed to part by themselves. The kiss came closer, his fingers kneading her tingling scalp.
He pushed his tongue far enough to tickle her upper palate. He tasted good, like a clean spring berry.
When her tongue followed his back, he sucked it, gently, but with a delicious, alternating pressure that
made her insides steam. It was as if he knew the secret rhythm her nerves answered to. She couldn't care how wet she grew. This kiss was worth getting hot and bothered for.
Just as she decided she had to have more, he broke it off.
"You're very sweet," he said, his voice too soft to tell if he was hoarse. "Next time I'll kiss you deeper.
Next time I'll invite you to kiss me in your own style."
She couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but stare into the unwavering intensity of his dark-brown eyes.
What went through his head, this former boy genius? What did it mean to him that he could reduce a woman to melted caramel with a single kiss—and a PG-rated kiss at that!
"I would like to tempt you a little more," he said, still within kissing range. "Why don't you pull off that charming dress and follow me down the hall? I'm going to see to Maurice."
"Is that an order?"
He shook his head.
"Then I'd like to."
The way his lips quirked at her answer made her think she'd revealed more than she should.
The mystery room was B.G.'s favorite: a reproduction of the fictional Sherlock Holmes's study. Period novels lent gravitas to the paperbacks on the shelves, a deerstalker cap hung from the coatrack, and an old wooden index file held cards on real and imaginary crimes. The librarian who'd compiled them had been a firecracker. She was married now, but whenever B.G. came here, he recalled her stay with him.
He didn't miss her precisely, but he remembered. Sometimes he wondered why he didn't manage to miss more people who were gone.
But he couldn't contemplate that now. Charity had followed him in.
"This is so cool!" she exclaimed as Maurice hopped up from the windowseat where he'd been reading yet another Dashiell Hammett. Maurice loved vintage detective yarns. B.G. suspected Maurice began to pretend he was a private eye the moment he came here. Charity seemed not to have quite the chauffeur's escapist bent, but B.G. was curious to see them interact. Would any handsome man attract her? Or did she have preferences? It was to get these and other answers that he'd put them in proximity.
Now the pair stared at each other, Charity in her fetching leather corset, Maurice in his street clothes.
The chauffeur looked ten years younger out of uniform.
Then again, both seemed ages younger than B.G.—an effect due more to mind-set than chronology.
Like the blip on Charity's screen, she and Maurice lived in the blinding, beautiful thick of life. B.G. envied them a bit, although he
"No," she agreed with a sheepish grin of her own. "I'm pretty much honest to a fault."
"What do you wish then? A sampling of what's to come or a few more hours to prepare yourself?"
She thought—but mostly that a person could get addicted to making him smile.
"What the hell," she said. "Lay one on me."
"I must lift you," he said, "or this won't be comfortable."
She thought he meant lift her in his arms. Instead, he carried her to the console desk and sat her on top.
Despite its height, she was still a little short for him. He braced his hands on the polished ebony beside her hips.
With his nearness, his heat became a subtle, fascinating force. She couldn't swear to it, but he seemed warmer than he'd been before.
"Relax," he said like a hypnotist. "You have nothing to prove to me."
His words made her neck unkink. She let him kiss her, his lips brushing softly back and forth. They were smooth lips, sensitive and resilient. She was getting used to the feel of them when his arm came around her back. His palm slid slowly up her corseted back.
"Relax," he crooned again, adding a lick to the whisper of his lips.
Her own lips seemed to part by themselves. The kiss came closer, his fingers kneading her tingling scalp.
He pushed his tongue far enough to tickle her upper palate. He tasted good, like a clean spring berry.
When her tongue followed his back, he sucked it, gently, but with a delicious, alternating pressure that
made her insides steam. It was as if he knew the secret rhythm her nerves answered to. She couldn't care how wet she grew. This kiss was worth getting hot and bothered for.
Just as she decided she had to have more, he broke it off.
"You're very sweet," he said, his voice too soft to tell if he was hoarse. "Next time I'll kiss you deeper.
Next time I'll invite you to kiss me in your own style."
She couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but stare into the unwavering intensity of his dark-brown eyes.
What went through his head, this former boy genius? What did it mean to him that he could reduce a woman to melted caramel with a single kiss—and a PG-rated kiss at that!
"I would like to tempt you a little more," he said, still within kissing range. "Why don't you pull off that charming dress and follow me down the hall? I'm going to see to Maurice."
"Is that an order?"
He shook his head.
"Then I'd like to."
The way his lips quirked at her answer made her think she'd revealed more than she should.
The mystery room was B.G.'s favorite: a reproduction of the fictional Sherlock Holmes's study. Period novels lent gravitas to the paperbacks on the shelves, a deerstalker cap hung from the coatrack, and an old wooden index file held cards on real and imaginary crimes. The librarian who'd compiled them had been a firecracker. She was married now, but whenever B.G. came here, he recalled her stay with him.
He didn't miss her precisely, but he remembered. Sometimes he wondered why he didn't manage to miss more people who were gone.
But he couldn't contemplate that now. Charity had followed him in.
"This is so cool!" she exclaimed as Maurice hopped up from the windowseat where he'd been reading yet another Dashiell Hammett. Maurice loved vintage detective yarns. B.G. suspected Maurice began to pretend he was a private eye the moment he came here. Charity seemed not to have quite the chauffeur's escapist bent, but B.G. was curious to see them interact. Would any handsome man attract her? Or did she have preferences? It was to get these and other answers that he'd put them in proximity.
Now the pair stared at each other, Charity in her fetching leather corset, Maurice in his street clothes.
The chauffeur looked ten years younger out of uniform.
Then again, both seemed ages younger than B.G.—an effect due more to mind-set than chronology.
Like the blip on Charity's screen, she and Maurice lived in the blinding, beautiful thick of life. B.G. envied them a bit, although he
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