Chapter 17
“You saved me.” She acknowledged finally what he had done for her, and swallowed in a tight throat.
“Si.”
“Merci.” She spoke her simple thanks quietly.
“Non c’é di che.” Don’t mention it. His casual reply held an undertone of pleasure in her gratitude. The pad of his thumb teased the corner of her mouth.
The gentle words and touch broke through her defenses like no yelling ever could. The enormity of what she had done, what could have happened to her, and that she still lived overwhelmed her. Tremors shook her.
“Ah, dolce mia,” he murmured.
His hands cupped her face. Their warmth seeped down into her heart, thawing her icy fear. She reveled in that warmth for a moment, then with a shaky sigh, she released her terror. This man had saved her. Perhaps she could help him in return.
Solange pulled back, away from his hands. She needed all her wits, for she was not about to offer too much. She still needed to keep herself and her brother safe, and this man’s touch fogged her brain.
“What can I do to thank you?” she asked.
Antonio blinked at her sudden, composed question. Her fear had seemed real, but this abrupt composure made him suspicious. His eyes narrowed. He wondered what game she was playing. Perhaps he would play along to see how far she would go.
His lips tipped up in a sly smile. “I can think of a number of ways you can thank me.” He traced his fingers along her jaw. “But we already have a bargain, dolce mia. You have not held up your side.”
He watched understanding flash through her eyes.
“The piece of the Sphere of Astarte,” she said, her tone flat.
“Si.”
She shook her head. “I have no idea where it is.”
“I do.”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed in distrust. “It is someplace dangerous.” She shook her head again. “No. I’ve had enough of danger for now.” She pressed back against the wall.
He was not about to let her off that easily. He was desperate. She had made an offer. “Do you think I would let harm come to you?” he asked.
She remained mute, but her gaze slid away.
“What if I sweetened the bargain?” As he enticed, he placed his hands against the wall on either side of her.
Her mouth thinned into a mutinous line. But her eyes darkened in response to his closeness.
He leaned in and kissed a corner of those lips. “What if I could give you something more valuable than wealth?”
Her eyes closed. He nearly had her. He needed her help, but he could not let her see that. With her thief’s heart, she would take advantage. But her offer to thank him for saving her had given him an opportunity to remind her she still owed him. He would not let her forget.
His silky tone wound around Solange like a spider’s web. The touch of his lips made her want to melt. She forced herself not to succumb to his wiles.
“What if,” he murmured against her mouth, “I could free you from Vernoux?”
Her breath hitched. Her thoughts closed down. For just a moment, she believed him. Then reality kicked in. She pushed him back. “You can’t. He’s too powerful.”
“Solange.” He gave her braid a gentle tug. Amusement rumbled beneath her name. “Remember what I am.”
Of course. He was Tonio. Shadow sometimes. Other times, not. Like now, when he was flesh and bone and arrogance and male and heat. Deadly. Potent. She shut her eyes against that seductive golden gaze. The bargain was already made. He knew it. She did, too. She merely had to admit it.
Antonio knew the moment she conceded. He felt it in the loosening of her muscles, the tiny sway toward him. All that remained was for her to speak the words.
Instead of agreeing, she asked, “How do I know you’ll keep your end of the bargain?”
“How do I know you’ll keep yours?” he countered. Leaning into her, thigh to thigh, hip to hip, he traced her jawline, his fingers hovering just above her skin. He wanted her thoroughly aware of him. “You have deceived already.”
Her eyes darkened with the tingles he created. She blinked, swallowed. “I told you—”
“Shh.” He placed a finger across those luscious lips. “No excuses, dolce mia. No conditions. Agree or not.”
She stared at him. Her mouth pulled tight. She jerked a nod.
“Bene.” Despite her agreement, he still did not trust her. “I think we need to seal the bargain.”
A line appeared between her brows. “I’ll not sign anything. I can’t have Vernoux discovering what I am doing.”
“No, nothing so obvious,” he said, smoothing that line away with his finger.
