Savage Desire Read online

  “Stefano, is this your little wife?” she asked with a haughty lift of her brow. “She is not at all as I expected her to be, caro.”

  It was not, Ginny knew, meant as a compliment. Green eyes clashed with black, fiercely competitive.

  “No? Yet you are everything I thought you would be. Steve, darling, it is getting late and I’m worried about our children. Don’t you think we should be going home?”

  “Leaving?” the man at her elbow protested. “Surely not so soon, I hope! I have not yet had the honor of a dance with so lovely a lady. If your husband does not mind, of course.”

  As the viscount turned toward him, Steve shrugged, the suggestion of a smile touching his lips. “My wife has a mind of her own, Lord Hartsfield.”

  Hartsfield turned back to Ginny. A tall man, with large brown eyes that reminded her of Laura’s puppy, he had an eager, boyish expression and manner, and she found herself in the awkward position of being rude or forced into a dance she did not want.

  Courtesy demanded she acquiesce to Hartsfield with a gracious smile, and as he swept her onto the dance floor to the lovely tune of a Strauss waltz, she caught a glimpse of malicious triumph in Francesca’s eyes.

  “I understand that your husband supports the opera most generously,” Lord Hartsfield remarked. “It was his efforts that brought Signorina di Paoli to London to appear in a production of Caglisotro, the Strauss operetta, was it not?”

  “My husband has a great appreciation of the arts,” Ginny replied with a smile that felt frozen on her lips. Damn Steve, had he brought that…that creature to London? Oh, it would be just like him to do such a thing, careless of the consequences, or how it affected her. She felt like scratching that smug smile from the Italian whore’s mouth!

  As if reading her mind, Steve suddenly appeared at their side on the dance floor as the waltz ended. “I believe this next dance is mine, my love. I’m certain you don’t mind, Lord Hartsfield.”

  If Hartsfield was disappointed, he didn’t show it, but relinquished Ginny’s hand with a murmur of gratitude for her company.

  Steve pulled her against him, his eyes dark blue and glittering with amusement as he looked down at her. “You look as if you could rip me in two, Ginny-love.”

  “Why is she here, and with you? Is that the important business you had? I swear, Steve, I just don’t think I can—”

  “Not here.” His hand tightened briefly around her waist, a warning squeeze that reminded her where they were. His tone was soft, a lazy, amused drawl. “The arrangements were made months ago, before I knew that you would ever return from Stamboul.”

  “And now that I’m back?”

  “Everything has changed, green-eyes.”

  She caught her breath at the sudden intimacy of his tone, the intense glance he gave her. “What do you mean everything?”

  “Ginny, we’ve danced around this subject for the past month. This is hardly the time or place to discuss it now.”

  He was right, of course. But it was the first sign he had given her that he truly wanted her to stay, to be with him. Ginny’s hand trembled on his shoulder, her fingers pale on the dark cloth of his coat, the emerald ring she wore a great, winking green eye.

  Carelessly, as if he did not care if she accepted it, he’d given her the ring the week before, saying, “I bought it a long time ago for you, and almost forgot it until my valet found it with some pieces of my mother’s jewelry.”

  Any comments had stuck in her throat, the desire to blurt out questions overriding her appreciation of the beautiful, square-cut emerald that looked so large on her small hand. She had been too cowardly then to ask the questions that were always on her mind, but now?

  “Steve, it’s getting very late. We aren’t expected to stay here all night, are we?”

  “Tired of the wealthy elite already?” His mouth crooked in a teasing smile. “You’ve always looked quite at home with the aristocrats, my love.”

  “Yes, I’m sure I have, but tonight I find them boring. I do get tired of being stared at and gossiped about, and I see little difference between these people and others who feel free to pry where they’re not wanted.”

  Over his shoulder, she saw Francesca di Paoli dancing with Lord Grayson, her dark head bent close as if hanging upon his every word. Languid eyes lifted, clashed with Ginny’s, her smile infuriatingly confident before she was swept away in the steps of the dance.

