The Pleasure Seekers Read online

  “But it doesn’t overshadow my other qualities, does it?” He purposely increased the tempo against her slick peak.

  She tipped back her head and released an excited whimper. “No…it doesn’t overshadow your many, umm…exquisite talents.”

  Caine eased back, not wanting her to come just yet. He needed to keep her exactly where he wanted her. She was placing something he desperately desired within his reach.

  “Your plan won’t work, anyway.”

  She moved in opposing friction to his strokes. “And why is that?”

  “Because I said some things to the girl I don’t think she’ll forget.”

  “Oh dear. You behaved like a barbarian, didn’t you?” She sighed and shook her head. “You were rather unhappy to see her, if I recall. Well, you are quite persuasive, darling. And your technique is…mmm, divine.” Her body quivered as her hand covered his, trying to make him increase his pace.

  “So we’re at an impasse.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “I won’t give you a baby.”

  “Oh, but just think about it, Caine. If we married we could still go our separate ways, and your child can grow up here, in this house. Continue the family legacy. We can be…a family.”

  A family she controlled with detailed contracts and a monthly allowance, all structured to keep him under her thumb. Marriage to her would not change his circumstances; he would simply be a permanent stud rather than a temporary one. God, how he longed for peace.

  Peace of heart. Peace of soul.

  The need to find that peace was a wrenching ache inside him, forcing the words from his mouth. “If I agree, you would put this all down in writing?”

  The gleam of impending victory tipped up the corners of her lips. “I’ll have my solicitor draw up the papers. Mr. Carlton is very discreet. No one need ever know.”

  Caine was caught between the emptiness inside him that he knew his home could fill, and the cruelty of what he was about to do.

  He would win, of course. He had to. Too much was at stake. There was no way he would marry Olivia and give her a child to control. That left him with only one option: to succeed, no matter the cost.

  “Fine,” he said. “Draw up the papers.”

  Either way, he was damned.

  Six

  He lay great and greatly fallen,

  Forgetful of his chivalry.

  Homer

  Caine stood in the shadows of the semicircular Doric porch, thinking about what he had agreed to the previous night. He had been reduced to the final depths of disgrace and sold whatever small part of his soul that yet remained to Olivia.

  After he’d brought her to orgasm three times, she had fallen asleep—in his damn bed. Taking her back to her own room risked the chance of rousing her and having to pleasure her again, so he had shrugged into his discarded shirt and gone up to the roof. A walkway traversed the entire length of the house, and he could see the sky from any angle.

  He had leaned back against the cool stones and stared up into the darkness, in the company of a sliver of moon and a handful of stars, the sound of the surf’s continual ebb and flow familiar and soothing, sweeping in a tide of painful memories of a home that was once full of life and love.

  The roof had been his private place as a lad. He would sneak off to avoid his chores and pretend an armada of pirate ships, flags of skull and crossbones flapping in the breeze, was heading straight for the cove, ready to cannonade the cliffs and loot the village, he alone able to save them all.

  Grandiose visions for an eight-year-old boy who had once believed he would be knighted by the queen for his valiant efforts, a thundering roar of cheers and applause ringing in his ears as a chorus of angels sang “Hail Britannia” to the conquering hero.

  Last night, he had watched the sun rise over the horizon, its red and gold rays spreading across the water, reaching inevitably toward land.

  He remained motionless until the first beam of light touched his skin, waiting, as he always did, for it to warm him, to seep beneath the coldness that gripped him and bring something back to life inside his heart. To make him into the hero he had once so desperately wanted to be. But it hadn’t happened before. And it didn’t happen today.

  So he had made a bargain with the devil and sealed it with his lips, his tongue, and his hands. Now he had to follow through, to seduce a woman he needed to hate. To utilize every weapon in his sexual arsenal to lure Bliss to him, every ounce of charm he possessed to fool her into believing he was someone worth loving.

  His body craved hers; that was undeniable. And yet something gnawed at him. Had he not been entirely certain he had eradicated all signs of a conscience, he would have thought it was guilt that settled on his shoulders.

