Succumb to Me Page 5

  It was a masculine abode, dark wainscoting on the walls, trophies on high, shelves lined with books and a cabinet bar in one corner. There was no obvious hiding spot that she could see. She headed for the cabinet behind his desk and rifled through the deep compartments, finding nothing. Her hopes started to sink. There were only so many places she could look before he wondered at her continued absence.

  “Looking for this?” a distinctly familiar male voice taunted behind her, freezing the blood in her veins.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Winter whirled around to find Logan leaning casually in the door frame. He was smiling a self-satisfied smile that made her long to slap him. A rolled canvas was tucked under one arm.

  Oh, how she hated him!

  Winter straightened from her crouch, squaring her shoulders, narrowing her eyes.

  “I forgot to tell you ... I’d thought of leaving it here, but then I began to wonder if that wouldn’t be too easy. And I found I was loath to spoil your surprise, Winter. You do like surprises, don’t you?”

  Winter swallowed with some difficulty, trying to control her temper. “I most emphatically do not, my lord,” she managed to say, almost coolly.

  “Always the lady, even in your men’s wear. I suppose you have decided not to take me up on my offer to gain what you so richly desire.”

  “You’re a fool if you think I would give in to anything that you want of me. I am not some harlot to be bargained for,” she said, tilting her chin up at him with as haughty a look as she could command.

  He smirked, looking devastating and annoying all at once. “Of course not. It’s for the best. I have a carriage awaiting you outside. Go now, or you may never get your hands on this.” He waved it in the air, tormenting her with its nearness, so close and yet unreachable. She itched to grab it and run, just to see what would happen.

  She’d never had a chance. He’d known all along what she was about, known from the first that it was her, disguise or not. He’d laid a trap for her and she’d fallen into it like a complete nitwit.

  He’d merely been toying with her, teasing with the thought that she might still have a possibility of success.

  With her back ram rod straight, she stalked out, determined more than ever that he not see her falter, all sorts of black thoughts crowding her mind with the tortures she’d enjoy inflicting upon him.

  “You’ll hear from me ... soon,” he called after her, laughing.

  She hoped to god she did not.

  * * * *

  Logan’s amusement disappeared the moment Winter had gone. Despite his incessant teasing, he felt her absence like an old wound ripped freshly open, raw, hurting—possibly never to heal. Nursing a brandy, he went back to his study and unrolled the canvas, looking on Giovanni’s creation. He smoothed his fingers over her painted curves, imagining how soft her skin would feel, imagined her welcoming his touch with that beguiling smile he so rarely saw—and never for him.

  He threw back the remainder of his drink, pushing the canvas aside, tormented by what he could never have. He’d known from the first that she still hated him. He wasn’t altogether certain he could blame her.

  He looked back on the brash young man that he’d been and hated himself. He had been so cocky. His success had gone completely to his head. With nothing more than his wits and his hands, he had created his own wealth, achieved what few men in his circumstances could. The result had been that he’d become a much sought after matrimonial prize in a society that would have scorned him had he been penniless.

  He had enjoyed being courted, but he’d had no interest in finding himself a wife until the moment he saw Winter Stevens. From that moment on, he’d been determined to have her, become obsessed with it.

  Unfortunately, his cockiness had not withstood her first cool look, her chilly dismissal of him as if he was beneath her interest, as if he was no more than a stable hand. His ego had been crushed, his confidence shattered.

  It had taken him months to gather the nerve to approach her, to find a moment when she wasn’t surrounded. He had not dared approach her when others were near, because he’d fully expected annihilation and wanted no witnesses.

  But he’d had just enough liquor in him that night to breed courage, and his first success had led to cockiness.

  He was well aware that, in his anger, he’d said things no gentleman should ever say to a lady.

  And even so he’d been stunned when she’d so far forgotten herself as to publicly humiliate him.

  He’d hated her for that—thought he hated her. Time had worn his humiliation down to an embarrassing lesson in gentlemanly behavior.

  His hatred had not outlived his anger of that night. He still wanted her and no amount of time, it seemed, was going to change that.

  He felt a little ill when he thought of the look in her eyes. Even if she did desire him, it would never be enough.

  He poured himself another drink and downed it, enjoying the numbness the liquor afforded, the way it dulled his rage.

  It was stupid to have pressed her tonight—too soon after her initial shock. He’d done nothing but frustrate himself and alienate her further.

  And that had never been his intention.

