"Is that the end of the fantasy?" he asked presently.

"It is, but I don't like the ending."

In a moment of blinding clarity it came to him that if he wanted her to be his woman, he had to be the man in her fantasies, helping her let her imagination soar to the heights and depths of her s.e.xuality. The imaginary men in her fantasies were just that, imaginary. What she needed was her own flesh-and-blood man to play the roles of her fantasy men, to become whatever man she needed him to be, delivering a real-life sizzling ending to every one of her fantasies and taking her to her s.e.xual nirvana. More important, he wouldn't vanish like smoke but would still be around in the morning. He resolved then and there to be that man for her. She was everything he wanted. If he didn't want to lose her, and he didn't, he would be everything she wanted, starting now.

"Let me change it then," he whispered. Seizing her around the waist, he pulled her up to lie over him, and they gasped in unison, a drawn-out hiss of carnal pleasure as his c.o.c.k slid unerringly up her warm pa.s.sage until their groins collided and it could go no further.

Instinctively, he began to move, small thrusting movements that kept him completely inside her while the root of his c.o.c.k ground into her nub, fitting together like two complementary parts of the same engine. She groaned as he seized her nipple with his mouth, grazing it with his teeth. Burying his face in the side of her neck, he settled into it, letting her f.u.c.k him how she wanted, letting her twist and turn her body on his rock-hard pole to sustain the friction where she needed it to be to reach ecstasy. The satisfying echo of her moans in his ear and the saliva running from the side of her mouth and dripping down on his face made him feel unutterably close to her. He focused intently on her pleasure, following her lead as he sensed what she needed him to do and swiveled and thrust deep inside her to respond. Above all, even above his fierce desire to get on top so he could thrust wildly into her and come like a madman, what he wanted in that moment was to give her a climax she would never forget.

Nicola's brain shifted into autopilot, lulled by the mouth-watering friction of his bone-hard erection sliding against the walls of her heated sheath in a never-ending slippery and sensuous connection that made her mouth water. Conscious thought receded, replaced by an overwhelming awareness that nothing, nothing in this world would ever come close to this wondrousness of f.u.c.king and being f.u.c.ked to pieces by the only man she would ever want inside her.

I love you. The voice spoke up clearly from some unknown region of her brain. But before she could articulate the words to him her body p.r.i.c.kled and went into damage control, the blood speeding away from her skin to feed the tortured knot of overstimulated nerves and blood vessels in her lower region that had begun to scream. Her release arrived with a rush, disentangling her knotted insides and leaving her shuddering uncontrollably in its wake.

Sleep claimed her sated body.

Chapter Fourteen.

In the morning she awoke in her own room. She lay quietly in bed, gazing around the room. She must have been fast asleep when he brought her to bed. What time was it anyway? She turned her head to look at the clock on the bedside table. It was ten. She had slept half the morning away, again! She sat up abruptly. At the foot of the bed was a blue velour robe, obviously meant for her to use. She got out of bed, pulled on the robe, and walked out of the suite. As she started down the hall she heard a door open and Hodgett appeared.

"Good morning, miss," he said.

"Good morning, Hodgett," she replied. "I...I'm afraid I overslept.

"That's all right, miss. I've kept the breakfast dishes warm in the dining room. Just go in and help yourself when you're ready."

"Will Sir Anthony be joining me?"

"No, miss. He left for London early this morning."

Again! She suppressed a pang of disappointment. What did she expect? That he would be waiting around solicitously to see if she was okay? She mustn't let herself forget that to him, this game was hardly more than a business arrangement and personal feelings couldn't be allowed to get in the way.

"That's fine, then," she said brightly to Hodgett, not quite meeting his eyes. "I'm not very hungry just yet. Perhaps in about thirty minutes?"

"Very good, miss."

After she had eaten she went to the library, found a book on English country houses and took it to her room to read. She read and dozed intermittently, but by two o'clock boredom was setting in. Despite her resolve to keep things on a business level, she was becoming resentful at being left alone so much to amuse herself as best she could in this great big place. Impulsively, she went to find Hodgett. He was in the kitchen, working. He looked up curiously as she walked in.

"Your lunch will be served in the dining room in about ten minutes, miss," he offered.

"Actually, Hodgett, I was wondering whether Sir Anthony had returned."

"I'm sorry, miss. He hasn't." His tone was neutral, but his eyes showed his empathy for her.

