Just For Her. Katherine O' NealЧитать онлайн книгу.
His lips mouthing words that fired her imagination, while tasting her flesh and whipping her into a frenzy.
It was too much. She exploded in a vortex of sensation, leaning back into him, giving herself to him completely. Spinning defenselessly in his hands, trusting him to keep her from tumbling from her dizzying height.
She was so befuddled with pleasure that she fell forward against the window when he pulled out of her, gasping for air. Her skirts fell back to graze the brick walk at her feet. She still felt as if she were soaring, her body throbbing in a way that made her feel lusciously fulfilled. And slowly, a dazed sort of somnolence began to steal upon her. It was as if she were a part of the sky and the sea and the very night.
But slowly, the silence changed. It was too quiet. There was no sound, no movement behind her. She reached her hand back, seeking him. When she felt nothing, she swiveled around.
She was alone.
She put her hand to her heart. Once again, he’d vanished into the night. She recalled, as if from a dream, all the things she’d wanted to say.
But then…slowly…she became aware of a sense of lack…of a weight that wasn’t there…of something missing. Gradually, her hand moved up her chest to her collarbone. With rising horror, she realized her neck was bare.
The Antoinette pearls were gone.
Chapter 7
Jules left the gathering in a stupor. Not wanting to see anyone, or answer any questions, she went through the gardens to the front courtyard, where the autos were waiting. Finding the Rolls, she saw to her dismay that Hudson wasn’t there. He had no way of knowing when she’d want to leave, but in her present state it made her feel frantic to find him gone. She wanted to get away, and fast.
She reeled toward a group of chauffeurs playing cards in the cloistered portico, asking if they’d seen him. They shook their heads dumbly, embarrassed at having been caught at their sport. No one had seen him.
She returned to the car and banged her open palm against the window. I have to get hold of myself.
Just then, she heard hurried footsteps and turned to find Hudson sprinting her way. “Where were you?” she demanded.
“Highness, what’s happened?”
“Don’t ask anything,” she told him shortly. “Just take me home.”
As he opened the car door for her, the inside light illuminated her. “Highness, your necklace—”
“Hudson, I swear if you ask me any questions, I’m going to scream.”
He knew when to keep his peace, so he helped her inside with solicitous care. “You close your eyes and rest, Highness. We’ll have you home in no time.”
As he drove along the coast road in the dark, Jules laid back her head and closed her eyes. She couldn’t believe what had happened. He’d actually taken the necklace! Played her for a complete and utter fool.
I am a fool—a stupid romantic imbecile!
The worst of it was that he’d been right about her. She knew that now. Oh, she’d wanted him to help her with DeRohan, certainly. But she’d also wanted—without admitting it to herself—to see him again, to feel his touch, to experience the wild ecstasy she’d found with him that first night. He’d been able to dupe her so easily because her treacherous body—starved for so long—had craved that riotous bliss. The danger. The excitement. And yes…even the temporary rebellion against everything she was—her background, the expectations on her, the farce of a marriage.
She’d behaved like a whore and now she was paying the price.
She slept fitfully that night. The next day, her stomach in knots, she refused breakfast and lunch. The smell of the food made her feel nauseated. She couldn’t seem to keep still. She paced the Louis XVI salon like a caged animal. The sounds of the maids working grated on her nerves, so in the afternoon, she walked in the gardens, filled with self-recriminations.
That evening, she still couldn’t face the idea of food. She told Mimi to inform the chef that she would skip dinner as well.
Finally Hudson, who’d been quietly keeping an eye on her all day, and who seemed to understand what had happened, approached her, saying, “Highness, I know you’ve had a blow—a loss—but you must eat.”
She ran her hands through her shortened hair, brushing it back off her face. “Oh, Hudson, why didn’t I listen to you? I’ve let my romantic fancies get the best of me and—because of it—I’ve lost Antoinette’s pearls. How could I be so irresponsible? I’m only glad Father isn’t here to witness my shame.”
Carefully, Hudson asked, “Do you wish me to call the police, Highness?”
The police? It would serve the Panther right if she reported the theft. He was probably smiling confidently to himself even now, certain she would hold her tongue.
If she told the police, the story would be plastered all over the newspapers and would increase the pressure to bring the Panther to heel.
But even as she considered it, she knew she’d never do it. Because she really was a fool. Taken in as she may have been, she still didn’t want him caught. And she didn’t even know why.
“No, Hudson, we’ll tell no one. I shall write it off as the cost of a valuable lesson learned.”
The next morning, she awoke to the sounds of angry male voices—an argument flaring somewhere in the house. She pushed herself up and peered at the clock across the room. It was past ten.
She rose and padded groggily through her sitting room in her nightgown and bare feet, coming out into the hallway. One of the voices booming from the reception hall below belonged to DeRohan. He must have returned in the night.
Jules went to the upper gallery where, running the entire length of the second story on four sides, twenty-four columned arches—six on each side—enclosed a carved, filigreed marble balcony that topped the larger arches around the perimeter of the reception hall below. Looking down, she could see her husband arguing with Father Siffredi, the priest who’d been at the La Napoule ball two nights before. He had a rolled-up scroll tucked under his arm. It was clear from the rigidity of their stances that both men were furious.
“How dare you invade my private quarters!” DeRohan snarled. “Who do you think you are, the Spanish Inquisition? You have no authority here and your turned-up collar means nothing to me. If you don’t remove yourself from these premises, I shall personally throw you out.”
It appeared to Jules as if that might not be an easy task. The priest was a solidly built northern Italian of the same height as DeRohan, with dark blond hair and blazing blue eyes. There was nothing meek or liturgical in his manner. He glared at his opponent as though he might be on the verge of charging him and seizing him by the throat.
“I have brought with me a petition signed by every family in Cap Corse,” he said in Italian-accented English. “A thousand signatures imploring you to do the right thing.”
“Haven’t you caused enough trouble?”
“It is you who have caused the trouble, my friend.”
“Me?” DeRohan cried. “I’ve been nothing but reasonable in the matter. You’ve organized a strike that’s closed down my Corsican gold mines—the most valuable property of the mining division of DeRohan Enterprises. You’ve initiated a lawsuit in the names of the miners that’s prevented me from selling the ore that’s been excavated there for the past year—a stockpile that’s collecting dust in a warehouse in Bastia. My prestige and the public’s confidence in my company has been shaken everywhere I do business—and you call me unreasonable.”
Siffredi hurled back, “Your company is systematically exploiting the people of northern Corsica. They work for a fraction of the wages miners get in other parts of Europe. The conditions are unsafe, and