Secrets of a Summer Night
Page 50
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“Do you believe that?” she asked.
“Of course not.” Hunt brought the box to the table and opened it to reveal a set of onyx and ivory chessmen, carved in scrupulous detail. He slid her a provocative glance. “The truth is, you can never really know a man until you’ve loaned him money. And you can never know a woman until you’ve slept in her bed.”
He said it deliberately, of course, to shock her. And he succeeded, although Annabelle did her best to conceal it. “Mr. Hunt,” she said, frowning into his smiling eyes, “if you continue to make vulgar remarks, I will be forced to ask you to leave the parlor.”
“Forgive me.” His instant contrition didn’t fool her in the least. “It’s just that I can’t resist the opportunity to make you blush. I’ve never known a woman to do it as often as you do.”
The bloom that had begun at her throat flamed up to her hairline. “I never blush. It’s only around you that I—” Breaking off, she stared at him with an indignant frown that made him laugh.
“I’ll behave for now,” he said. “Don’t tell me to leave.”
She stared at him indecisively, passing an unsteady hand over her forehead, and the sign of her physical frailty caused him to speak even more gently. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “Let me stay, Annabelle.”
Blinking, she responded with a wobbly nod and subsided against the cushions of the settee while Hunt set the board methodically. His touch on the pieces was surprisingly light and deft, considering the size of his hands. Potentially ruthless hands, she thought…tanned and masculine, with a light dusting of black hair on the backs.
Half-standing over her as Hunt was, Annabelle became aware of the intriguing scent of him, the whisper of starch and shaving soap overlaying the fragrance of clean male skin…and there was something more elusive…some sweet tang to his breath, as if he had recently eaten pears, or perhaps a slice of pineapple. As she looked up at him, she realized that with very little effort he could have bent down and kissed her. The thought caused her to tremble. She actually wanted to feel his mouth on hers, to inhale the ephemeral touch of sweetness on his breath. She wanted him to hold her again.
The realization caused her eyes to widen. Her sudden stillness communicated swiftly to Hunt. His attention swerved from the chessboard to her upturned face, and whatever he saw in her expression caused his breath to catch. Neither of them moved. Annabelle could only wait in silence, her fingertips curling into the upholstery of the settee as she wondered what he might do next.
Hunt broke the tension with a long breath, and spoke in a softly abraded voice. “No…you’re not well enough yet.”
It was difficult to hear the words above the thunder of her heartbeat. “Wh-what?” she asked faintly.
Seeming unable to help himself, Hunt brushed a little curling wisp of hair back from her temple. The stroking fingertip burned her silken skin, leaving a glow of sensation in its wake. “I know what you’re thinking. And believe me, I’m tempted. But you’re still too weak—and my self-control is in short supply today.”
“If you’re implying that I—”
“I never waste time with implications,” he murmured, resuming his careful placement of the chess pieces. “Obviously, you want me to kiss you. And I’ll be happy to oblige, when the time is right. But not yet.”
“Mr. Hunt, you are the most—”
“Yes, I know,” he said with a grin. “You may as well spare yourself the effort of hurling adjectives at me, as I’ve heard them all before.” Lowering himself to the chair, Hunt pressed a chess piece into her palm. The carved onyx was heavy and cool, its slick surface warming slowly to the touch.
“It’s not adjectives that I want to hurl at you,” Annabelle said. “A sharp object or two would suffice.”
A deep laugh stirred in his chest, and his thumb brushed over the backs of her fingers before he withdrew his hand. She felt the rasp of a callus on his thumb, the sensation not unlike the tingling scrape of a cat’s tongue. Bemused by her own response to him, Annabelle looked down at the chess piece in her hand.
“That is the queen—the most powerful piece on the board. She can move in any direction, and go as far as she wishes.”
There was nothing overtly suggestive in his manner of speaking…but when he spoke softly, as he was doing at that moment, there was a husky depth in his voice that made her toes curl inside her slippers.
“More powerful than the king?” she asked.
“Yes. The king can only move one square at a time. But the king is the most important piece.”
“Why is he more important than the queen if he’s not the most powerful?”
“Because once he is captured, the game is over.” Reaching for the piece he had given her, Hunt exchanged it for a pawn. His fingers brushed over hers, lingering in a brief but unmistakable caress. Although Annabelle knew that she should disallow the outrageous familiarity, she found herself watching in a near daze, her knuckles whitening as she held the carved ivory in far too tight a grip. Hunt’s voice was low and velvety as he continued. “This is the pawn, which moves one square at a time. It can’t move backward or sideways, unless it is taking another piece. Most novice players like to move a lot of their pawns in the beginning, to control a larger area on the chessboard. But it’s a better strategy to make good use of your other pieces…”
“Of course not.” Hunt brought the box to the table and opened it to reveal a set of onyx and ivory chessmen, carved in scrupulous detail. He slid her a provocative glance. “The truth is, you can never really know a man until you’ve loaned him money. And you can never know a woman until you’ve slept in her bed.”