Her eyes p.r.i.c.ked, a warning that tears were not far away, but she wouldn't give in to them, not right in front of Hodgett. She swallowed, found her voice. "Thank you, Hodgett."

Leaving the kitchen she headed up the staircase and hurried down the corridor to her room. After closing the door, she stood there indecisively as hurt and resentment warred with her determination to see this through, to do whatever she had to in order to save her estate.

And all at once the whole thing seemed intolerable. Nothing could possibly be worth all this humiliation, always waiting for him to turn up on his timetable, to f.u.c.k her how and when and where he wanted. There had to be some other way to get the money she needed and she would find it. She had to get out of here-now.

She rushed to the closet, got her suitcase, opened it, and set it on the bed. Hastily, she threw her clothes into it, collected her toiletries from the bathroom, and dumped them in the suitcase as well. Five minutes later she was back in the kitchen, carrying her suitcase.

"As Sir Anthony is not here and has left no word as to when he will be back, I have decided to return to London immediately," she informed Hodgett. "Could you please bring my car around?"

Hodgett regarded her keenly. "I'm sorry, miss. I'm afraid I can't do that. My understanding is that you are to remain here as a guest for the time being."

"That was indeed the case, but things have changed, and I will be returning to London immediately," Nicola said firmly.

"I'm sorry, miss," Hodgett repeated. "Sir Anthony has explicitly instructed that you should remain here until further notice."

"Sir Anthony is not my keeper," Nicola retorted, struggling to contain her anger and not take it out on Hodgett, who was only doing his employer's bidding. "It is not up to him to...to..."

She dropped her head, unable to continue because the truth was, she realized miserably, that Sir Anthony was her keeper. Contrary to what she had been about to say, it was up to him to control her comings and goings. She had voluntarily put herself up for auction, thereby agreeing to surrender her freedom to come and go as she pleased to her highest bidder. And that was him. The only way to undo it would be to walk out with nothing. And if she did, what about her job? Would she even have that to fall back on? Henrietta would probably take her back and be understanding about it all, but the fact of the matter was that she, Nicola, would have let Henrietta down and awareness of that would always lurk between them, spoiling everything. Eventually, things might become so uncomfortable Henrietta might decide to let her go. She glanced up at Hodgett, her eyes bright with tears of frustration as she pressed her lips together to stop them from quivering.

"Why don't you let me show you to the sitting room, miss. There's a nice fire going. You can make yourself comfortable while I prepare a lunch tray for you. I'm sure you must be hungry," he suggested kindly.

Acknowledging defeat, she followed him to the sitting room. Once she was installed in a comfortable chair in front of the fireplace he returned to the kitchen. Alone, she pulled a tissue out of her handbag and blew her nose, hoping the action would forestall the onset of a storm of weeping that lurked threateningly behind her eyeb.a.l.l.s. It had the opposite effect. She gave way, burying her face in the soggy tissue. She thought about her parents and wept bitterly. She thought about how she would probably lose her land if she gave up now and cried even harder. Unbidden, a little voice in her head murmured that maybe she was crying about something else entirely. Hearing it she cried until she didn't have any tears left, and by then, she had used up the little travel pack of tissues she kept in her handbag for emergencies.

Almost as though he had been waiting for the right moment, Hodgett appeared, bearing a loaded tray and, hallelujah, a box of tissues balanced in the crook of his arm. Without saying a word, he pulled up a small table in front of her and set the tray down on it. He ripped the perforated flap off the tissue box and presented it to her. She pulled out a tissue and gave her nose one last energetic blow. His eyes twinkling, he held out his hand, and she deposited the used tissue into it. She smiled at him tremulously.

"Enjoy your lunch, miss," he said. "If you need anything, just ring the bell. I'll take your suitcase back to your room," he added gently.

She nodded and he went out and closed the door.

The wonderful odors emanating from the covered dishes on the tray were irresistible, and soon Nicola was wolfing down the delicious hot lunch Hodgett had put together. She was definitely beginning to feel better.

Chapter Fifteen.

It was going on eleven when she awoke the following morning. She felt oddly lethargic even though the last twenty-four hours had been uneventful. She had gone to bed early and slept soundly. Perhaps a swim would help get her body parts working again. Wearing only her dressing gown she went downstairs. As she went by the library, Hodgett emerged, holding a screwdriver in his hand. It seemed that not only was he Sir Anthony's butler, but his man about the house, his general factotum, a man for all seasons. So far, she hadn't seen another soul but the place was spotless and meals appeared as if by magic.