“A blood pact, then,” she bit out. “You can use the stiletto up your sleeve so we may both open a vein.”
He refused to be baited. “Much too messy.” Thoughtfully, he traced the delicate arch of her brow and allowed his fingers to wander down her cheek, back around her ear, down her throat, and up again to her jaw. Her eyes began to lose their focus. Bene.
“I think a kiss,” he murmured. “Si, the perfect solution.” He tipped up her chin. “Not obvious, but very effective. A reminder of what we can do for each other.” He touched his lips to the corner of her mouth. “A pleasurable reminder, si?”
Her lips parted. She seemed not to hear him. Then, quietly, “Oui.”
“Bene.” He smiled. Molto bene. Very good. This agreement would be one she would remember.
He kissed her, gently, a soft brush of his lips against hers. And another. Sweet butterfly kiss. Her mouth was pliant beneath his. Cautious. Expectant. Wary. She waited for him to claim her. He would. But not yet.
He ran his tongue across her bottom lip. She still tasted of plums. Her tongue flicked out, searching, wanting. He withdrew, kissing one corner of her mouth, then the other. She sighed. Her shoulders softened. He wrapped his arms around her, tugged her against him. Her body fit itself closely, molded against him. Ah, this woman could make his blood sing. His arousal snuggled in the hollow of her hip. Eventually, it would find a warmer sheath. But not now. Now, was the time for her.
He slanted his mouth across her lips. One hand cupped the back of her head. The other hand cupped her bottom. She rotated her hips, once, then halted. Her stillness spoke of her battle. She did not reject him, but neither did she encourage. He slid his fingers over the curve of her bottom and slipped them between her thighs. She wore no undergarments beneath her breeches. Her disregard for convention pleased him. Her moist heat told him all he needed to know. He rubbed his fingers back and forth. Once. Twice. A tiny shiver slipped through her.
With a soft breath, her reluctance crumbled. Her arms wrapped around his waist, and he felt her hands on his buttocks, holding tight, digging in.
Ah, si. This was just how he wanted her. He slipped his tongue between her lips. She welcomed him, playing, stroking. There was no reluctance in her now. Her hands crept beneath his shirt, caressed his back, kneaded his muscles, and then slid around his ribs to lay on his chest. Her expert fingers teased his nipples. Ah, heaven. But he would not indulge himself. He clasped her tighter against him. Then one stray little hand slid down to cup his arousal. He groaned. Madre di Dio, he wanted her. The blood pounded through his veins.
No, she was not going to distract him with her practiced wiles. Gently, he took her wrist and held it behind her.
She stiffened into an inflexible rod.
Merda. A mistake. He lifted his head but kept her wrist lightly bound.
Her gaze accused him. “You said you would not hurt me.”
“Have I hurt you? Am I hurting you now?” He traced the fingers of his free hand lightly across her cheek, around her ear.
She turned her face away.
“Dolcezza,” he whispered. “I won’t hurt you.”
He kept her wrist loosely in his hand. If she truly wished, she could easily slip his hold. He hoped she would not. And her other hand was free. He wanted her to trust him. He wanted to dissipate her dark cloud of suspicion, of her fear that hovered just behind. He wanted to kill the man who had put it there. But the killing was for later.
She turned her profile to him. That presented a challenge. Although she remained quiet in his grip, she was not engaged as she had been only moments before. He wanted her engaged, consumed by pleasure.
He placed a kiss on her jaw. And another.
“You are very brave,” he murmured. Another kiss.
“Strong.”
Kiss.
“Magnificent.”
Kiss.
“Beautiful.”
Kiss.
She faced him. “I’m not.”
“You are. You took my breath away the first time I saw you at your salon.”
She stared at him, the disbelief in her eyes evident even in the lack of light.
He placed his hand over her breast. “You have the heart of a lioness.”
Beneath his fingers, the cloth strips bound her breasts. Antonio’s quick concentration of thought loosened them. Her brows flicked together at the sudden freedom. To distract her, he let his hand hover above her cheek in that minuscule space where those charged tingles appeared. Her lips parted.