He said it deliberately, of course, to shock her. And he succeeded, although Annabelle did her best to conceal it. “Mr. Hunt,” she said, frowning into his smiling eyes, “if you continue to make vulgar remarks, I will be forced to ask you to leave the parlor.”
“Forgive me.” His instant contrition didn’t fool her in the least. “It’s just that I can’t resist the opportunity to make you blush. I’ve never known a woman to do it as often as you do.”
The bloom that had begun at her throat flamed up to her hairline. “I never blush. It’s only around you that I—” Breaking off, she stared at him with an indignant frown that made him laugh.
“I’ll behave for now,” he said. “Don’t tell me to leave.”
She stared at him indecisively, passing an unsteady hand over her forehead, and the sign of her physical frailty caused him to speak even more gently. “It’s all right,” he murmured. “Let me stay, Annabelle.”
Blinking, she responded with a wobbly nod and subsided against the cushions of the settee while Hunt set the board methodically. His touch on the pieces was surprisingly light and deft, considering the size of his hands. Potentially ruthless hands, she thought…tanned and masculine, with a light dusting of black hair on the backs.
Half-standing over her as Hunt was, Annabelle became aware of the intriguing scent of him, the whisper of starch and shaving soap overlaying the fragrance of clean male skin…and there was something more elusive…some sweet tang to his breath, as if he had recently eaten pears, or perhaps a slice of pineapple. As she looked up at him, she realized that with very little effort he could have bent down and kissed her. The thought caused her to tremble. She actually wanted to feel his mouth on hers, to inhale the ephemeral touch of sweetness on his breath. She wanted him to hold her again.
The realization caused her eyes to widen. Her sudden stillness communicated swiftly to Hunt. His attention swerved from the chessboard to her upturned face, and whatever he saw in her expression caused his breath to catch. Neither of them moved. Annabelle could only wait in silence, her fingertips curling into the upholstery of the settee as she wondered what he might do next.
Hunt broke the tension with a long breath, and spoke in a softly abraded voice. “No…you’re not well enough yet.”
It was difficult to hear the words above the thunder of her heartbeat. “Wh-what?” she asked faintly.
Seeming unable to help himself, Hunt brushed a little curling wisp of hair back from her temple. The stroking fingertip burned her silken skin, leaving a glow of sensation in its wake. “I know what you’re thinking. And believe me, I’m tempted. But you’re still too weak—and my self-control is in short supply today.”
“If you’re implying that I—”
“I never waste time with implications,” he murmured, resuming his careful placement of the chess pieces. “Obviously, you want me to kiss you. And I’ll be happy to oblige, when the time is right. But not yet.”
“Mr. Hunt, you are the most—”
“Yes, I know,” he said with a grin. “You may as well spare yourself the effort of hurling adjectives at me, as I’ve heard them all before.” Lowering himself to the chair, Hunt pressed a chess piece into her palm. The carved onyx was heavy and cool, its slick surface warming slowly to the touch.
“It’s not adjectives that I want to hurl at you,” Annabelle said. “A sharp object or two would suffice.”
A deep laugh stirred in his chest, and his thumb brushed over the backs of her fingers before he withdrew his hand. She felt the rasp of a callus on his thumb, the sensation not unlike the tingling scrape of a cat’s tongue. Bemused by her own response to him, Annabelle looked down at the chess piece in her hand.
“That is the queen—the most powerful piece on the board. She can move in any direction, and go as far as she wishes.”
There was nothing overtly suggestive in his manner of speaking…but when he spoke softly, as he was doing at that moment, there was a husky depth in his voice that made her toes curl inside her slippers.
“More powerful than the king?” she asked.
“Yes. The king can only move one square at a time. But the king is the most important piece.”
“Why is he more important than the queen if he’s not the most powerful?”
“Because once he is captured, the game is over.” Reaching for the piece he had given her, Hunt exchanged it for a pawn. His fingers brushed over hers, lingering in a brief but unmistakable caress. Although Annabelle knew that she should disallow the outrageous familiarity, she found herself watching in a near daze, her knuckles whitening as she held the carved ivory in far too tight a grip. Hunt’s voice was low and velvety as he continued. “This is the pawn, which moves one square at a time. It can’t move backward or sideways, unless it is taking another piece. Most novice players like to move a lot of their pawns in the beginning, to control a larger area on the chessboard. But it’s a better strategy to make good use of your other pieces…”