"Good morning, miss," Hodgett said. "Would you like some breakfast now?"

"Thank you, Hodgett. I thought I might take a swim first."

"Very good, Miss. Sir Anthony is in the pool. Doing his laps," he added helpfully.

d.a.m.n! She really felt like a swim. She shifted from one foot to the other, undecided. If she ate first, it would give him time to finish his laps then she would have the pool to herself. The only problem was that she wasn't really hungry. She probably would be after her swim, but by then it would be lunchtime. The h.e.l.l with it, it was a big pool. She couldn't possibly get in his way.

She watched him as she walked over to the deep end. He was a graceful swimmer, hardly churning the water as he raced from one end of the pool to the other. She observed that he was fast, wondered if she could beat him. She waited until he approached the deep end. As he made the turn he spotted her watching him and hesitated for a split second before beginning the next lap. She cast off her dressing gown and dove in.

All he saw was the flash of her green eyes as she pa.s.sed him, pulling ahead of him with long strokes. He could recognize a challenge when he saw one. He began cutting through the water and caught up with her easily. For the next ten laps, she was right there alongside him. As he turned his head from side to side, he caught glimpses of her wet face, her tawny skin, her hair floating around her in mermaid strands, and, occasionally, a flash of determination in her green eyes. She was good, very good, he saw with admiration, but not good enough to beat him. In his lonely childhood he had spent a fair amount of time down by the river and had become an excellent swimmer. He loved being in the water. It had given him a feeling of freedom, as though he could at last outstrip his miserable existence, wash it away, could leave it all behind him once and for all.

She realized that he had picked up the pace-probably bored competing with an amateur-and had gone back to some serious swimming. Now he was one full length ahead of her, and she knew he would never let her catch up. Showoff! A childish impulse seized her and she gave in to it.

She inhaled, exhaled, and inhaled again before sinking to the bottom of the pool. The breathing exercise would ensure she had enough air in her lungs to keep her underwater for at least a minute, but she knew it wouldn't take him that long. She waited, releasing bubbles through her nose and mouth.

It took him about three seconds. Then his arm was around her and she let herself go limp as he towed her up to the surface. He made for the edge of the pool and pushed her up onto the deck. He heaved himself out of the water quickly, and as he crouched over her to administer CPR, she opened her eyes. He caught the gleam of mischief in them and sat back on his haunches, his face betraying a blend of his annoyance and amus.e.m.e.nt over her childish trick.

"Thank you for saving me," she said impishly.

Without replying he got to his feet and stretched out his hand to pull her up. As she grasped it he hauled her to feet and, in one continuous motion, swept her up in his arms as though he intended to kiss her. Instead, he made a half turn and threw her away from him, sending her flying over the water, almost halfway across the deep end of the pool. Taken by surprise, she landed with a great splash and immediately sank.

When she surfaced a second or two later, he was still standing on the pool deck, grinning. He saluted her mockingly and left the pool area. He entered the house and pa.s.sed by the kitchen, where Hodgett was a.s.sembling her breakfast tray.

"Please let Miss Edgerton know we will be dining at six o'clock," he said to Hodgett.

Chapter Sixteen.

Nicola stayed in her room reading for the rest of the day, deliberately avoiding him after that trick she had pulled in the pool. He had well and truly paid her back, but still, she couldn't help wondering if throwing her into the pool would be enough of a retaliation for him. Maybe he would come up with something else to get even. She really didn't know him at all and not knowing what he was capable of was reason enough for her trepidation.

It was wet and dreary outside, and by five thirty she was so bored with her self-exile that she was actually looking forward to dinner. He could hardly kill her at the dinner table right in front of Hodgett now, could he? She decided she might as well get ready. She took her black V-neck halter top and her wraparound black skirt embroidered with a brilliant red satin hibiscus out of the closet and laid them on the bed. She took off her sweater and slacks and examined her face in the mirror. Some mascara wouldn't hurt. Leaning forward toward the mirror she applied mascara to her lashes, then stood and brushed her hair. She slipped into the halter top, crisscrossed it under her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and tied the two ends in a bow at the back and then put on the wraparound skirt and knotted the ties into a slip knot at her left side. She examined herself again in the mirror and gave the halter top a last futile downward tug before walking over to the closet to find her shoes. Her high-heeled silver sandals always looked right with that particular outfit. She slipped them on and gave herself a final appraisal in the mirror. Then she opened the door and went out.

