Part 20 (1/2)

”What match?” I ask, trying to look interested.

”The polo game this weekend,” Marianne explains. ”Ian and Edward--” Her voice softens as she says my brother's name. ”--have a long-term rivalry going back to their polo-playing days when they were at school together. This year they're on opposing teams. As you might imagine, there's a great deal of interest in the outcome.”

Ian plays polo. Another aspect of his life I know nothing about. But it does recall to my mind the powerful muscles of his thighs that I remember all too vividly thrusting between mine. They are certainly strong enough to make him a superb horseman.

”Amelia?”

I look up hastily at my grandmother, praying that nothing in my expression reveals my lascivious thoughts.

”You have a ballet cla.s.s this afternoon,” Adele reminds me. ”We should be going.”

I take a breath and smile at our companions. ”It's been a pleasure. I hope we can do this again.”

”I'll give you a call,” Marianne says. ”I have some friends I think you would enjoy meeting.”

”I'll look forward to that, thank you.” I mean it, I really would like to be friends with Marianne but the fact that she is Ian's sister makes me cautious. Seeing her could become unbearable.

We all walk out together. A vintage Rolls Royce from the previous century is parked at the curb. The long sleek car with its raised chrome grill, curved wheel bases, and burgundy body is nothing short of stunning. Even the blase crowd strolling past the restaurant can't help but gape at it. A uniformed driver jumps out to open the door for Helene and Marianne.

Seeing my fascination with the car, Marianne says, ”Ian found it in a garage in Connecticut. It had been sitting there neglected for decades. The first time I saw it, I thought he was crazy to think it could be anything other than a pile of junk. But my brother has a real gift for seeing what's possible. Plus when he wants something, he just doesn't give up. The restoration took him three years and he did most of the work himself.”

Staring at the car, perfect even down to the hood ornament of a woman in flight, I nod. ”It really is magnificent.”

”He's had extraordinary offers for it,” Marianne says. ”But when Ian values something, really values it, he never lets it go.”

I don't know what to make of that. Ian let me go, seemingly without a qualm, yet he continues to pursue me after a fas.h.i.+on, if only for s.e.x. Or at least he was doing so. I can't help but wonder if he's decided that he's had enough. Or is deliberately seeing how frustrated he can make me. Or has some other purpose that I can't fathom.

I'm still pondering that several hours later as I complete a series of deboule half-turns down the length of the dance studio, Sergei arches a brow.

”You are thinking about him again,” he says. ”Whoever he is.”

I open my mouth to deny it and realize that I can't. Ian in my mind and my heart is even more powerful and inescapable than when he is in my body.

Softly, I acknowledge the truth that I've fought so hard to resist.

”I don't seem to have a choice.”

Nor can I find it in myself to want one.

Chapter Twenty-one.

Ian ”Easy, girl, you'll get what you want.”

The gray mare lowers her head and b.u.mps my side, sniffing at the apple in the pocket of my jacket. I dig it out and palm it, letting her velvety mouth scoop up the treat.

I had her brought down from the stables at the palazzo with the thought that Amelia might like to ride but I'm also considering breeding the mare. If I do, I'll have my stallion, Samson, cover her. He's big compared to her daintiness, but he's a gentleman.

My c.o.c.k stirs. Great, thinking about horses doing it is getting me hard. But then why should that be a surprise? I've been that way more or less--usually more--for days now.

Ever since Amelia's receptacle remark, I've been stuck in hard-on purgatory, my libido running at maximum with nowhere to go. I can't believe that as much as I've worked to hold old demons at bay, I still made her feel so objectified. But I also know d.a.m.n well that I did.

Way to go, buddy. Then follow that up by sending her c.l.i.t flowers.

The only bright spot in my otherwise sorry life is that we've established beyond any doubt that Amelia can say 'no' to me. Not once at any of the events I've attended since the soiree has she approached me or in any way hinted that she wants my company.

d.a.m.n her.

A bunch of hackneyed phrases keep swirling through my mind--I'm caught on the horns of a dilemma, hoisted on my own petard whatever the h.e.l.l that is, stuck between a rock and a hard place. Speaking of hard-- On the one hand, she can say 'no', which comes as an immense relief. On the other, she can say 'no', which brings me back to hard-on purgatory. But why stop there? On the other other hand--can a guy really have too many hands?--she can say 'yes'. Except she doesn't.

I'm worried about being near her again and at the same time I can't stay away. My grand strategy to set her aside for her own good was blown to smithereens at the Opera House. Ever since, I've been busy rationalizing.

Since she can say 'no' to me, and she's safely ensconced in the bosom of her family, and I know for a fact that however unaffected by me she wants to seem, I can make her come like the proverbial freight train...

Then really, what's the harm if we go at it like h.o.r.n.y bunnies?

I'm full of c.r.a.p but I can't manage to care. Something got out that night in the golden room and it's d.a.m.ned determined to play.

So determined that it's going all out to convince me that it's not so bad after all. It's just another side of myself, and it's controllable.

She's told me 'no', she's keeping her distance, and look what a gentleman I'm being. I want like h.e.l.l to believe that's true but-- If I'd ever been this frigging tied up in knots before, I'd be long since dead in some h.e.l.l hole or just crossing the street. Considering that I'm about to hurl an eight hundred pound horse into a grudge match in front of spectators so avid for blood that they make the crowd at the Roman Coliseum look like vegans, I'd better get it together.

Half-an-hour later, I come out of the locker room suited up with my helmet tucked under my arm and my game face on only to find Edward lounging against the nearby wall.

He grins when he sees me, looking a lot more chipper than he did the previous evening when we met privately to discuss what to do about Davos.

”You didn't forget your hankie, did you?” he asks. ”You're going to need it when you're crying like a little girl.”

For all that he's still p.i.s.sed at me about Amelia, Teddy--as I like to think of him on such occasions--is also suited up and ready for a little trash talking.

The thought occurs to me that I see a totally different side of him than Marianne does. Which is how it had d.a.m.n well better stay until I'm sure that any intentions he may have are one hundred percent honorable.

Yes, I'm a hypocrite and proud of it.

”That's sweet,” I say. ”But I did my crying last year. This time's different. You're going down, McClellan.”

He falls into step beside me and throws an arm over my shoulders. ”In your dreams, Slade. Betting's two to one against you.”

”Bull s.h.i.+t. Three to two tops and that's only because the sc.u.mbags in the stands think Hayden's come back too soon.”

”He's ready though, right?”

”So he says.”

Edward nods. ”Good.”

Never mind that Hayden is on my team, the three of us have been friends since before we figured out what our d.i.c.ks were for.