  She might hate herself for responding to him, but she had—just as she had the first time that he’d kissed her. He knew that it was not merely his own desires that made him believe she wanted him. He had thought, if he could only break through that facade of coldness, he would have her.

  He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair, closing his eyes. An image of the past flashed through his mind, of opportunities lost, never to be regained. She’d had a pure and generous heart once, untainted by the filth of society. He had sensed it, been drawn to it.

  And yet, she’d broken that image at the ball, so long ago, proved she was no better than any of the others.

  What a fool he was to believe it still lay hidden, deep inside her, that he could find it.

  Heavy with drink by now, he began to feel himself drifting into unconsciousness, the memory of their first meeting teasing his mind. He wondered if she had any idea of the service she’d done him that night, of who he really was.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Despite her fury at being thwarted, under other circumstances, Winter might well have been thoroughly routed. She would almost certainly have despised him, and gone to great lengths to snub him, but she would have had a great deal of difficulty summoning the nerve for a second battle of wills.

  However, despite her reluctance to lock horns with Logan again, she found she simply could not wait for her doom to come to her. His elusive reference to a surprise set her so on edge that that she could scarcely sleep that night for worrying what form his surprise would take.

  She knew that had been his intention, damn his hide, to torment her with doubts.

  By the following night, Winter found that she was on the verge of nervous exhaustion, waiting for the ax to fall. Finally, she decided that enough was enough. She would not stay cowering in her room waiting for him to do his worst. She had no one to rescue her from her dilemma but herself.

  That painting would burn tonight if it was the last thing she did on this earth.

  She knew it would never occur to him to think she would be so foolish as to try to sneak into the townhouse once again to retrieve the painting. She was certain he was convinced that he’d frightened her away, cowed her into submission. It was that arrogance on which she was counting.

  Winter took no chances when she returned to his residence. She’d dressed once again in the boy’s clothing she’d used the first time. It had certainly not fooled Logan for a moment. However, it was sufficient as a disguise for her gender on the streets, she felt sure, and it was far easier to get around in breeches than skirts and crinolines. She took great care to make certain no one followed her, glancing continuously over her shoulder. Once she’d reached the neighborhood, she had taken up a position of observation and watched, shiver
ing in the cold, chaffing her hands for warmth, but determined that this time she would not act too hastily and risk failure.

  She had seen Logan’s carriage drive away. Still, she waited, watching the servants as they made the rounds through the house for a last check before bed, watching as they dimmed lamps, extinguished candles and locked up, saw their own rooms brighten with candle glow then go dark as they went to bed.

  She was numb with cold by the time she decided it was time to set her plan into motion.

  Shaking, panting with fear, feeling decidedly ill, Winter finally crossed the street, thankful for the cloaking darkness despite the fact that the darkness alone had contributed greatly to her fear.

  A board on the porch creaked as she came up the stairs. She froze, listening and finally decided the creak had not been as loud as it had seemed, and had probably been enhanced by her anxiety.

  Moving once more, she approached the parlor window with silent stealth. There, she paused once more, surveying the yard, the street, and the shadows around the shrubbery. Nothing moved that she couldn’t immediately identify.

  Crouching, she grasped the window and slowly, carefully pushed it open, gratified to find he’d not discovered her entry into his house the last time.

  She paused to listen again once she had the window open.

  The house was as silent as a tomb. Relief flooded her.

  She almost chuckled, thinking of his expression when he found out she’d come back and taken the painting out from under his regal nose. How fitting that his colossal conceit would be the cause of his failure.

  She hooked a leg over the sill, sitting on it as she eased her other leg inside. With both feet planted firmly, she straightened, pausing to listen once more. A hand reached out from the dark, grabbing her arm in a firm grip then twirled her away from the window. She came up against the parlor wall with a jarring thump. A body slammed full length into hers, trapping her against the wall.

  Winter sucked in a breath to scream and a hand clamped over her mouth, smothering her cry. She strained her eyes wide, but could see nothing in the inky room but shadows and the indistinct outline of a man.

  “I thought I’d made it clear last night not to return, Winter.” His voice was soft, an amused edge to its tone.

  It was him. Damn him to hell! How had he caught her this time? She’d been so careful....

  “You’ll not scream?”

  She nodded as much as her restriction would allow and he released her. The sound of him moving across the room reached her and then a flint was struck and a dim wash of light flooded the room as he lit a candle.

