Clearly, the minute was up.
Still, Royce kept himself in check, although his body swelled inside hers, throbbed in a way that told her what this delay was costing him. But he didn't give in, waiting until she was frantic before letting the fire of their kisses take over.
Breanna's inner muscles softened and tightened around him, her body reflexively asking for more.
Maddeningly, Royce refused.
Rather than begin the rhythm she craved, he withdrew, separating their bodies and dragging his mouth away from hers.
“Royce...” She whimpered a protest, but he ignored it, his Ups burning an open-mouthed trail down her neck, her throat. He kissed her shoulders, the spot where her heart was razing, then down to the upper swell of her breasts. He savored each curve, moved lower, letting his warm breath tease her nipples into aching points, then grazing them with fleeting brushes of his lips and tongue.
Breanna's nails were digging into his shoulders when Royce gave in. He slid one arm beneath her back, arched her up to his mouth and drew her taut nipple inside, tugging and releasing, tugging and releasing, then lashing across the hardened peak with his tongue. He didn't stop until she was twisting on the sheets, chanting his name in harsh, broken gasps, and even then only to shift to her other breast, lavish it with the same attention.
Drowning in sensation, Breanna cried out, her in-sides clenching with every pull of Royce's lips. The urgency was building again, that desperate need for release, and she caught his head between her hands, trying to tug him upward, to urge him over her. If he didn't cover her, fill her, she'd die.
He let her ease his head from her breasts, but ignored her unspoken plea. Following his own compulsion, he caught her wrists, held them away.
His mouth continued its path, down her waist, across the hollow of her abdomen to her thighs.
She had no time to think, or even to wonder.
Releasing her wrists, he draped her legs over his shoulders, bent his head, and sank his tongue into her.
Raw, unimaginable sensation jolted through Breanna, and she shoved a fist into her mouth, knowing there was no other way to silence her scream. She'd never imagined anything like this in her life. She was dying... dying.
Royce intensified the torture, making love to her with his lips and tongue, tasting her, savoring her flavor. His fingers glided high up inside her, moving seductively to heighten her pleasure. She tried to wrench away, to keep herself from flying apart, but he was relentless, unbearably precise, finding where she needed him most and deepening his caresses.
“Royce ...” It was a primitive sound, one she didn't recognize, even though it came from her.
“Let it happen,” he commanded in a voice thick with desire. “God, your taste. Let it happen.”
It was already happening. Breanna couldn't stop it. It was a dark roaring wave that boiled up inside her, crashed down over her, drowning her in its wake. She sobbed aloud, giving in to its power, her entire body wrenching beneath the spasms.
She felt Royce's grip tighten as he heightened her pleasure, tasted every nuance of her climax. Then he was on her, in her, his own control shattering as he surged deep, spurting hotly into her, rasping her name with each pulsing burst of release.
This time recovery took longer. Breanna felt dazed, stunned by the magnitude of what had just happened, and by the intensity of her own body's response. My God, was all she kept thinking. My God.
Eventually, Royce raised up on his elbows, his breathing still unsteady as he gazed down into her face. “ Y ou're mine,” he said fervently. “And I love you.”
Tears shimmered in Breanna's eyes. “I never imagined it could be so... so...” “Nor did I.”
His implicit meaning made what they'd shared that much more profound.
“I wish we could hold back the morning,” Breanna whispered, realizing how silly she sounded, how unlike herself, and yet unable to stem the words or stop herself from feeling them. She was no longer the woman she'd been a month ago. Now, she was a woman in love. And she was terrified that the faceless killer out there would shatter all the wonder she and Royce were only just discovering.
That... and worse.
