Dreaming of You (The Gamblers #2)(9)

Derek also looked into the mirror, seeing what Joyce intended him to see, the erotic contrast between his clothed form and her gold-and-white nakedness. At times Joyce could seem as guileless as an angel, but he had seen her turn into a witch with wild hair and a contorted face, screaming at the height of ecstasy and clawing him with her long nails. She was the most wanton woman he’d ever known, willing to do anything for the sake of pleasure, no matter how debauched. They were quite a pair, he thought grimly, both of them existing only to satisfy their own needs.

Keeping her pale blue eyes on his expressionless face, Joyce ran her hand over his flat stomach, seeking his crotch with her palm. “You still want me,” she purred. “I can feel how much. You’re the most satisfying lover I’ve ever had, so big and hard—”

Derek pushed her away so roughly that she fell back onto the bed. Expectantly she spread her legs and waited for him. Surprise dawned in her eyes as she realized he wasn’t going to oblige her.

“It’s over,” Derek said flatly. “I’ll pay all your debts on Bond Street. Pick out something from that little frog-eating jeweler you like so much, and charge it to my account.” He left his black silk cravat hanging loose around his neck and shrugged into his coat.

“Why are you doing this? Do you want me to beg?” Joyce smiled provocatively. “I’ll get on my knees before you. How would you like that?” As she sank to the floor and leaned her face toward the front of his trousers, Derek forced her up, clamping his hands on her shoulders.

“Listen to me, Joyce—”

“You’re hurting me!”

“I haven’t lied to you. I made no promises. How long did you think this would go on? We both got what we wanted. Now it’s over.”

She glared at him. “It will end when I say so, and not before!”

Derek’s expression changed. “So that’s it,” he said, and laughed. “Your pride is hurt. Well, tell your friends whatever you want, Joyce. Tell them that you were the one to break it off. I’ll agree with anything you say.”

“How dare you speak to me in that superior tone, you ignorant cockney! I know how many thousands of boots you licked to get where you are, and so does everyone else! Gentlemen will come to your club, but they’ll never invite you to their homes, or their parties, or let you eat at their tables or approach their daughters, and do you know why? Because they don’t respect you—they regard you as something to be scraped from their shoes and left in the gutter where you came from! They think of you as the lowest form of—”

“All right,” Derek said, a humorless smile crossing his face. “I know all that. Save your breath.”

Joyce stared at him closely, apparently realizing her insults hadn’t affected him at all. “You have no feelings, do you? That’s why no one can hurt you—because you’re dead inside.”

“That’s right,” he said smoothly.

“And you don’t care about anyone. Not even me.”

His glinting green eyes met hers. Although he didn’t reply, the answer was clear. Drawing back her arm, Joyce struck him with all her strength, the blow sounding like the sharp crack of a pistol. Automatically Derek moved to strike back. But his hand stopped before it reached her face. He lowered it slowly. His face was dark and cool.

“I can make you want me,” Joyce said hoarsely. “There are things we still haven’t done together—new games I could show you—”

“Good-bye, Joyce.” He turned and left the room.

His refusal of her body was insultingly casual, as if he had turned down an unwanted offer of seconds at the supper table. Joyce flushed crimson. “No,” she snarled. “You won’t leave me! If it’s another woman, I’ll claw her eyes out!”

“It’s not another woman,” came his sardonic reply. “It’s just boredom.” Suddenly his accent changed to coarse, flat cockney. “Or as you gentry likes to call it, ennui.”

She ran out of the bedroom, still naked, calling after him as he went down the stairs. “Come back this instant…or you’ll pay for this every day of your life! If I can’t have you, no one will! Do you understand me? “You’ll pay for this, Derek Craven!”

Derek hadn’t taken her threat seriously—or maybe it was just that he hadn’t cared. He had done what he’d planned with his life, never dreaming that at the end of the long, treacherous path success would be coupled with such disappointment. Now he had gained everything he wanted, and there was nothing to look forward to. Damn ennui, the mind-numbing clutches of boredom. A few years ago, he hadn’t even known what the word meant. A rich man’s disease, he thought, and smiled grimly in ironic appreciation.

Chapter 2

Sara dressed carefully for her visit to the gambling palace. She wore the best gown she owned, a gray-blue grenadine with three deep bias tucks at the hem, and a high-necked bodice ornamented with lace. She had very few clothes, but they were all made with good sturdy cloth. The gowns she preferred did not adhere to any particular style that would date them. She hoped the bloodstains could be removed from the garments she had worn last night. There had been quite a scene when Sara had returned at such a late hour, spattered with blood. In response to Mrs. Goodman’s frantic questions, Sara had explained mildly that she had encountered a little trouble during her research. “Nothing to worry about—I merely stopped to give assistance to a stranger.”