“May I worship the lioness?” he murmured.
A huff of sardonic amusement left her.
Antonio smiled. Bene. He had her.
Solange wanted to believe him, wanted to soak up the outrageous compliments he showered on her, but Vernoux had taught her too well of trickery and pain. Antonio’s fingers still gripped her wrist, but lightly. Testing, she pulled away, and his hand dropped. Sacré bleu. He released her with no struggle. So unlike Vernoux. Perhaps what Antonio said was true. No man had ever complimented her courage before.
But she needed to test his truth. She leaned back against the wall, all teasing seductress. “I think perhaps you had too much cheap wine at the tavern, and you are just a little bit drunk, non?”
“No.” He braced his palms against the wall on either side of her. Leaning close, he whispered in her ear, “You will not play the siren with me.” He traced the shell of her ear with his tongue. “But you will remember not to deceive me again.” One hand slid beneath her shirt, up her ribs and cupped her breast. His thumb stroked across the nipple.
Solange gasped at the pleasure that arrowed through her. A war bloomed in her head between desire and irritation. She wanted him. Too much. And that annoyed her. But she could also play this game.
She ran her hands up his thighs and curved her fingers around his lean hips. Her thumbs stroked in the hollows. His head dipped. He dragged in a breath. She hid her smile.
“So, you battle with me,” he murmured. “We shall see who wins.”
His hand left her breast and slid to her back. His other hand cupped her bottom and pulled her tight against him. His arousal pressed against her. He nipped her earlobe.
The breath hissed through her teeth. “I have much practice at this game, mon seigneur. You should retreat now before I vanquish you.” She snaked her hand beneath his shirt and toyed again with his nipple.
A reflexive rumble came from deep in his throat. He kissed her jaw. “We shall see who will be vanquished.” Swinging her around, he backed her to the bed. “Be prepared to cry peace, dolcezza.” With a little shove, he laid her flat, her legs dangling. He leaned over her, kissed the corner of her mouth.
“I will never cry peace,” she said.
He smiled. “You are only raising the stakes, dolce mia. I enjoy a good challenge.”
His weight dropped onto her, and he captured her mouth. Solange tried to remain stoic. He would not arouse her. He would not make her mindless. But his tongue stroked. His hands were beneath her shirt. His fingers traced up and down along the sides of her breasts. She shivered and felt moisture between her thighs.
This man could seduce Venus herself. He rained kisses down her throat and captured one nipple in his mouth through her shirt. As he sucked, he rolled the other nipple between forefinger and thumb. A whimper escaped her. Ah, oui. Her eyes closed in delicious delight, and for the moment, she forgot her determination to win this battle.
He pulled her shirt over her head. The loosened bindings for her breasts quickly fell away. But her arms were caught in the shirt sleeves, tangled in the material. Only partially bound, but enough to keep her hands from him. She could free herself if she wished. But she did not wish to. The sensation of his mouth, his hands was too delicious. For now, she would let him have his way.
She stretched beneath him and opened herself to whatever he wanted. He kissed his way down to the waistband of her breeches and back up, fastening on one of her breasts. His tongue teased, his teeth nipped. His thigh slipped between her knees and rubbed against her center. The pressure made her want more. She writhed against that solid muscle.
“What do you want, Solange?” he whispered. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want—”
The rest of her words were lost in a moan of intense desire as his fingers slipped between her thighs and the heel of his hand rested over her mound. Pressure. Release. Pressure. Release. She wriggled her hips and squeaked in frustration. The buttons on her breeches came undone. With a tug, he had the garment down around her ankles. His fingers trailed up her bare thigh, across her hip, circled her navel… and stopped.
She peeked at him through her lashes. Why had he stopped?
“Tell me what you want, dolcezza.” His murmur held dark promise. The light of the moon silvered his face and made him appear a wicked angel, a spirit who would give her whatever she wished. For a price.
What did she want? She wanted him to bring her to mindless ecstasy. She wanted la petite mort. With him. What would it cost her?