Royce kissed her tenderly, his thumbs caressing her cheeks. “The morning is hours away.” “But it will come. And when it does—” “When it does, we'll face it,” Royce murmured. He rolled onto his back, taking Breanna with him and pressing her head to his chest He sifted his fingers through her hair, staring quietly at the ceiling. “He's waiting for me to make some kind of move. And I will—as soon as I think of the best way to lure him out”
Breanna tensed, and she raised her head, her eyes wide with fear. “Lure him out? But, if you lure him out—”
“I’ll kill him,” Royce finished quietly. “He's an expert marksman,” Breanna returned in a small, shaky voice. ''Killing is his craft, his passion.” A hard swallow. “If anything happens to you... Royce, I'd rather take one of his bullets. It would destroy me far less.”
“Stop it.” Royce drew her mouth down to his, kissing her with a ferocity that strove to burn away all the frightening possibilities that lay ahead. “Nothing is going to happen to you. Or to me. I won't let it.”
Breanna nodded, willing her surge of fear to subside. “I know you won't.” She caressed his jaw, watching the unyielding look in his eyes and saying a silent prayer.
Let this nightmare be over, she prayed. Let us all be spared. But if something has to go wrong, if someone has to die at that monster's hands, don't let it be Royce. Keep him safe. And please, please, protect Stacie and her babe. If it has to be someone, let it be me.
Royce studied the play of emotions on her face, and his features hardened, as if he knew just what she was thinking. “Come here,” he commanded, pulling her more fully atop him, draping her hair around them like a shimmering curtain. “You wanted to hold back the morning” he reminded her in a low, urgent tone, framing her face between his palms. “Well, so do I.” His hips lifted pushing his lower body upward until his rigid length surged fully inside her, possessed her. He withdrew, then repeated the motion, gritting his teeth and waiting only until her glazed eyes and soft moan told him he'd eclipsed her fears—for now. “And I know just the way to do that.”
21
“ Lo rd Hobson. I like that idea.”
Philippe Girard chuckled, pouring two brandies and giving one to Hibbert before settling himself behind his desk. “Please. Have a seat.” He waited until Hibbert had lowered himself into one of the plush mahogany armchairs that decorated Girard's elegant office. “Was this new identity your idea, or Chadwick's?”
“It was Lord Royce's.” Hibbert sipped at his drink, an expression of wry amusement on his face. “But I've taken to it quite nicely.”
“Evidemment. So I see.” Another chuckle as Girard set down his goblet, leaned forward to study Hibbert intently. “You've been to the three jewelers?”
“Yes. Right after I left here this morning.”
“Forgive me for not speaking with you at that time.” Guard's smile vanished, and his dark brows drew together. “I had no idea you were here. My clerk is new, or he would have recognized your name. He certainly would have known Royce's. Either way, he would have interrupted my meeting. It won't happen again.”
Hibbert waved away the apology. “Your clerk was just doing his job. He was most efficient. He took down my name, gave me an appointment for half after two, and saw me to the door. That gave me a chance to do my preliminary investigating.”
“And you found the right jeweler?”
“In less than an hour. I followed my first instinct and went to Passeur on Avenue De Villiers. I was right.”
Guard's lips twitched. “You're becoming as arrogant as Chadwick. And as shrewd. Passeur does indeed craft elaborate bottles for the most discerning customers.” He rubbed a palm over his clean-shaven jaw. “Now what?”
“As I suspected, the bottle is exclusive to P
asseur. It's also quite expensive. Only five customers have purchased it—quite regularly, in fact. As luck would have it, all five live here in Paris.”
“You have all their names, of course.”
“Actually, they have mine—or rather Lord Hob-son's.” Hibbert enjoyed the perplexed look that crossed Guard's chiseled features. “Another of Lord Royce's fine ideas—one that was acceptable to Monsieur Passeur. As anticipated, the jeweler is an ethical man who refused to divulge the names of his customers. Lord Royce's plan spared him the necessity of doing so.”
“I'm intrigued. Please, go on”
Hibbert complied 'Through Passeur, I sent off five urgent messages, one to each customer. I told them I was in a delicate predicament I'd spent one unforgettable night with a beautiful woman whose name I neglected to take, but whose scent I could never forget. I confessed that I'd traced the perfume in the hopes of renewing our acquaintance during my brief trip to Paris—no matter what the price. I closed by asking if they might know this woman and, if so, could I prevail upon them to urge her to contact me—immediately, as I'll only be in Paris for a day or two. And I provided my name and the name of the inn where I'm staying.”
