Deep Midnight
Page 24

Tiff didn’t embarrass easily, but it seemed that her blood flooded her limbs, and she felt as hot as if it steamed. She should move, withdraw ...
But now the contessa’s eyes were on her, deep, languorous, sensual. Tiff found that she couldn’t move; she could only stare into the contessa’s eyes. The contessa smiled slowly as her fingers kept moving.
“Tell me, bella,” she said, her voice a soft whisper that seemed to caress, “have you ever been with a woman?”
She should have said something witty, something in the way of denial for what was happening now, but all that came to Tiff’s lips was one word, barely breathed out, “No.” The contessa shrugged, her supple fingers still just stroking. “Neither had I been for many years.. .many, many years. But when I discovered that men were deceitful ... when they played about as they would ...
that it was possible to seduce beautiful young things myself. And I learned that women could be seductive, appealing ... so appetizing.”
Tiff managed to swallow. No, she’d never been with a woman, but. ..
“Poor Tiff! So many years with old men desperately seeking their own pleasure! Oh, the things you must have done to bring them to the point of ... possibility!”
The contessa seemed able to read her mind. Even as she spoke, Tiff felt the most ungodly surge of desire sweeping through her! God, yes! The things she’d done, the patience she had needed, the pleasure she had brought . . . while finding no satisfaction herself.
“I can show you pleasure,” the contessa whispered.
Her lips seemed to be so much closer. Her words, her whispers, were like swathes of silk, sweeping over and around Tiff.
She wanted the contessa to do more. So much more. Bring those artful fingers higher and higher and higher, touch the intimate place that now seemed to be throbbing, crying out to be touched.
“Allow me ...”
The contessa’s hands were on her shoulder, a touch so delicate, and yet so forceful. Tiff fell back, the silk robe completely open, the belt lost somewhere, her legs splayed.
The contessa was still over her. Her fingers now stroked Tiff’s throat and moved slowly down her torso.
“Such beautiful breasts ...” The contessa’s words were now no more than air, warm air that stirred and excited her until Tiff could barely stand it.
She’d never been with a woman ....
Why not?
This wasn’t just any woman; this was the contessa . . .
And she couldn’t stop now if she wanted. Those delicate, ring-laden fingers were on her breasts, tracing the tiny patterns of veins in them. Tiff’s legs were spread. She felt liquid, unable to move.
“Beautiful, beautiful ...”
“Lifted and enhanced,” Tiff heard herself say.
The contessa’s laughter was like the soft tinkle of bells. Tiff felt the wetness of her mouth. Tiny licks, like little drops of pure fire, darting as swiftly as the tongue of the snake, doing things as deliciously wicked . ..
The contessa’s caress lowered against her. If she could have moved, Tiff would have seized the woman’s head, and dragged it swiftly down between her thighs. She ached, throbbed, she could feel herself swelling ...
Licks . . . traced her veins, touched her abdomen, trickled along her inner thigh, landed. Tiff nearly shot through the roof. Lord ... what a climax! She was faint, she nearly blacked out. Dear God, but the codgers she had married had been ... worthless. This was what the French called le petit mort. So good, it was like dying . . .
She’d never, ever, experienced anything like this, she hadn’t believed it existed. She was drifting in the pleasure, her mind stunned, yet her thoughts racing, and the contessa didn’t just leave it at that, she was moving lower, against her thighs, a slight stab of pain, the greatest pleasure, and again, the world fading in the ecstacy, the little death of the French ...
Nari dined slowly, taking her time.
When she was sated, she sat back, surveying the shock white body of the woman on the bed.
Amused, she stood, still surveying the remains.
There was one woman who had died happy. There were so many excellent ways to enjoy the richness of a good meal. The veins at the throat were fine, but those in the thigh could be punctured in a way that let the blood flow smoothly.
She smoothed back Tiff’s hair, fondly surveying the body that had provided such pleasure. She laughed aloud then, remembering Tiff’s eagerness to greet her. “Poor Tiffany ... you did rush down to your own demise, didn’t you?”
She stretched, elated, as pleased as an alley cat that had just consumed an entire bowl of milk with no interruption, and without having to share a lick.
She walked to the window and looked out at the darkness that now shadowed the night. She felt completely invigorated, powerful, wonderful.
After such a delicious meal, Nari was surprised to feel a taste of bile rising in her throat. She clenched her teeth, hating him. She had come here because ...
