Nick turned his head to get a bigger draft of her. She was on tiptoe now and she stumbled. Or would have if he hadn’t immediately put his arms around her, pulling her hard up against him, upsetting her balance. But she didn’t fall. Before she even had time to realize it, her world tilted and he was carrying her.
“Don’t want those pretty boots to get ruined,” he whispered against her mouth, and started walking.
The romance of it touched her heart. She didn’t protest, she didn’t wriggle or squeal. It was too luscious, this airborne feeling. She’d read too many books, and probably way too many romances, she knew that. So it wasn’t surprising that in her head, this nice New York businessman and a staid librarian from a small town in Vermont morphed into a knight carrying his lady to their bower.
He carried her easily, as if she weighed nothing, which told her he was as strong as he seemed. He didn’t look down, though the ground was slippery and icy. He didn’t even look forward, up the path to her front door. His eyes were locked with hers, gaze so intent it was as if he were pulling where he needed to go from inside her head.
It was all so magical, so bright and fresh.
Magic didn’t exist in this world, Charity knew that. She knew perfectly well what she was getting into. This was probably a one-night stand. A two-night stand, maybe, if she got lucky. It was the beginning of the weekend, after all. But when the weekend was over, Nick Ames would get into his brand-new shiny black Lexus and head on out to greener pastures, meaning more or less anywhere other than Parker’s Ridge, which didn’t have much to recommend it to a sophisticated New Yorker.
So Charity was determined to wrest every ounce of magical pleasure from the night. She concentrated on all her senses, on this particular moment, which might never come again.
The feel of him, the heat of him, the smell of him. It was all so incredibly enticing, his arms more comfortable than the softest bed. Without thinking about it, she lay her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes for a moment to concentrate on her feelings. Her cheek lay against the softness of his cashmere overcoat. When she opened her eyes, she could see where his beard started. The line of his jaw was so severe it was almost at right angles and his cheekbones were sharp. As a matter of fact, the only soft thing about him was his overcoat. She rubbed her cheek against it, feeling rock-hard muscle right underneath the material. Rock hard muscle underneath her hands, too, bunching and releasing as he carried her up her icy walkway, as casually as if strolling under the warm summer sun.
No change in his breathing, though he was carrying an adult woman, as easily as if she were a child. He looked down at her. She’d been studying him and she didn’t hide it. When he glanced down, she smiled.
“Do you have your key handy?” he asked quietly.
She did. In a special pocket in her purse. He took it, then walked up the four steps onto her porch. Bending with her still in his arms, he opened the front door and carried her over the threshold.
It might be the only time in her life a man carried her over the threshold and Charity wanted to commit it to memory. Everything about it. She greedily soaked up every single sensation, all her senses alive and firing, drinking in every detail of the moment.
The feel of him beneath her hands, strong and hard, covered with the soft trappings of a businessman. The wonderful smell of him, stronger now that she was so close. It was a huge temptation not to lick him, to see what he tasted like.
The open door behind her, visible over Nick’s broad shoulder. It was like an old-fashioned painting, the yellow streetlight perfectly centered in the open doorway, the door framing a snowy scene straight out of Currier & Ives. Snowflakes falling like featherlight stars out of the black night sky.
Nick kicked the door closed behind him and slid her down his body. There was no way on earth she could miss his erection, even through his pants and overcoat. As she felt that hard, steely column, her stomach muscles contracted and she shivered.
A second later, his scarf and her coat lay on her hardwood floor and he cupped her head as he kissed her. Deeper kisses these, harder, longer. Luscious, never ending, electrifying.
Charity was standing slightly on tiptoe, holding his thick wrists when he lifted his head, those mesmerizing cobalt blue eyes locked on to hers. His thin nostrils were slightly flared, his cheekbones were flushed red underneath his heavy tan. His beautiful mouth was flushed and wet. Still, though he was definitely aroused—the erection pressed against her belly was vivid proof of that—he looked utterly in control of himself.
Unlike her. Charity felt as if she were melting. Inside she was buzzing, dizzy with desire, hardly able to catch her breath against the tight band around her chest. The only thing holding her upright was her hands around his wrists. Otherwise she’d collapse in a puddle at his feet.
Somewhere far away something was ringing, some kind of bell. Well, that fit. A celebratory bell was a perfect soundtrack for what was going on inside her. It took her bedazzled brain almost a minute to realize that it was the telephone ringing. Her answering machine in the living room picked it up and she could hear her own voice asking whoever called to leave a message. Whoever it was, it couldn’t have been anything important, because there was a click as they hung up.
Thank God it wasn’t Uncle Franklin calling about yet another problem with Aunt Vera. Charity liked to think that she would, could break the spell of this moment if her aunt and uncle needed her, but she was glad she wasn’t being put to this test.
Nick behaved as if the phone hadn’t rung at all. He was watching her intently, gaze focused on her face, searching for something. Whatever it was he wanted, it was his.
“Charity,” he said, his deep voice low, then stopped. There really wasn’t anything else he had to say. What he wanted was clear. Every line of his big body was drawn in desire.
There was only one possible answer.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Vassily Worontzoff’s mansion
Vassily used his stylus to punch in Charity’s number and listened, with growing apprehension, to the empty line and the far-off ringing, then her lovely voice asking him to leave a message. He didn’t want to leave a message, he wanted to talk to her.
She wasn’t home. Why wasn’t she home? Where was she?
Charity seldom went out. She might be with her aunt and uncle, but she’d spent the evening before with them. And they were so elderly they ate at six and were in bed by nine. It was now almost ten.
Vassily put down the phone with a frown, clawed hand hovering over the receiver. He daren’t call again. He had to ration his calls to Katya—Charity!
He limited himself to no more than two calls a week and rationed their occasions out together. Two, three times a month. He didn’t dare go beyond that. Not yet.
But soon.
They’d already met for tea this month and he’d casually dropped by the library to bring her a package of piroshki he’d had specially ordered and airlifted from Moscow, just for her. She wouldn’t know that, of course. He’d said a friend had brought by several boxes and too many sweets weren’t good for his health.
And then of course there was the soirée he was organizing on Thursday. His soirées were for her, only her. He loved music, but he had a very extensive CD collection and he could have himself driven down to New York or to Boston any time he wanted when he desired live music. New York in particular had proved very satisfactory that way. He kept an apartment on Park Avenue, owned by a corporation with ten shells around it. No one would ever know it belonged to him.
The apartment had been decorated in the pastel colors Charity loved, filled with her favorite music CDs, stocked with her favorite teas. He’d bought an entire wardrobe of designer clothes in her size, just waiting for her to step into them. Everything was ready. His new life was there, shimmering just beyond his reach. With each passing day, its outlines grew more and more solid, more substantial.