This time Girard threw back his head and laughed. “In other words, you appealed to the passion so typical of the French.”
“Yes. And the greed so typical of criminals.” Hibbert gave an offhanded shrug. “I expect I'll hear from several very irate husbands.”
“I'm sure you will.”
“When I find the source of this bottle, it's possible I'll need your help. Depending upon who that source is, of course.”
“Consider it done.” Girard polished off his brandy, and eyed the empty glass speculatively. “You're hoping this will lead to whoever is buying the women who have been kidnapped.”
“Exactly.”
A terse nod. “Then I suspect I'll be hearing from you. In the meantime, I have your descriptions of the women in question. I'll see what I can find out. Oh, and I should be hearing back any day now on my inquiries regarding the physician Chadwick's looking for.”
“Good. Because it's possible the killer first met his business associate en route to or from that physician.”
“That makes sense.” Girard organized his notes. “With any luck, all these pieces will be found while you're in Paris, and you and I will be able to assemble them.” Girard shot Hibbert a curious look. “This isn't
Chadwick's usual type of case. Nor is he going about it in his usual detached manner. Is that because Sheldrake's a friend of his? Or is it more?”
Hibbert's expression never changed. “Lord Royce and the marquess have known each other since their days at Oxford.”
“Oui. And Lord Royce and Lady Breanna have known each other less than a month. Yet I get the distinct feeling Chadwick's determination has a lot more to do with her than with Sheldrake.”
Another bland look, although Hibbert knew his employer wouldn't object to Girard knowing the truth. Still, baiting him was far more enjoyable. “I'll let Lord Royce answer that question himself, when you see him.”
“Ah, and will my answer be in the form of an invitation, perhaps?”
“It might be.” Hibbert rose, gathering up his things. “If you help solve this case.”
Girard stood, a broad smile on his face. “You drive a hard bargain— Lord Hobson. However, being that I wouldn't want to miss out on what I'm fast coming to believe will be Royce's wedding day, I'll see what I can do.” Abruptly, all levity vanished. “Good luck with your search, Hibbert. But be careful. You don't know what you're dealing with—yet. When you do, come to me.”
Hibbert's nod was equally solemn. “I will.”
By late afternoon, three replies, one incensed husband, and one round woman well past middle years with an eager gleam in her eye had arrived at Hibbert's inn.
The woman was both hopeful and persuasive. She spent twenty minutes assuring Lord Hobson they'd spent a torrid night together—one she'd be thrilled to repeat, with or without payment.
Hibbert sent her home to her husband.
The second arrival—an incensed man who introduced himself as Monsieur Blanc and then called Hibbert every French obscenity he was able to recognize, and a few he couldn't—swore that his wife was faithful and that if Lord Hobson ever contacted her again, he would shoot him.
Hibbert sent him home to his wife.
He then ordered a brandy, collected his three written messages, and took them upstairs to his room.
He tore open the first message.
It was written by an insolent butler, who informed Lord Hobson that the Due had received his note, but had elected not to reply for personal reasons. He added that it would be highly indiscreet for Lord Hobson to press the matter, as it would offend the Due, his wife, and his mistress, for whom the perfume was purchased.
Hibbert contemplated the butler's meaning for only a minute before putting aside the reply. It didn't warrant further attention. His instincts told him it rang true. Besides, the specifics would be easy enough to check out.
He turned his attention to the other two replies.
One was from a Mademoiselle Chenille, who regularly purchased the perfume for her grandmother, most recently as a Christmas gift. She expressed regret at not being able to provide Lord Hobson with the answers he sought, and wished him the best of luck. She added that she was leaving Paris the day after tomorrow, first to visit her grandmother in the hospital, then to return to the convent at which she'd soon be taking her vows to God. But if Lord Hobson had any further questions, he was free to contact her there. She closed her letter by blessing him, and providing him with the name and address of her religious order.