  Not possible. He was merely feeling the anticipation of the hunt, the thrill of ultimate victory. Seducing women was a sport he understood down to his bone and sinew. He’d have his home back, his life back, or some semblance of it, at least. He had to do this for his father, for what Northcote had meant to him, and the generations of Ballingers before him.

  Caine saw Bliss exit the house and head across the lawn. Stepping out of the shelter of the porch, he followed her. He hadn’t yet been able to decipher her weaknesses, her desires, but he would.

  She disappeared around the edge of the garden, past a small copse of trees. She was following the path that headed toward the sea, just east of the Point—the out-cropping of jagged rocks that jutted out over the quay.

  Caine had not been to the Point since his father died; he couldn’t bring himself to get close to the cliffs. Memories would invade, threatening to tear down the wall that protected him from things he didn’t want to acknowledge.

  So he stood at a distance, hidden behind a scrub oak, around him a self-sown wood where all the trees had trunks like corkscrews and the branches were shorn from the west, pointing away from the wind.

  Closer to the cliffs, the woods gave way to ling, bracken, and gorse. Motionless buzzards hovered in updrafts of air, while the gulls, returning from the ploughland, arrowed toward the sea.

  He lit a cheroot, tension stiffening his body as he watched how close Bliss came to the edge of the precipice. One slip would send her tumbling down the side. He started toward her, but then she stepped back, wholly absorbed in the view.

  For a long moment, she lifted her face to the sky. The sun’s rays washed over her, encircling her in a golden hue, a chestnut-haired angel sent to earth to tempt and torment. The sight sent an unexpected surge of dark hunger sluicing through Caine.

  Finally, she sat down in the grass. Arranging her skirts, she opened a sketchpad. He hadn’t paid the slightest attention to what she had been carrying. His attention had been focused on the slender curve of her back, the indentation that marked a waist he could span with both hands, the way her backside moved with a hypnotic rhythm, and how the breeze wreaked havoc on her hair, dislodging the silky strands one pin at a time until most of the heavy mass had cascaded down her back.

  Her hair was beautiful and he wanted to grab a fistful of it like he had done last night, to feel the cool, luxurious silk burn his palm as he pulled her head back and pressed his mouth to her neck. He could envision that thick mane spread out around her as he eased her to her back in the grass and came over her, their fingers laced together above her head.

  Christ, he had to pull himself together. Seduce and destroy was his mission. And as he started toward her, Caine knew he would thoroughly enjoy the task.

  A shadow fell over Bliss, one with a distinctly human shape: that of a man, with shoulders big enough to block out the sun. She didn’t need to look to know who it was. The prickling of her skin told her.

  She glanced up and was struck by the very sight of Caine, those velvet-blue eyes more intense than a storm-tossed sea, his raven hair streaked with gold, an aura of light limning his body, giving him the appearance of a fallen angel, reborn in darkness and come to earth to entice mortals into sensual real
ms.

  Images of his face, of that scar that had fascinated her, his mouth upon hers, her breasts in his large hands, had kept her up most of the night, torn between the desire to bury a knife in his back and the desire to lay beneath him. Sheer exhaustion had finally pulled her down into dark, disturbing dreams, where he remained to taunt her. But she vowed he would not bother her today.

  “You’re blocking my light,” she told him, looking away. She didn’t like what she saw when she stared into his eyes. Ridicule, arrogance. Pain. The barest hint of vulnerability. Impossible—he was as vulnerable as a rattlesnake.

  He startled her by kneeling down beside her, saying nothing, which was perhaps more unnerving than anything he had done thus far.

  “What do you want?” she asked shortly. “Is this your personal section of grass? Is my dress the wrong color? What, pray tell, has disturbed your fragile sensibilities today?”

  “Not my grass,” he replied in a measured drawl. “And your dress…” His gaze drifted over her, his perusal more than thorough before meeting her eyes again. “Your dress is perfect. It makes your breasts look incredibly lush. They’re surprisingly big for such a petite frame.”