  “Or be where they’re not wanted. What did you tell her, Steve?”

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand, and shrugged.

  “’Cesca? I told her that I was going to dance with my wife.” He moved effortlessly, taking her with him across the floor, his steps moving them closer to the door. His hand on her back was warm, firm. “After supper, we’ll make our farewells to our hosts and I’ll have the carriage brought around. The problem with these affairs is that they last too damned long.”

  “And are too crowded, perhaps.”

  His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners. “Yes, perhaps it is getting a bit crowded here. Too many gossips.”

  “And old lovers.”

  His hand tightened, fingers pressing into her skin, a hard reminder. “Let’s keep this civilized, shall we?”

  Ginny bit her lip, angry at herself for bringing up his former relationship with Francesca. It was hardly the way to reconcile, if she couldn’t even control her unruly tongue!

  So much had changed between them, so many old hurts and suspicions still had the power to destroy them if they allowed them. Could they get through all this?

  The past month had been so…strained, as if they were strangers living under the same roof, sharing a love for two children but still feeling their way cautiously in their own relationship. There had been no discussion between them, no disagreements. And no resolutions.

  Later, she decided, a mechanical smile on her face as she felt the curious gazes on them, I will confront Steve. I’ll risk it all—my pride and my heart. Will he see that I really want nothing more than to be with him and our children, to make a new life together?

  Yes. It had been a month, far too long to continue as they were. Tonight when they were alone, she would be very direct and ask Steve what he planned. It was a new thing, to contemplate honest conversation between them, a discussion that did not involve screaming accusations or snarled insults.

  Yes. She would talk to him, would bare her soul and tell him that she loved him, ask him if they could soon return to Mexico with their children and start a life together all over again.

  4

  It was late when they arrived at the house that Steve had leased in a fashionable section of London, one of the comfortable houses on Bruton Street that were not ostentatious but spacious and welcoming. Pink sandstone gleamed in the pale glow of the moon that peeked from behind swirling wisps of cloud, dimly illuminating the street as their carriage rolled to a halt. A gas lamp sputtered fitfully against the shadows.

  Midsummer was usually warm in London, but tonight it was cool, and Ginny pulled her silk shawl up around her shoulders as she descended from the carriage and went into the house. Small pools of lamplight gleamed on black-and-white tile floors of the entrance hall, and out of the shadows stepped the maid to welcome them.

  “You are up late, Berthilde,” Ginny said with a slight frown. “Are the children all right?”

  The tiny woman built like a sparrow nodded as she took Ginny’s silk shawl. “Oui, madame. It is just that Laura woke and the lamps were out, and Madame Dupree asked me to fetch her some warm milk to calm her.”

  “Another nightmare?” Steve started toward the stairs.

  Ginny followed, lifting her skirts in a whispery rustle of satin as she tried to keep up with his long strides. Feet clad in emerald satin the same shade as her gown skimmed up the stairs, but Steve took the stairs two at a time, and she was breathless by the time they reached the nursery on the second floor. A soft breeze belled lace curtains over open windows. The lights were on a
nd bright, revealing a tousle-haired Laura sitting up in bed and Madame Dupree trying to coax her to lie down. The nurse turned to Steve, exasperation in her eyes.

  “She is quite all right, Monsieur Morgan,” she said briskly, “except that she is stubborn to a fault. She refuses to go back to sleep unless you are here. It is not a trait to encourage in the child, and I suggest that you—”

  “Madame Dupree, I suggest that you close that window and then go back to your room. I will take care of my daughter now. If you have any more suggestions, you may make them to your next employer.”

  Madame Dupree grasped his meaning immediately, and her mouth closed with an audible snap. Wisely, she made no other comment, but went to close the window and then left the room.

  Laura had quieted immediately upon seeing her father, and dimpled as she smiled up at him. “You are very late, Papa. Was the party nice?”