His fingers circled her navel again, slipped lower, teased the curls between her thighs. So close. She held her breath. He slid one finger across that small nub. She whimpered. Her hips bucked.
“What do you want, Solange?”
His question came again, soft, sweet, wafting inside her head like the aroma of flowers on the evening breeze.
She swallowed, trying to put thoughts into words, trying to tell him without having to say anything. Without having to surrender.
His finger moved again, pressing deeper. Almost inside her, not quite. He was driving her mad.
“Tell me what you want.”
His demand was barely a breath. She wriggled against that hand. His finger withdrew.
“Tell me. What… Do… You… Want?” More insistent this time.
“I want—” She broke off her thought before she revealed her weakness. No man had ever taken the time to pleasure her. But this man could pleasure her with a kiss. He could give her la petite mort as Shadow. What would he be able to do as flesh and bone? Her body wanted him so badly she trembled.
But she had deceived him. He would hurt her as Vernoux always did.
“Pleasure,” he said.
She looked into his eyes, warm, golden, inviting. They promised passion. Not pain. She was lost.
“Oui.” She breathed the single word into the night.
He smiled. The appearance of that male dimple in his cheek struck a warning bell deep in her brain. But it was forgotten in the single stroke of his finger across that sensitive nub. Pleasure convulsed her. She bit down on her cry, drawing blood from her lip.
Her quick response to his touch and immediate climax surprised Antonio. She was as sensitive as a virgin, and he began to wonder about her relations with Vernoux. Did the man only use her for torture? That thought confirmed his desire to commit murder. He pushed away the rage.
He remembered their lovemaking while he had been Shadow. She had been very responsive then, too, but he had thought it was because of the strange tingling sensation they created when they touched. He was mistaken. Evidently, Madame de Volonté, the woman who portrayed herself as worldly wise, experienced in the ways of love, had very little experience of pleasure. The idea made him smile in anticipation of what he could teach her.
Her eyes opened, and he waited for them to focus before he wiped the drop of blood from her lip. Deliberately, he sucked the salty moisture from his thumb.
Her gaze sharpened. “Why are you looking so pleased?” she asked.
He ducked his head and kissed her shoulder. “Because, dolcezza,” he said, kissing her neck, “I am going to teach you about pleasure.” He gently sucked on her pulse. “I am going to worship your body.” Moving lower, he took one nipple into his mouth, flicked it with his tongue. “I am going to please you.” He transferred to the other nipple.
She moaned.
“I am going to make you whimper.” He kissed his way down to her navel.
She gasped and squirmed.
“I will make your body sing.” He ran his hands down her sides, over her hips, to her thighs.
She breathed out a sigh.
“And then, perhaps do it again.” He pushed her knees wider apart and crouched between them. The scent of her was an aphrodisiac. He wanted to breathe her in forever.
Her arms came down, and she rested the shirt caught between them on his neck, stopping him. “I can’t… I don’t think—”
“Shh. Don’t think.” He smiled at her, ran his thumbs up the silky insides of her thighs. He was rewarded with her quick intake of breath. The shirt she held around the back of his neck relaxed. “My touch will never hurt you. Do you believe me?”
Silence. Then, in a whisper, “Oui.”
“A kiss then. To seal our bargain.”
Her eyes widened in understanding. Before she could protest, he dropped his head down between her thighs and tasted her. She was intoxicating. Desire slammed into him. His arousal was fierce, almost to the point of pain. He nearly spilled his seed, and only at the last moment was he able to halt that indignity. This was for her, not him. One day, he vowed, this would be for both of them. But now, he would concentrate on Solange because he needed her to know that bargains were made to be kept.
Solange felt his tongue, rough velvet, slide against her, inside her. His touch was exquisite. Soft, gentle one moment. Demanding, the next. She had reached la petite mort with just a tiny swipe of his finger, but that had not been enough. In fact, it had made her want more. He made her crave him. Like someone who had been lost in the desert for days and craved water. When he touched her, she lost her sanity. He became her raison d’être. Her reason for being.
