More Than A Mistress. Sandra Marton
Alexandra Thorpe into a corner, bent her over his arm, and crushed her mouth beneath his.
He heard the insulted hiss of her breath, felt her first frantic struggles…and then, with a little sigh, she parted her lips and let him in.
He whispered her name, drew her up, gathered her into his arms. Her heart raced against his; her slender arms were cool as she looped them around his neck. She tasted like honey; she smelled like springtime. God, how he wanted her. How he needed her…
A cheer. A smattering of applause. Appreciative, pleasant laughter.
He heard them, but he didn’t give a damn. Alex did. She tore her mouth from his, dropped her arms and flattened her palms against his chest.
“Stop it,” she hissed.
He lifted his head and gave her a sexy smile that said the kiss was only the beginning. And why wouldn’t he? Alex shuddered. She’d been kissing him the way she’d never kissed a man in her life, but he had no way of knowing that. Kissing him right here, in front of all these people.
He smiled into her eyes. “It’s going to be one hell of a weekend, Sugar.”
His voice was low, rough, and filled with promise. He was still holding her, his hands at her waist, which was a good thing because she felt boneless. Dizzy. She felt—she felt…
“Alex? Travis? Could you look this way, please?”
Alex swung around blindly. The TV camera was pointed at her; a smiling reporter poked a microphone into her face. She had always thought it was horrible, how intrusive reporters could be. Now, she welcomed the woman as if the microphone were a lifeline.
“Yes,” she said brightly, and stepped free of Travis’s grasp, “certainly. We’d be delighted.”
The interview went on for what seemed to be hours, though Travis knew it could not have been more than a few minutes.
He didn’t like reporters. There’d always been somebody poking a nose and a camera where it didn’t belong when he was growing up on Espada. His father relished being the center of attention but neither Travis, his brothers nor his stepsister enjoyed it at all.
Tonight, Travis found himself welcoming—well, almost welcoming—the stupid questions and the phony smiles.
Alexandra Thorpe was doing most of the talking. She made it sound as if their kiss had been a clever piece of theatrics, hinting, with smiles and girlish laughter, that the two of them had planned it while they’d been talking in the lobby.
Whatever spin she wanted to put on it was fine with him. If she could come up with something clever, amen. Hey, he wasn’t thinking at all. Near as he could tell, his brain had ceased to function as soon as he’d taken his first look at her.
He liked women, liked to come on to them. The delicacy of their bones. The subtlety of their scent. The way they laughed, and smiled. He enjoyed their company, their conversation. And making love with a woman was the closest to paradise a man could come.
The thing was, though, he never made love with an audience watching.
What was the sense in kidding himself? He wasn’t just brain dead, he was being led around by the part of his anatomy that was the least reliable, to do what he’d been doing to Alexandra Thorpe, right in the middle of the dance floor. That kiss had been as erotic as anything he’d ever shared with a woman in the privacy of a bed.
Be honest, Baron. Some of the things he’d done in bed hadn’t been as erotic as that kiss.
It had been that way for her, too. He knew what that sexy little moan had meant, knew from the feel of her in his arms that she’d been as ready as he’d been. He understood the touch of her tongue against his, the gentle pressure of her teeth…
“…Mr. Baron?”
He blinked. The ditzy reporter was talking to him, holding out her mike as if it were the Holy Grail.
“Excuse me?” he said, and she smiled even more brightly and repeated her question.
He smiled back. Yes, uh-huh, he’d had a great time tonight. No, of course he hadn’t been nervous. Who could be nervous, when it was all for charity?
They were going to love this interview, at Sullivan, Cohen and Vittali.
Now it was Alexandra’s turn. The reporter turned her painted-on smile in her direction.
“And what brought you here this evening, Ms. Thorpe?”
Alexandra hesitated for a second, then began talking about her lifelong commitment to charity. Travis pretended to listen, and smiled like an idiot. If she wasn’t lying, he was a monkey’s uncle.
Whatever had brought her here tonight didn’t have anything to do with charity. He’d seen the look on her face, the wildness in her eyes. Something had driven her to this auction, and he needed to know what that something was.
But what had made her bid on him was easy to figure.
It had been desire. A desire that raged so fiercely within her that he’d felt its force on the stage. The same desire that had made her melt in his arms moments ago when he’d kissed her.
That first rigidity of her body, and then the way she’d shuddered and come alive in his arms. The feel of her breasts, pressed against his chest. Her lips, parting to give him access to the honeyed essence of her mouth. The whisper of sound that had spoken of surrender…
He knew he’d never forget it. There was no point pretending he didn’t have a long history with women. Still, that kiss, that incredible kiss, was different from anything he’d ever known.
Travis shifted his weight. What was he doing to himself? Another couple of seconds, the TV camera and the crowd were going to be treated to a sight he’d never live down. It was time to take this strange little play to a private setting, where the next scene could be played out, in full.
He slipped his arm around Alexandra’s waist, his hand splaying against her hip in warning.
“Okay,” he said cheerfully, breaking into the middle of some inanity of the reporter. “Okay, folks, that’s it.”
The little knot of journalists groaned. One of them began to ask another question but Travis just kept smiling. And talking.
“Hey, guys, don’t you think Ms. Thorpe and I are entitled to a little time alone?”
“You have a three-day weekend to be alone,” one of them said, and they all laughed.
“And a weekend to plan,” Travis said. He looked down at Alex. “Right, Ms. Thorpe?”
“Right, Mr. Baron,” she said, flashing him a smile that was vaguely reminiscent of the snarl of an angry Doberman.
“I just love that old-fashioned formality,” the reporter gushed. “Mr., Ms…. So charming!”
Travis laughed merrily as he began backing Alex from the dance floor. “Well,” he said, “Ms. Thorpe is just an old-fashioned girl.”
As if on cue, the orchestra struck up another waltz. Come on, Travis thought, come on!
People surged onto the floor to dance.
Travis didn’t waste any time. He let go of Alexandra’s waist, grabbed her hand and all but sprinted for the door. She tried to tug free when they were halfway through the lobby but his fingers tightened on hers.
“Keep going,” he said, and led her out the main doors, past the doorman and down the wide marble steps. Anybody watching would figure they were making a romantic getaway. He almost imagined it, himself, until they reached the street and she dug in her spiked heels, wrenched her hand from his and spun toward him.
“Exactly what do you think you’re doing?” she said, turning her angry face up to his.
“Calm down, Sugar.”
Alexandra