  An unwanted blush prickled Bliss’s cheeks. Never had a man possessed such an uncanny ability to shock her, when very little ever did. Caine clearly reveled in his wicked behavior, which made her body’s uncharacteristic responses so maddening.

  “Are you foxed?” she asked. From his haggard appearance, his chin dusted with morning whiskers, his shoulder-length hair loose and wild, and his clothes slightly disheveled, she wouldn’t doubt that he had continued indulging in spirits after she left him in the stables.

  His smile was crooked as he replied, “Perhaps a little.”

  Bliss turned away from him. “Well, don’t expect me to save you when you fall and break your fool neck.”

  “Are you always so cruel to men who leer at your rather remarkable attributes?”

  “You’re the only one who leers.”

  “Now, I find that hard to believe. Aren’t those Parisian fops drooling over you?”

  “Some of us are too busy with pursuits outside the bedroom to concern ourselves with such things.”

  His eyes narrowed a fraction and she knew she had made a direct hit. “If you’re searching for some insight into my bedroom activities,” he said in a silky tone, “why not just ask? I’d be happy to oblige your curiosity.”

  “You really do believe you’re an amazing blessing upon the female population, don’t you?”

  He shrugged, his shoulders a massive slab of hard muscle and incredible width. “I’ve had no complaints.”

  Bliss didn’t doubt that was the truth. Hadn’t he managed to get his hands on her breasts with near blinding speed? Far worse, she had practically sighed into those large hands.

  Something in her face must have given her away, because he said, “I see you remember. Good. I hope it haunts you. Lord knows it haunted me.”

  That revelation surprised her. She would have sworn he had forgotten about her in less than five seconds. But the smoldering look in his eyes told her he had forgotten nothing.

  “Does your mind only travel down one road?” she asked tartly. “Perhaps if you broadened your horizons, you might have more on which to speak.”

  A glint of amusement lit his eyes. “Broaden my horizons, hmm? The idea sounds intriguing. Yes, let’s broaden my horizons. What is it you wish to speak of? Plato? Aristotle? Or should we simply contemplate the sky and wonder how it all began?”

  “Equality. That is what I wish to speak of, though I doubt it’s a topic with which you are familiar.”

  He lifted a dark brow, pretending insult. “And whose equality are we referring to?”

  “Women’s.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “I suspected you were a dreaded reformer, out to change the male population with your incendiary war cry.”

  “And I suspected you wouldn’t have the slightest clue about the idea of a woman being your equal. Beneath you, in bed and out, is where you prefer them.”

  “It does make the prospect of having to deal with your sex much more pleasurable, I admit.” The crooked grin he suddenly leveled on her was thoroughly disarming. “But confess, you like me anyway, don’t you?”

  The man defined infuriating. “Go. Away.”

  He crossed his ankles. “The prospect of tussling with you in this grass is greatly appealing to me.”

  “Then I’ll go.” Bliss made to rise, but he caught her around the waist and pulled her back down, bringing them face to face, her hands braced outside his thighs, the heat from his body enveloping her.

  “I was right,” he murmured, his mouth dangerously close to hers.

  Bliss swallowed. “About what?”

  “Your eyes. They’re as blue as the ocean, and just as deep.” He gently swept a lock of her hair away from her face, his knuckles brushing her cheek, bringing a slight shiver to her skin. “Don’t go. I promise I’ll behave.”

  “You don’t know how to behave.”

  “True,” he said, his expression endearingly boyish. “But we can pretend, can’t we?”

  Bliss had to repress a smile. He could charm when he wanted to, and she suspected very few females, if any, had not succumbed. But why was he attempting to charm her?

  Seduction—that had to be it. The man epitomized persistence. Well, he would have a long wait if he thought a smile—masterpiece of sensuality though it was—would melt her.

  She realized with a start that she was still hovering over him and he was not holding her. She quickly moved away and sat back down.

  He plucked a bluebell and held it out to her. The sight of that small flower moved Bliss more than she expected; something told her this man did not make such gestures. But she still couldn’t trust him.

