Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(48)

Rosalie flew to the door as soon as she heard the key turn in the lock.

“What happened?” she demanded, flinging the door wide, and Rand caught it deftly with one hand. There was a vaguely triumphant air about him as he looked down at her with an intricately blended gaze of gold and jade.

“You can offer me your congratulations,” he said, and Rosalie laughed in delight. Before she had the opportunity to say a word, Rand closed the door and pulled her into his arms to kiss her. Rosalie was immediately paralyzed, her lips soft with astonishment, and he took advantage of her vulnerability without hesitation. His mouth was searching, urgent, knowing, even more intoxicating than she had remembered. As the warmth of his touch suffused her, Rosalie stumbled closer, to meld herself against his hard body. Fire licked smoothly along her nerves in instant reaction to him, and a soft sound came from Rand’s throat as he sensed her surrender.

Rosalie became oblivious of everything but the searing contact between their bodies, the hungry clasp of flesh to flesh. She was consumed like tinder fed to a flame, feeling hot and light, weightless. Their passion was new, desperate, too long denied. His hand slid upward along her side, searching for her body through tbe fine material of her gown, cupping her breast delicately. Her knees weakened at the sensation and she leaned against him, letting the hard muscles of his legs take her weight. Somewhere in the back of Rand’s quickly evaporating mind the thought intruded that he was not going to be able to stop. He had to get control of himself. He lifted his head, bis breath quick, and she made a slight gasp of protest as the loss of his mouth.

“We have to talk,” Rand said thickly, his thumb making a regretfully brief search of a tender nipple. Rosalie shivered and then nodded, her face flushed and her body aching for more of his touch. He let her rest against him until her legs had strengthened, and then she moved away to sit down, feeling peculiarly languid and confused.

“About going home?” she asked.

“Precisely. There is something I’d like to do first.” He paused before asking slowly, “Would you mind it if our return was delayed another week?”

Rosalie took an uneven breath and lowered her eyes so that he would not see the transparent gleam of relief. Another week, she thought with an overload of thankfulness. Another week with Rand.

“That depends,” she said carefully. “Why do you want to delay it?”

Rand paused in a split second of indecision, feeling a quick sting of guilt. He had already decided not to tell her about the report in the Times until he could make the most use of it. He would buy enough time to beguile her into accepting his proposal. If she proved to be particularly obstinate, he would use the newspaper article to convince her that she needed the protection of his name.

“I was speaking this morning with a French naval architect about the Prinzessin Charlotte, a double-hulled steamboat which carries passengers on the Elbe in Germany.”

“A steamboat? Why would you be interested—?” “Right now steam is used only as auxiliary power for passenger vessels like the Charlotte. Only for short inland runs. But when they are developed more, it’s going to change the entire shipping business. They’ll take the place of cargo freighters, and they’ll cut the time from trade routes significantly.”

“And you want to talk more about it with this naval architect?”

“I want to talk more about it with someone in Paris, a former apprentice of Robert Fulton. When Fulton lived in Paris he built a steamboat that went up the Seine, and he left behind a few burgeoning experts in steam navigation.”

Rosalie frowned. She was hardly concerned about Fulton, steamships, or trade. What occupied her thoughts was the prospect of Rand leaving her alone for a week while he went to Paris.

“How soon are you going to leave?” she managed to ask quietly.

Rand smiled at her. “That depends on how much you intend to pack.”

“How much I . . .” she repeated, dumbfounded, and his smile deepened.

“Unless you don’t want to go.”

Rosalie recovered quickly and masked her elation by adopting an undecided expression. “Will it be very boring, talking to some old man about ships?”

She looked so much like a little French coquette that Rand had to smother an impulse to snatch her up and kiss her until she was senseless.

“Boring?” he questioned thoughtfully. “Have you ever sailed up the Seine in a full-rigged freighter? Have you ever gone to the Maison d’Or and whispered behind your fan as the dandies strolled by? Seen a play at the Comédie Francaise? Have you ever gone dancing in Paris until the night ends and dawn begins?”

“No.” Her gaze was filled with excitement and longing.

“Then you won’t be bored. Go and pack.” Randgrinned as she scampered off to her room. He was beginning to understand how to deal with Rosalie Belleau-Brummell. A good thing that she was proving to be so temptable.

Paris was unimaginable to someone like Rosalie, who had been sheltered all of her life from the kinds of sights and activities that proliferated there. Every narrow, poorly paved street seemed to run riot with energy and glee, with the colors and shapes of fantastic art, with the music from the theaters and the loud talk of the radical intellectuals who frequented the cafes. To those who wished to act and speak as they pleased, Paris was the City of Light. For twenty-four francs Rand had hired a carriage to take them to the Hotel de Ville, a noble structure that had stood on the Right Bank since the sixteenth century.