  “You little imp, what are you doing awake at this hour? Was it the dream again?”

  “Yes, only this time, I got away.” A shadow flickered on the child’s face, and her eyes darkened. “It was a bad man who would not let us go, even when I told him I wanted to go home.”

  Ginny bit her lip at the swift, accusing glance Steve flung at her. Herr Frederick Metz, the Swiss banker she had been involved with when she first reached London, had sent men to snatch the children from the country house while Steve was away. The hired thugs had not counted on Steve’s early return, nor anticipated that Laura would recognize her father and wave to him as their carriage passed him on the road. The result was inevitable, but for them to watch their father battle—Oh, she remembered too well how Steve fought, viciously and with no restraint. It would have been even more frightening to two small children, and it was all her fault.

  Her gaze shifted from Laura to Franco’s bed across the room. He was sitting up, sleepy-eyed but observant. What must he think, as well? In the past weeks she had tried so hard to penetrate the shell he kept around him, but the boy resisted her every effort.

  “I told you Papa would come,” he said now to Laura, “and he did. He always keeps us safe. Go back to sleep.”

  Was there an unvoiced rebuke in that comment for his mother, perhaps? Ginny couldn’t blame him. She had not been there for them when they needed her, had not kept them safe as Steve had done.

  When Laura was finally settled, Steve accompanied Ginny to her bedroom, reaching around her to open the door. A low fire eased the chill, the coals a flickering glow in the grate. Ginny draped her silk shawl over the graceful lines of a Sheraton chair and turned to watch as Steve shrugged out of his evening jacket to toss it carelessly onto the coatrack in one corner.

  Lately, he left her at her door, going down the hall to his own chamber, courteous and remote, as if they were complete strangers again. No—even when they were strangers, he had never viewed her with the same dispassionate gaze of the past month.

  Her resolve to draw him into an honest discussion intensified, and she was slightly surprised to find that she was nervous and on edge. Clumsily, she began to fumble with the buttons of her gown, more to gain time than anything else.

  “Dismiss your maid,” he said, eyeing her, “and I’ll help you with the rest of your dress.”

  “No, thank you, this dress is far too expensive to allow you to rip it,” she retorted with a faint smile, “and I recall very well your methods of removing my garments for me.”

  A flash of humor glinted in his eyes, his mocking smile reminding her of the many times he had stripped away her clothes without regard for their expense, or her protests.

  “Do you think I cannot buy you another gown, Ginny my love?” He tugged loose his tie, his fingers efficient and swift. “I’ve purchased more gowns from Worth than he has no doubt sold to the entire country of France.”

  “Yes, but not all of them were for me.” It was an automatic response to his teasing, but she regretted it the moment the words were out. Why remind him of all the women in his life?

  His dark brow lifted and his eyes narrowed slightly as he met her gaze. “They should have been,” he said quietly, leaving her momentarily speechless.

  There was something so different about him. Oh, yes, he had changed. He looked the same, with his wicked eyes and smile, his air of danger and darkly lean good looks that were still a magnet for women of all ages. But there was a difference now. Beneath the outer hardness of his face and manner there was a taciturn regard that baffled her.

  They had slept apart since the night when he had pulled her into the house she shared with Pierre and Tante Celine, but there had been no explanation. That night he had brought her to his house and his bed, and she had spent it in his arms, feverish kisses, caresses, hungry words of love and reunion all that was between them until the early hours of morning.

  But after that, a careful distance, a polite detachment between them, as if they were still protagonists instead of husband and wife trying to find common ground again. It was awkward, a courteous fiction as transparent as morning mist.

  At first, she had been so weary in body and soul, still tentative in their new relationship, that she had not wanted more from him. But now she could not help but wonder if he wanted her at all. Did he? Or had he tired of her? After all, she was nearly thirty now and had been through so much. But her mirror told her she was still firm and youthful, her skin barely showing signs of motherhood. The marks she’d gotten while carrying the twins had faded to faint silvery tracks like pale spiderwebs, barely perceptible on her belly and thighs.

