“Oh?” Heart beating faster, she wondered if she’d already betrayed herself, somehow. Or perhaps he’d stumbled across a photograph of her. She could imagine that the London newspapers might have run one after the recent debacle.
“Your parasol, my dear.” He eyed her, a salacious angle slanting his lips. “I do believe you’ve forgotten it again.”
Gwen laughed. “Oh, I hardly require one now.” She hooked her arm through Alex’s. “I have brought a much bigger stick, you see.”
Alex choked on his drink. Barrington, brow lifting, gave him a respectful nod, although the cause for it seemed obscure. “I will take your word on it,” he said to her and slid the bar free, opening the suite doors. “Here then: your home for the next few days—or, indeed, so long as you wish to remain. We do not believe that old adage about guests; the longer you stay, the merrier.”
He took his leave with a bow. As predicted, he had allotted them a single suite. The sitting room was quite large, done up in taupe and ivory, filled with light from the broad French doors that opened onto a balcony with an ocean view.
“Strange man,” Gwen murmured.
Alex paused by the doors to look out toward the sea. “Why do you say that?” he asked.
She frowned at his back. “You don’t think he’s odd?”
“Certainly. But I’d like to hear your perception of him.”
She thought about it a moment. “There is his accent,” she said slowly. “He works very hard to sound like a public school boy. But he learned the accent too late; it doesn’t fit comfortably with his vowels.”
“Which doesn’t condemn him, of course.”
“Of course not! Goodness, for my sake, I should hope not. I suppose, beyond that, it’s simply a feeling he inspires. No real cause for it.”
“But intuition should never be dismissed,” he said. He walked onward through the next door, and she followed. A minuscule dressing room opened onto a bedroom with wallpaper of pale peach and gold. The single window in the far corner looked onto a man-made lake at the side of the house. A transparent mesh mosquito net framed the bed. Sleeping was clearly meant to be an afterthought here; all the attention had been given to the sitting room, which was much larger.
Or perhaps not. Gwen paused in the doorway, looking at that bed. It would have been large enough for Henry VIII and half of his wives, to boot. It dominated the room completely.
Alex walked onward, apparently oblivious to how terribly awkward it was going to be to spend the night here. Perhaps he would be a gentleman—absurd thought, but since he’d done the tediously gentlemanly thing last night, the pattern might well continue—and he would offer to take the floor. Otherwise, she knew what would transpire: she would lie with her back to him, her agitated breath making the netting stir and tremble, too afraid to sleep lest her hands betray her and climb across his chest, as they had been longing to do even in the coach, while her dignity and pride had spat curses at him and her brain had marshaled words of cool, pleasant civility.
What sort of talent was it that led a woman to unerringly fix on men who did not want her in return?
Surely there was another kind of man out there?
“Lily. These are lovely flowers,” Alex announced.
She looked up. He was poised by a vase of roses that sat in the corner opposite the window. “Those aren’t lilies,” she said dryly.
“Very funny, Lily.” His intent stare gave her a start. So, even in the rooms they would play these roles?
“I always aim to amuse you,” she said lightly.
“Then come have a closer look.” His smile now teased. “You’re some sort of expert on flowers, aren’t you? A budding botanist, I hear.”
Her temper strained. Not surprising; its restraints had endured a great deal of friction today. “I told you I am not particularly attached to flowers. I am not a gardener.”
“Nevertheless,” he said, and then paused significantly. His long fingers parted the petals to reveal a patch of the flocked velvet wall. “Come have a look.”
It penetrated that he was not interested in the flowers at all. She glanced around in alarm, wondering if somebody was hiding behind the curtains to prevent their free communication.
He gave her a subtle shake of the head. “Come here,” he said more softly.
Slowly she walked forward. He slid his hand around the back of her neck, fingers closing in a firm grip as he brushed his lips across hers.
She went still. Last night, she’d tossed for hours, powerless to turn her mind from the memory of that shattering pleasure he’d given her. Now, the faintest pressure of his mouth raised an echo of that wonder. A hot, delicious weakness trembled through her.