Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(50)

“You must be tired,” Rand said, and Rosalie nodded automatically, although she was not tired at all. She had no idea of what hour it was, but the sky was as dark as velvet and there was no promise of daybreak in sight. She could find no explanation for the excitement and apprehension richocheting through her stomach, except that somewhere inside burned a premonition of what would happen soon. The dance was over, the night fertile and young, the air seasoned with the intoxicating flavor of romance.

Silently they entered the quiet, dimly lit hotel and proceeded up the long, straight flights and landings of a deep-welled staircase. Rosalie could detect an odd blend of fragrances that mingled in the hotel: tobacco smoke, hot candle wax, strong tea, ladies’ cologne. The treads of each step were finished with brackets that pressed into the sensitive soles of Rosalie’s slippers. Finally they reached a hallway off which branched several rooms.

“It’s so quiet,” Rosalie whispered. “The guests must all be asleep.”

“More likely they’re all out dancing,” Rand said, ushering her inside a room with studied aplomb. They shared two chambers that were connected by a giltframed door, rooms that were decorated in only a degree or two less luxury than the Lothaire. The golddraped windows opened out onto small balconies, and Rosalie went over to peer out through a thin glass pane. “What a beautiful view,” she remarked in a small voice, and Rand frowned quizzically. Beautiful view? He knew that she could hardly see more than the dark outlines of the street. Was she uneasy because she didn’t trust him? He didn’t blame her; he hardly trusted himself around her. Sighing, he walked over to the connecting door and opened it gingerly.

“Your bags and trunks are all next door,” he said. “Call for me if you have any difficulties.”

Rosalie stared at him, making no move to leave. As she thought of what she wanted, of what was in her power to bring about, her heart pounded so heavily that she wondered if her pulse were visible. Jerkily she clasped her hands before her and ignored the faint tugs of panic along her veins. A quick glint of memory appeared before her eyes . . . the image of Rand as he had possessed her, his eyes hot with desire, his body tense with need of her, his skin and hair damp with the exertion of striving for the pleasure that she had brought him. I want him to hold me again, she thought, and her cheeks flamed. I want him to need me desperately, whisper my name, press me tightly against his body. And what of the pain the joining had brought her? Would it occur again? It did not matter anymore. She remembered how he had seemed to forget everything in the world except for her during those minutes of passion.

“Actually . . . I do have a small difficulty,” she murmured, and turned partially away from him. “I . . . need help with my gown.”

For a split second Rand remained rooted to the floor. Her words hung in the air, soft sounds that his tortured imagination had twisted into tones of enticement. Wanting her desperately and reminding himself that he had sworn not to take her again, he swallowed painfully before moving toward her. What had he done, he wondered miserably, to deserve this kind of torture? Tonight he did not have the patience to resist his own clamorings of need for her. Helplessly he drew near her, all of his renowned skill at unfastening women’s apparel fleeing in a hazy instant. Rand took special care not to let his fingers brush against her back as he fumbled with the miniature buttons of her gown, muttering something about needing a lamp, his senses soaking up the details of her nearness, the feminine scent of her, the sleekness of her pinned-up hair. Then the job was done, and he caught a glimpse of her brief white chemise before she turned around quickly.

“Thank you,” Rosalie said, her eyes huge as she turned her face upward.

“Good night,” he said curtly, praying for her to leave before he could no longer keep a rein on his raging impulse to scoop her up, carry her to the bed, and drive into her greedily. To his confusion, she didn’t move away from him, and Rand’s every muscle protested against the tight control he exercised to keep still.

“Rose, you’d better leave,” he said, his voice harsher than he had intended.

“Rand . . .” She withheld the other words she wanted to say, wondering wildly how to continue. She had no experience at seducing a man. How could she please him? What if she disappointed him? This is a terrible idea, she thought, and yet she stood there mutely as she met his eyes.

Rand took one, two, three even breaths as he tried to read her thoughts. “Do you understand what you’re doing?” he finally asked hoarsely. “Rose, do you understand what I’m thinking, and what’s going to happen if you don’t go?”

She managed to nod jerkily.

Suddenly Rand reached for her with a smothered curse and enveloped her in his arms, his hands sliding inside the gaping back of her gown. His mouth sought hers and found it instantly, tasting, devouring. Rosalie closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around him loosely. As the kiss forced her head back, she opened her mouth under the pressure of his, allowing the steel bands of his arms to crush her against him. Her nostrils were filled with the fresh, intoxicating scent of him, a pleasant masculine distillation that had a peculiarly seductive effect on her. A strange warmth seeped lazily through her body, and Rosalie discovered that her knees had suddenly turned to rubber. Rand’s fingers tangled in her hair, anchoring her in one position as his head moved slowly over hers, his tongue mating with hers and then exploring the deepest recesses of her mouth.