  A little clumsily, feeling damnably awkward, she said, “I suppose you managed to finish your business this evening? You must have, for I hardly saw you the rest of the night, not until our late supper.”

  “Complaints, Ginny?”

  “Questions.” She unhooked the emerald necklace circling her neck and placed it in a velvet box, then removed the matching earrings that dangled from her lobes. They clinked softly as she dropped them into the box, splashes of green against soft black velvet.

  Turning to face him, she saw his eyes narrow warily at her. A mask seemed to drop over his face, as if he expected the worst, and she remembered suddenly all the times she had raged at him, screamed at him like a virago, half-wild with rage and anguish.

  Inhaling deeply, she calmed herself with the reminder that he was here with her because he chose to be, and that she was with him for the same reason. They had their lives ahead of them, once they got past the lingering resentments and old ghosts.

  “It’s too easy to suspect the worst, I suppose,” she began, but a discreet knock at the door interrupted her. It was Berthilde with her dressing gown, eyes sleepy in the dim light of the hallway lamp as she held out the yellow silk.

  “It was being cleaned, madame. Shall I assist you?”

  “No, Berthilde, go to bed. I won’t need you tonight.”

  The door closed softly behind the girl and silence fell as she turned to look at Steve, saw his fleeting frown disappear to be replaced by a carefully blank expression.

  Altering her earlier decision to be direct, she said instead, “You promised to help me with my gown, I believe.”

  As he came to her she turned, and his fingers brushed against the vulnerable nape of her neck as he tugged at the top button. Cool air whisked over her skin, made her shiver. She caught a glimpse of their reflection in the mirror across the room, his dark head bent, a vivid contrast to her bright hair as he worked the buttons of her lovely gown.

  Oh, the memories, of the many times he had undressed her, of the times they had fought one another and loved one another. And now here they were, pretending a courtesy neither felt, while unanswered questions formed a barrier between them.

  It was time for answers.

  “Signorina di Paoli did not look very happy when we left tonight,” she observed, and saw his reflected shrug. “I think she was most unhappy when you did not escort her in to supper.”

  “She seemed happy enough with Lindhaven. The
y’re old friends.”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that once he had been close friends with her, as well, but she said instead, “How long do you intend to stay in London, Steve? I mean, this ambassador position, it’s not really what you like to do, is it?”

  His soft laugh stirred the hair over her ear as he leaned forward, flicking open the last button. “Are you worried about my happiness, Ginny-love?”

  She pulled away, tugged at the bodice of her gown to peel it away and stepped out of the glittering material that slid to a puddle around her ankles. Clad in only white silk undergarments, she draped the gown on a padded hanger, kept her hands busy to avoid looking at him.

  “Your happiness affects mine,” she said evenly. “Of course I would worry that you’re happy.”

  She hooked the gown on the dressing room door, then allowed Steve to untie the laces of her corset. The stiff garment was so constrictive, forcing her to remain upright, binding her ribs almost painfully now. Ginny heaved a sigh of relief as the laces were freed and she could breathe more easily. Slipping on the silk dressing gown, she moved to the small mahogany table cluttered with bottles of expensive perfume and powders. Deftly unfastening the combs that held her hair atop the crown of her head, she eyed him in the mirror when he didn’t respond. Nothing showed in his face, only that careful attention that was like a mask.

  Oh, I feel so awkward, so uncertain!

  “We have the children to think of,” she pointed out as her hair fell free, a copper cloud that framed her face and made her look far too pale, so that her eyes resembled glittering bits of green glass. “I admit that I haven’t done what I should for them, but I want to start over. I want us to start over, Steve. I want to go home, home to Mexico. I think that’s where the children need to be, and—”

  Disbelief flashed in his eyes, and his brow shot up. “Mexico? Christ, Ginny, you can’t be serious. Or haven’t you heard it’s a battleground now that Díaz is fighting for power?”