Hibbert winced, and refolded the note. It was replies such as these that made one feel guilty about using deception as a means to get at the truth. Then again, it was decent young women like Mademoiselle Chenille whom he and Lord Royce were trying to protect through their actions. So in the end, it was worth it
He would, of course, verify the story—if it came to that. But he had little doubt she was telling the truth.
Which brought him to the last reply.
This note was penned in a flowery, feminine hand, and Hibbert's discomfort vanished, his instincts roaring to life when a hint of the fragrance he was searching for drifted to his nostrils.
The recipient had taken the time to dab her letter with a provocative touch of the perfume he'd mentioned. That meant she was interested.
The question was, was he?
Slipping his finger under the flap, Hibbert opened the letter, and read:
Lord Hobson, I'm fascinated by your letter. We should meet. I'll be at the front steps of Notre-Dame at seven o'clock, wearing your perfume.—Maurelle le Joyau.
Maurelle Le Joyau.
Hibbert reread the name and the note, then glanced at his timepiece. Half after five. That gave him enough time to catch Girard before he left the office, find out more about the lady in question
After which, he'd be on his way to the cathedral.
* * *
Maurelle Le Joyau was an extraordinarily beautiful woman—every bit as beautiful as she'd been described.
Her thick black hair was swept off her face, emphasizing her fragile, fine-boned features and wide, dark eyes. Her costly silk gown and fro-lined pelisse cloak were the height of fashion, and her diminutive height and build made her look like a china doll swathed in expensive material. She looked young, vulnerable— the kind of woman a man would want to protect and, at the same time, to possess.
Hibbert studied her impassively as he approached the front steps of Notre-Dame, thinking that all the information he'd been given didn't do her justice. She was breathtaking. Without a doubt, she could pass for a woman a decade younger than her thirty-two years. She had an untouched quality to her beauty that was unmistakable.
Except that she happened to be the owner of a very elite, very expensive Paris
brothel.
“Lord Hobson?” She gave him a dazzling smile, inclining her head just so as she stepped toward him.
Hibbert played his part, scrutinizing her with an element of longing, and an equal amount of regret. “Miss Le Joyau?”
“Yes.”
He bowed, brought her gloved fingers to his lips. The perfume—he could smell it even in the crisp evening air. “I'm as disappointed as I am entranced,” he confessed. “I wish I could say we've met. But as we both know, we haven't.” A charming smile. “Although, to be honest, I wish it was you I was searching for. The young woman I recall was wearing your exact scent. Still, she doesn't come close to matching you in beauty.”
Maurelle flushed accordingly, although Hibbert was aware that her show of maidenly shyness was just that: show. Indeed, at the same time that she attempted to preoccupy him with her allure, she was assessing him with a shrewd but subtle thoroughness the average man would never have perceived.
Hibbert perceived it.
“Merci. What a lovely compliment,” she murmured, her English punctuated with a soft French accent. “However, now that we meet face to face, I have to sadly agree you're a stranger to me, as well. Still, perhaps I can help in your search.” She tucked a tendril of hair off her face. “You're English. Yet your message said you met this woman in Paris. May I ask when?”
Interesting that she didn't ask where, Hibbert noted.
His brows raised in a semi-hopeful gesture. “Why? Do you know another woman who wears that scent?”
“Possibly. But I don't know you well enough to say.”
“Ah, you're being cautious.” Hibbert nodded his understanding. “I don't blame you. One can't be certain whom one is speaking with these days. Well, I assure you, I'm an honorable man. Lonely, but honorable. What would you like to know? My name is Albert Hobson. I live in Surrey, but I also have estates in Yorkshire, Dorset, and Devon. I'm a man of considerable means, and can provide handsomely for the young woman in question. As for when I met this mystery lady, it was last summer. I was in Paris on business.”