He’d left, her. . . hungry, so hungry, but hungry in a way that she couldn’t fill, no matter how sated she should have been, no matter how sweet the seduction of her prey . . .
She looked back at Tiff. Something now, must be done with the remains. What a bother.
She looked back to the street, frowning. The carabinieri were out in large numbers, she noticed. Why?
For a moment, she thought that he might be angry. Such a feast should have been shared. And perhaps she had not chosen the right victim ...
He had his own agenda.
She tossed her head. Well, there were times when he forgot just who she was.
And now ...
Now, tonight, she felt a terrible gnawing inside. Bitterness, hatred, vengeance. Well, she was moving toward her goal. And she was filled; she surely felt her own power.
She hadn’t felt quite so deliriously strong in a very long time ...
She closed the window.
The night was young.
CHAPTER 8
Harry’s was busy, as always. Jam-packed.
People waited for tables, stood by the bar, huddled in the doorway.
Just within the door, Jordan hesitated. There was nowhere to sit, nowhere to go. She contemplated slipping back out and waiting outside, forgoing her drink, but the night was turning fairly raw. She hadn’t wanted to stay in her room, but she didn’t particularly want to stand outside shivering, either.
Even as she stood feeling a little lost and forlorn, she saw one of the doormen hurrying her way. She smiled, assuming he was bearing down on her to take her coat Then she realized he was rushing to greet someone who had just come in behind her.
“Signore, welcome back.”
She felt a hand on her shoulder. She started; as she turned, she saw that it was Ragnor, and that he was greeting the doorman. “Buona sera! The lady and I were hoping to have a drink,” Ragnor said.
Though he was speaking pleasantly to the doorman, Jordan saw that he was watching a couple at the far end of the bar. The couple rose, leaving an empty space.
“Come, come!” the doorman said.
Jordan looked around, ready to refuse if there were people who had come in ahead of them.
“Come, come,” the doorman insisted, ushering them along the bar. “Tables for the others are almost ready.”
A moment later, he had taken their coats, and she was seated on a bar stool. The bartender was instantly before them. She decided on a good old Southern Jack and Seven. Ragnor ordered Dewars on the rocks.
She swirled the swizzle stick in her drink, then turned to find that he was watching her.
“How did you do that?” she asked him.
“Do what?”
“Clear out the bar.”
He shrugged. “People left; others are ready for dinner.”
“Conveniently so.”
“I know the doorman and the bartender, but don’t worry, I respect a queue. There just happened to be an opening here. What did you think I might have done? Sleight of hand? Mind-controlling darts?” He appeared amused. She felt a little ridiculous, and therefore, angry. And defensive.
“Were you following me?” she asked curtly. He had been so close behind her.
His answer took a moment. She felt the assessment of his gaze. “You’ve got quite a bit of ego wrapped up in such a small package.”
She felt her cheeks burn. “I was assuming you meant to tell me again to leave Venice.” She stared ahead at the bar, turning her swizzle stick once again. She was aware that he kept watching her, also aware that her black cocktail dress was form-hugging and close to risqué. She was also aware that he was well dressed, his clothing was handsomely tailored. He had great hands, she noted as she had before. One rested against his drink, powerful there, the fingers long and tapered. He’d make it in a barbarian movie, just as he wore Armani with a smooth and cultivated flair.
“Are you leaving Venice?” he asked. He sat facing her on his stool. She felt the brush of his knees.
“Eventually.”
“But you won’t get on a plane and go right now.”
“No.”
She thought he would argue. He shrugged.
“Maybe it’s best.”
“That I stay? How kind of you.”
“How’s the Danieli?” he asked, his tone casual.
“Fine. Have you stayed there?”
“Yes, but not in a while. I wonder if it’s changed. Maybe I’ll walk you back and see.”
“You could have coffee or drinks in the lobby anytime,” she told him.
A slight smile curved his lips. “You won’t allow me to walk you home?”
“I’m meeting my cousin and his wife here.”
“And Anna Maria, Raphael and Lynn, so it appears,” Ragnor said.
From where he sat, facing her, he could see the door. She swirled around and saw that Jared and Cindy had arrived and that they were accompanied by the others.
Raphael’s bright eyes widened as he saw Jordan. “Darling!” He made a typically dramatic stride through the milling cocktail crowd to reach her. He kissed her on both cheeks, took her hands, and guided her down from the stool to turn her around before him as he admired her dress. “Simply scrumptious!” he said. “Delizioso! Ragnor, wouldn’t you say?”