  She returned her attention to the vista before her, doing her best to ignore him, a feat she couldn’t even hope to accomplish.

  She opened her sketchpad to a fresh sheet, intending to try; then he placed the bluebell on top of the paper, foiling her efforts. She nearly picked up the tiny flower, but caught herself at the last moment and brushed it away onto the grass. He put a hand over his heart, as though mortally wounded by her rebuff.

  Getting out her charcoals, she studied the magnificent landscape stretched out before her. Massive headlands ran the entire coastline. Furze-clad projections fell away abruptly to the bay. Masses of low, dark rock girded a basin of turf, which drifted eastward, passing from one shape to the next.

  Her hand began to draw before her mind recognized it, which was always how she worked, letting the subject guide her without thought. For thought could ruin what she was trying to create.

  She had managed to block out the man beside her until he murmured, “Carlyle.”

  Forgetting her vow to pay him no mind, Bliss glanced over at him, which was a mistake. His face in profile was as wickedly beautiful as Lucifer, and as dark and moving as the cliffs she drew. He was idly thumbing through her copy of Sartor Resartus.

  “It’s a book,” she said. “Certainly you’ve heard of them? They contain words and can be rather enlightening at times. I recommend you try one.”

  “I’ve tried a few in my life. Would you like to know what they were?” Devilry danced in the sideways glance he threw her.

  “No.” Bliss suspected the only enlightenment they contained was in-depth detail of a woman’s anatomy. “I’m sure I could not possibly comprehend the depths of your keen intellect.”

  A soft laugh, deep and oddly musical, rumbled from his chest. “Well, let me see if my ‘keen intellect’ can recall what Carlyle was trying to convey. If I remember correctly, he believes members of the aristocracy are no more than idle, game-preserving dilettantes and social parasites who while away their days shooting pheasant and lolling about during the fashionable London Season, oblivious to the realities of the world outside their illustrious social strata. Is that about right?”

 
Bliss didn’t want to be impressed by his knowledge of Carlyle’s work, but he had managed to surprise her. “You truly are a brain trust, my lord. Bravo.”

  “And you, my lady, are still a bitch. But a very beautiful one.”

  His barb, though sugar-coated, stung. “I don’t have to listen to this.” She snatched the book from his hands, but he gripped her wrist when she went to rise.

  “Stay.”

  She would not fall for that again. “If you don’t unhand me, I’ll hit you over the head.”

  “And I’d deserve it. But if you stay, I’ll tell you about the island out there, the one you’re drawing. It has an interesting history.”

  Bliss told herself not to be led astray by his offer, intriguing as it was. She would only regret it. This man exuded trouble, and yet that was exactly what drew her to him.

  If only Court hadn’t told her about Caine, how he haunted his home, and how his father had been driven to kill himself, perhaps he would not hold so much fascination for her.

  He didn’t deserve any compassion. He reveled in tossing any kindness back in her face, yet beneath the cool appraisal that said apologies were beyond him lay a glimpse of susceptibility, as if her staying meant something to him.

  She tugged her hand from his and turned away. “What about its history?”

  He handed her back her sketchpad, which had spilled from her lap. “It was a favorite haunt of pirates,” he replied.

  “That’s not so unusual.” Devon had always been a haven for pirates and smugglers, its secluded coves and hidden caves perfect spots to store stolen booty.

  “True,” he said, “but that particular island was once inhabited by the Knights Templar. A token from King Henry II. Legend also has it that a race of giants once lived there.”

  “Giants?” she scoffed. “Now you’re making things up.”

  “No, a group of islanders found a huge stone kist with skeletons measuring nearly eight feet tall.”

  “I suspect you’re a descendant,” Bliss said absently, her gaze skimming over his long, muscular legs stretched out in front of him, and up the well-defined torso that had been pressed tightly to hers the previous evening, before finally settling on his face, where his quirked eyebrow made her realize what she was doing. “I mean…you’re tall. Taller than most men.”