He was already in the dining room, standing at the sideboard pouring sherry into a gla.s.s. He turned around when he heard her come in, looked at her for a long moment, then turned back, picked up another gla.s.s, and filled it with sherry. In his dark suit and tie he looked like the sophisticate he was, not at all unpredictable, and she felt herself growing calmer. Was it possible that they were about to have a civilized evening, getting to know each other gradually and playing the game the way she had imagined it would be played? Maybe tonight would be the turning point.

"We're a little early. It's not quite six thirty," he said, walking over and handing her one of the gla.s.ses of sherry. "Shall we go into the sitting room?"

She nodded and followed him as he walked past her.

He led her to the sitting room, now made even more inviting because the lamps were on and the fire had been lit. She sat in one of the chintz-covered chairs, sipping sherry and looking around the room. He sat on a sofa facing the fireplace.

"I had lunch in here yesterday," she told him. "This room is so lovely."

"It was my mother's," he replied briefly.

"Are your parents..." she hesitated.

"Yes," he said.

"I'm sorry."

Somehow, he couldn't seem to bring himself to do what any normal person would do next-ask about her parents. First, being with her took him right back to childhood, a childhood where he didn't have any business asking about her parents. Second, he didn't want her to think that he was bending the rules of the game, prying into her life, trying to get information about her, although that was exactly what he had made up his mind to do. But he would do it in his own way. Right now, he needed to ask her something that was even more urgent. He had intended to bring it up last night, but after her o.r.g.a.s.m she had fallen asleep and he hadn't wanted to wake her. He had tenderly covered her with a blanket and taken her back to her room, taking care of his painful arousal in the privacy of his bathroom.

"Night before last," he began hesitantly, "did you protect yourself?" He observed her heightened color and the slight flare of her nostrils.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"What the devil do you think I mean? Are you on the pill?" He sounded exasperated. It wasn't hard to tell she was prevaricating.

"You don't have to worry," she said, avoiding the question.

"Don't play childish games with me, Nicola," he said. "Just give me a straight answer. Are you on the pill or not?"

"Of course I am," she said, lying. "Do you take me for a complete idiot? And by the way, shouldn't you have worn a...worn something?" She realized to her utter chagrin that she couldn't bring herself to say the word condom. She just couldn't seem to wrap her tongue around it.

He looked disconcerted and didn't answer for a moment. "Yes, I should have. I'm sorry. It was a stupid mistake. But you have nothing to worry about. You can take my word for it." How to explain that he had completely lost his head, that common sense had deserted him the minute he touched her?

Somehow, she knew he was telling the truth, and inwardly she breathed a huge sigh of relief. At least she wasn't going to die stupidly from an STD. That left only one more thing to worry about. And it was major.

They sat silent for a few minutes.

"You should have told me you were a...that it would be your first time," he said.

"Why?" she asked, her eyes on the dancing flames. "What difference does it make?" She was determined to play it cool, to not let him guess how happy it made her that he had noticed after all.

"It makes a difference to me," he said tersely. "This isn't a game for virgins."

"Why?"

"Because they tend to be young and idealistic, and this isn't a romantic business."

"Well, there has to be a first time sometime," she said, attempting to sound worldly.

"I agree completely, but isn't it supposed to be with someone you care for or who cares for you?"

Meaning that he didn't? She felt a suspicious p.r.i.c.king around her nose and took a sip of sherry. She was saved by Hodgett appearing suddenly in the doorway. Anthony immediately rose from the sofa.

"Shall we?" he said to Nicola. He followed her into the dining room, studying her slender figure and the seductive inch of golden skin that the halter top had been designed to reveal. He fantasized briefly about loosening her top, pulling her against him, and letting his hands roam over her perfect b.r.e.a.s.t.s, just like he had wanted to do when she entered the dining room a few minutes ago. He had almost dropped the b.l.o.o.d.y bottle of sherry. So back or front, when it came to her, he didn't stand a chance.

They ate, chatting sporadically. To head off any further discussion of her unpreparedness for s.e.x- of her unsuitability for the game, period-she asked him about the history of the house. It was Gothic contemporary, he told her, keeping a perfectly straight face.

"What does that mean?" she challenged him.

"It means that the main house was built a very long time ago but various owners since then have added on various bits and pieces. One American even added a turret because he always wanted to live in a castle."

"How long have you owned it?"