asked.
“Yes, sir.” Abraham turned and led the way into a small parlor, prepared for a party of two. It was a man’s room softened by bowls of yellow roses, with white candles rising tall and serene. Mouthwatering aromas rose from covered dishes on the elegant walnut table and sideboard. Rich Persian carpets covered the floor.
A magnificent rosewood square grand piano fit neatly into the space by the far wall, unlike a modern curved grand piano which would have occupied most of the room.
Viola’s fingers ached for it.
An exquisite Chinese woman, dressed in an upper servant’s formal black, curtsied to Donovan. Viola’s attention snapped back to the room’s other occupants.
“Mrs. Ross, this is Sarah Chang, Abraham’s wife. She will act as your personal maid, if that’s agreeable with you. Nuns in China trained her as maidservant and cook.”
A maid and a bodyguard? Dear heavens, Donovan was lavishing care on her. “I’m sure she will suit me very well, Mr. Donovan. I’ve never had a personal maid before. How do you do, Sarah?” Viola held out her hand and Sarah smiled as she shook it and dropped another curtsy.
Then Donovan’s hand touched Viola’s elbow again and coherent thought fled as they sat down, with her back to that alluring piano.
They talked a bit, mostly of trifles, although Viola couldn’t have recounted the conversation later to save her life. She thought the food was delicious; she must have eaten some of it because Donovan didn’t mention her lack of appetite. Abraham waited on them, silently anticipating their every want.
All the while, she could think only of Donovan and wonder what he meant to do.
He’d been gentle in his office, giving her pleasure when it added nothing to his comfort. Her breasts ached at the memory of how his voice and hand had worked together on her. Perhaps he really did know other things to increase a woman’s passion.
“How’s Tennessee?” Viola managed to ask, watching Donovan deftly peel an orange. Strong hands. Long fingers that had known her so intimately only a few hours ago. She wrenched her eyes away and fixed them on his face.
“Well enough. Give him a week’s rest and he’ll be leading another ammunition wagon again.” Donovan offered her a section of the rare fruit. She’d last tasted one as a Christmas treat at her grandfather’s Manhattan mansion.
Viola nodded acceptance, expecting him to pass it to her on a plate. Instead he lifted the delicacy up toward her, clearly expecting her to eat out of his hand.
Viola’s jaw fell open in shock. He instantly popped the tidbit between her teeth. She helplessly closed her mouth and chewed, staring at his face. The fruit tasted delicious, tangy and sweet at the same time. She swallowed and another section was offered.
“Mr. Donovan,” she managed to protest. “There’s no need to feed me.”
“But I enjoy doing so, sweetheart,” he purred. His rich, hypnotic rumble made her heart skip a beat. “And you promised to serve my pleasure, did you not?”
He brushed the morsel over her lips, painting them with the tantalizing taste.
“Sweetheart,” he urged. It was a command, for all that his voice was soft. What could it hurt, to obey him when the reward would be so sweet? Viola opened her mouth and accepted the second helping.
“There now, Viola, doesn’t that taste good? Eat it leisurely so you can savor every morsel.”
She obeyed him, baffled by how much attention he paid to feeding her.
“Here’s another bite for you. Take your time,” he coaxed. “Let its sweetness glide down your throat.”
The fruit’s exotic taste rolled over her tongue with every slow bite.
“Now shut your eyes and heed only the orange. Just chew and swallow. You’ve all the time in the world, sweetheart. Enjoy it,” he purred.
Viola followed his voice’s sweet persuasion, closing her eyes to better concentrate. The tangy juice brought new life to her mouth, so long accustomed to beans and
“Yes, sir.” Abraham turned and led the way into a small parlor, prepared for a party of two. It was a man’s room softened by bowls of yellow roses, with white candles rising tall and serene. Mouthwatering aromas rose from covered dishes on the elegant walnut table and sideboard. Rich Persian carpets covered the floor.
A magnificent rosewood square grand piano fit neatly into the space by the far wall, unlike a modern curved grand piano which would have occupied most of the room.
Viola’s fingers ached for it.
An exquisite Chinese woman, dressed in an upper servant’s formal black, curtsied to Donovan. Viola’s attention snapped back to the room’s other occupants.
“Mrs. Ross, this is Sarah Chang, Abraham’s wife. She will act as your personal maid, if that’s agreeable with you. Nuns in China trained her as maidservant and cook.”
A maid and a bodyguard? Dear heavens, Donovan was lavishing care on her. “I’m sure she will suit me very well, Mr. Donovan. I’ve never had a personal maid before. How do you do, Sarah?” Viola held out her hand and Sarah smiled as she shook it and dropped another curtsy.
Then Donovan’s hand touched Viola’s elbow again and coherent thought fled as they sat down, with her back to that alluring piano.
They talked a bit, mostly of trifles, although Viola couldn’t have recounted the conversation later to save her life. She thought the food was delicious; she must have eaten some of it because Donovan didn’t mention her lack of appetite. Abraham waited on them, silently anticipating their every want.
All the while, she could think only of Donovan and wonder what he meant to do.
He’d been gentle in his office, giving her pleasure when it added nothing to his comfort. Her breasts ached at the memory of how his voice and hand had worked together on her. Perhaps he really did know other things to increase a woman’s passion.
“How’s Tennessee?” Viola managed to ask, watching Donovan deftly peel an orange. Strong hands. Long fingers that had known her so intimately only a few hours ago. She wrenched her eyes away and fixed them on his face.
“Well enough. Give him a week’s rest and he’ll be leading another ammunition wagon again.” Donovan offered her a section of the rare fruit. She’d last tasted one as a Christmas treat at her grandfather’s Manhattan mansion.
Viola nodded acceptance, expecting him to pass it to her on a plate. Instead he lifted the delicacy up toward her, clearly expecting her to eat out of his hand.
Viola’s jaw fell open in shock. He instantly popped the tidbit between her teeth. She helplessly closed her mouth and chewed, staring at his face. The fruit tasted delicious, tangy and sweet at the same time. She swallowed and another section was offered.
“Mr. Donovan,” she managed to protest. “There’s no need to feed me.”
“But I enjoy doing so, sweetheart,” he purred. His rich, hypnotic rumble made her heart skip a beat. “And you promised to serve my pleasure, did you not?”
He brushed the morsel over her lips, painting them with the tantalizing taste.
“Sweetheart,” he urged. It was a command, for all that his voice was soft. What could it hurt, to obey him when the reward would be so sweet? Viola opened her mouth and accepted the second helping.
“There now, Viola, doesn’t that taste good? Eat it leisurely so you can savor every morsel.”
She obeyed him, baffled by how much attention he paid to feeding her.
“Here’s another bite for you. Take your time,” he coaxed. “Let its sweetness glide down your throat.”
The fruit’s exotic taste rolled over her tongue with every slow bite.
“Now shut your eyes and heed only the orange. Just chew and swallow. You’ve all the time in the world, sweetheart. Enjoy it,” he purred.
Viola followed his voice’s sweet persuasion, closing her eyes to better concentrate. The tangy juice brought new life to her mouth, so long accustomed to beans and
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