  “How did you know I’d come tonight?” Winter demanded. “I saw you leave....”

  “Did you?” He paused for a moment, allowing that to sink in. “Apparently you’re laboring under the misconception that you’re dealing with a greenhorn. I knew last night that you would try this again. You have a stubborn streak a mile wide. It’s one of your most admirable traits, I think, certainly one of your more convenient characteristics. It makes you somewhat more predictable, you see.”

  Winter glared at him, her jaw setting belligerently. “I am not stubborn.”

  His brows rose skeptically, but he didn’t belabor the point. “Now, why have you come back, I wonder?” he asked pensively as he moved around the room, lighting candles until she could see him clearly in the golden glow.

  He was dressed, she saw, in a gentleman’s evening attire—a facade, of course. No gentleman would behave this way.

  Fleetingly, she considered her own behavior and knew it sorely lacking, but she was inclined to dismiss it. He’d driven her to desperate measures. There were no books on etiquette to guide a young lady through such a situation for the simple reason that ladies rarely found themselves in her position, having to safeguard her own reputation. Without a protector, without guidance in how to handle it, she knew of nothing to do but pursue a course as repugnant to her as it was necessary. For her mother’s sake if not her own, she could not give up.

  She inched toward the window.

  “You know why,” she said, not daring to glance at the window for fear of giving away her intentions yet again.

  “I’d like to hear the truth from those lush lips of yours. It would be a pleasant change, don’t you think?”

  Winter’s eyes narrowed, but she wasn’t about to allow him to bait her into doing something rash. He was far enough away she had a chance of escaping. Recklessly, she rushed for the window. She’d gotten halfway out when he reached her and grasped her around the waist, hauling her inside kicking and flailing her arms. He deposited her on the floor and slammed the window shut.

  He looked down at her, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, behaving as if nothing had happened. “Well? Was it to apologize?”

  Winter struggled to her feet, glaring at him. Surreptitiously, she rubbed her butt, which had taken the brunt of her fall.

  “Apologize for what?” she said, stalling for time. She knew she had to answer him—for he’d dog her until she did, but she didn’t have to like it. “I came for my painting,” she said through gritted teeth, casually looking for another venue of escape but seeing nothing immediate.

  It occurred to her that if she had a weapon, she could bludgeon him into unconsciousness, but she doubted he’d wait around for her to find something appropriate. He was too fast, and his reach was too long to give her much hope of seizing something suitable and using it before he could take it away from her. The differences in their size had never been more apparent before now, when she was seemingly at his mercy.

  “Your painting? I beg to differ, Winter. If you’ve come for the painting, you’ve come to steal my painting. Come, sit here with me.” Logan sat on a small sofa and patted the space beside him, his smile easy, charming—one that could easily seduce the unwary.

  Winter wasn’t fooled, but she recognized defeat when she saw it. She moved to the sofa and sat beside him, stiff and unbending, as far from him as she could get on the narrow width of the seat’s cushion. She stared unblinking ahead, but watched him surreptitiously from the corner of her eye.

  “I paid for the painting, requested the design. It is mine,” he continued nonchalantly, stretching, then draping his arm across the back of the seat.

  Winter was well aware the scoundrel had commissioned the painting, that it had been entirely his idea that Giovanni had created something so scandalous, but she couldn’t see that that entitled him to own something so damaging to her. “It was done of me. That transfers ownership.”

  “So you did pose nude for it? I had wondered. I admit, I was just a bit shocked. I knew you had fire in you, beneath that facade of ice, but I confess it hadn’t occurred to me that you were quite so free spirited.” He shifted casually, as though merely seeking a more comfortable position, but the movement brought his leg into intimate contact with her own.

  Just as casually, Winter moved her leg fractionally. She turned to glare at him, resisting the urge to assault him. “You know very well I did no such thing!”

  He chuckled. “In fact, I do. But, of course, no one save you and I and Giovanni know that for the truth and somehow I think, if it were ever to come to light, no one would believe any of us, should we try to dispute it.” He shrugged. “And, of course, that has nothing to do with our current situation. We are still at an impasse ... and you have broken into my house yet again.”

  Winter looked away, glaring at the floor. “I am not going to allow you to punish me.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, my sweet ice princess.”

  “Don’t call me that!” Winter snapped.

  He smiled that infuriating smile yet again, setting her nerves on edge. “What would you have me call you? Perhaps ... lover?”