His hand and fingers had delivered pleasure, but now his tongue, his lips, his mouth worked magic. Desire pulsed, pounded, grew intense. She groaned, an uncontrolled sound. Was it to make him stop or urge him on? Her fingers tangled in his hair. To hold him back or direct him? Her hips writhed. Oui. Oui. Oui.
He slowed. Retreated. Raised his head.
She yanked his hair, tried to push him down.
He did not budge.
She opened her eyes and peeked at him. What was wrong?
“Why did you stop?” she asked.
He rose up, then braced himself on his elbows above her. “You wish me to continue, si?”
She jerked her head in a nod.
Gently, he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “Sometime, very soon, I will give you the pleasure you seek. But not tonight. Tonight, we seal a bargain.” His eyes glittered.
Before she had a chance to say a word, he kissed her. Still drugged with desire, she kissed him back. The taste of herself on his lips sent a throb through her that was so intense, her hips bucked. His weight dropped on her, holding her still. His hard arousal pressed between them. He wanted her as much as she wanted him.
He raised his head. “We are finished here tonight.”
“But…” she began, baffled.
“Do you understand that I will never hurt you?” he asked.
What he had just done was the furthest thing from pain that she could imagine. She nodded.
“So we have sealed our bargain, si?” He raised a questioning brow.
Oui. The kiss. A kiss like she had never expected. But she had agreed. She jerked another nod.
“Then we are done.” With a wry twist to his mouth, he pushed himself to his feet.
Understanding finally hit her. He had brought her to the brink of la petite mort and now would leave her unfulfilled. Anger whipped through her. At him for enticing her. At herself for allowing him.
“Enfant de putain!” She shot upright and struggled to get her shirt back on. He was a son of a bitch. A beast. A snake.
He chuckled. “I never said I was a gentleman.”
Solange finally got her shirt straightened and whipped a pillow at him. It was a very unsatisfactory weapon, but at the moment, the only one at hand. “You made me trust you.”
“Si,” he agreed coolly. “Just as I trusted you. Perhaps a mistake on both our parts.”
She stood and jerked up her breeches. He stood between her and the wardrobe where her sword lay. The desire to run him through almost overcame her desire to have him pleasure her. Almost. “You will never touch me again.” She lied. If he came close this very moment, she would melt into him.
One brow went up sardonically. “Your decision, of course. But do you truly wish to deny my touch forever?”
The thought of never feeling his hands on her again, of never having them pleasure her, turned her cold.
At her silence, his lips curved. “No answer, Solange?”
His arrogance and mocking tone fired her temper. She threw up her hand and sent a pulse of power at him. But instead of stinging him as she intended, she watched it slip across his cheek, curl around his neck, and trail down his chest like a lover’s caress. It hugged his erection, and then faded away.
His head jerked back. His eyes squeezed shut. His hands fisted. He sucked in a breath, then it escaped in a hiss through his teeth. A muscle pulsed in his jaw. A heartbeat passed, then another, and another. She watched him struggle for control. When he focused on her again, his eyes caught the moonlight, and they glittered. In anger or arousal? she wondered.
His voice was strained when he spoke. “It would seem, dolce mia, that your actions belie your words. You do want my touch. That little demonstration of your power was quite… delightful.”
Her power had delivered seductive pleasure, not pain. Embarrassed at revealing her arousal, she snapped, “I never want to see you again.”
“I think you may have to,” he said quietly, “for we have sealed a bargain and are locked together now like two links in a chain.”
She turned away, trying to deny the truth of his statement. “Get out.”
“As you wish.” He walked to the window and hopped up to the sill. Turning back to her, he said quietly, “This night was punishment for us both, dolcezza.” Then he dropped from sight.
Solange heard the soft thud as he landed on the ground. He was gone. She licked her lips. She tasted her and him. Lifting her hands, she sniffed. His scent filled her. She wanted him. She thirsted for him, hungered for him. Her knees went weak, and she sank back to the bed. He had tricked her. He had left her so frustrated she could have cried.
And so angry, she could have screamed.