The Proviso
by
Moriah Jovan
(Excerpted from The Proviso by Moriah Jovan ©2008, published by B10 Mediaworx)
“Did
you do this, Eilis?” Sebastian asked. “This garden?”
“Yes.”
“I’m—
This is— Breathtaking.”
“Would
you like a tour?” she asked, hesitant, as if she didn’t trust that he was telling
her the truth.
“Yes,
I would love one.”
She
didn’t seem inclined to talk and neither did he. He took in every bit of color
and he knew she was watching him. At this point, he wasn’t sure if he wanted
more to stare at Eilis or Eilis’s garden.
In
the back of the house was a swimming pool. Winding around the property, there
were cobbled paths that served as a simple framework for its various beds of
autumn flowers that, around trees, were built with stacked stone and, on the
hills and in the dales, with no banding whatsoever. One path diverged and
meandered through the lawn, then turned and disappeared into a small glade.
Mourning doves and other evening birds called; frogs croaked.
Around
the bend of the path, there was a very wide stone bridge over a creek. In it,
she’d planted lemon grass to keep mosquitoes away and rushes, and had strategically
placed rocks so as to get a gurgling sound that she could probably hear on a
still night, to clean the water as it went through, and to keep mosquitoes at
bay.
“Eilis,”
he said suddenly, earnestly, his attraction to her only increasing exponentially
at this display of artistry and skill. “You are a master gardener. I might not
know much, but I do know that. You’ve done this magnificent work yourself and
I—” He stopped and looked around. “I’m awed. I could spend days lost in here.”
She
sniffled and he went around her to find her with her hand to her nose and tears
streaming down her face.
“What?
What did I say?” he asked, almost panicking because he must have said the exact
wrong thing.
“My—”
She gulped and tried to squelch a hiccup. “David— My ex-husband. He thought it
was a waste of time.”
“Eilis,
look at me.” He knew she didn’t want to because she was crying, but she did anyway.
“The man embezzled almost a hundred million dollars from you, half of which
Knox wasn’t able to recover. Why would you care about his opinion?”
“I
don’t care, exactly,” she said.
“But I had to redo my entire garden to get rid of the sound of his mocking in
my head. I still don’t bring anybody here in case they... I don’t know why I
let you see it.”
“Eilis,
this is a work of art,” he murmured. “I’ve been to the best gardens in the
world and this—this work you have created with your own two hands—rivals them
all.” He could see that she wanted
to believe what he said, but didn’t really. “Eilis.” He loved her name and said
it every chance he got. “I speculate in art. I know greatness when I see it.”
This
time he didn’t ask permission first. He enfolded her in his arms, the back of
her head in his palm, and kissed her. Lightly at first, he felt her acquiesce;
deepening the kiss, his tongue teasing hers, pleading with her to come play
with him, he felt her melt into him. If he thought Knox wouldn’t crack his head
open for it, he’d lay her down in a bed of dying wildflowers and make love to
her right then and there, amongst the wonder she’d built.
“Very
nice,” Sebastian drawled with appreciation when Giselle emerged from her
bedroom on the evening of Fen’s exploratory fundraiser.
The
strapless dress, reminiscent of 1950s Hollywood glamor, had two layers. The
pencil underskirt of white brocade was beaded and sequined along the edges of
its floral motif and the hem just kissed the toes of her black sling-back
heels. A long slit up the side allowed Giselle her full stride and relatively
quick access to her gun without marring the skirt’s narrow lines.
The
full black silk taffeta overskirt had a slight train. The front of it parted in
an A shape from waist to floor and flared out like a cape when she walked. It
framed the white underskirt with stark elegance. A small decorative pouch hung
from an inconspicuous strap on the inside of the skirt to function as a pocket
or, should she care to wear it on her wrist, a reticule.
Above
her skirts, a lightly silver-embroidered and jet-beaded black velvet corset
hugged her torso well enough to guarantee that just the right amount of bosom
blossomed over its top so as to tease without being vulgar.
She’d
dressed her hair in a modified, messy chic Gibson girl style. A diamond and
ruby bracelet, borrowed from Sebastian’s mother, sparkled loosely on her wrist
and Giselle’s own diamond earrings dangled from her earlobes.
“Rubies,”
Sebastian said once he’d carefully assessed the details of her presentation.
“Wear your ruby drops. Are you sure about going strapless?”
Giselle
glanced down at the gunshot wound in the soft hollow just under her left
shoulder. “Fen needs to see it so he can commence kissing my ass.”
“Make
sure you don’t let Kenard wheedle the story out of you.”
“Pffftt.”
“I’ve
heard he’s clever like that.”
*
* * * *
Absorbed
in watching the play of light on the surface of his sparkling water, Bryce
thought he saw a head of honey-colored hair in his periphery and his gut
clenched.
Only
one person he had ever met had hair that color, subtle in its blondeness and
its redness at the same time. No
hairdresser, no matter how talented or expensive, could duplicate the complicated
highlights of commingling blonde and red strands.
He
turned and looked for her, unable to credit that she might be here. His breath caught in his throat when he
saw her. When she turned a bit, he realized that she went about on Sebastian
Taight’s arm and a pain struck him behind his sternum as she chatted
amiably—almost familiarly—with Fen and Trudy Hilliard.
Bryce
drank in her appearance more fully, able to take his time and notice small
details that pleased but did not surprise him. She had such an air of
understated elegance, he had to wonder if she had a gun strapped to her thigh.
Her
black and white dress showed off her pale shoulders to exquisite advantage and
gave her hair a subtle brilliance. He liked the red earrings.
The
slight plump of her breasts above the black corset caught his attention. His
mind filled with images of them bare, flushed with passion, her nipples begging
him to lick and suck them. He drew in a sharp breath and his erection strained
against his fly. She turned away from him then and he studied the delineation
of well-developed muscles in her arms and upper back. He remembered her legs
the night of Leah’s visitation.
Collier’s
Lilith was soft, round, lush.
Giselle
Cox was most definitely not.
An ancient white wrought iron full-size bed, still neatly made from the day Justice had left for work and unexpectedly had to get married, was on the only wall it could be on.
“That,” she said, pointing to the table, “is where I found my voice and made my name. It’s also where I sat and looked at the wall and fantasized about a law professor I once had.”
She felt Knox start, then relax behind her, his hand plowing through her hair. “Oh?” he purred.
“Yes,” she said briskly as she took her gun out of her waistband and laid it on the desk. Then she grabbed the hem of her sweater and pulled it over her head. She heard his quick intake of breath as she threw it in the corner. She turned and sat on the bed, lifting her feet one at a time for him to pull off her boots; he obliged and tossed them over his shoulder where they landed out in the hallway.
“I fantasized about him coming to my room in the middle of the night. Sometimes he’d sneak in the front door or the back door and magically miss all the stairs that squeaked. Sometimes he’d climb in my window. But he always found me in bed and would slip in with me.”
Justice pulled her jeans down and she slid a look between her legs at Knox to see that he’d kicked off his moccasins and taken off his own sweater. Gun on the dresser. He unbuttoned his fly, and she tried not to smile.
“And it was a secret affair, you see, because, while he had to have me, he was protecting me and my good name. My father couldn’t know because this man had a baaaad reputation, but I knew better.” Knox chuckled.
Justice shimmied out of the barely-there lingerie Knox did appreciate oh, so much, and went to the bed, turning it down. She gasped a teensy gasp when she felt Knox’s naked body against her naked back, his arousal hard against her, and his mouth on her neck and shoulders, one big hand splayed out over her belly to hold her to him and one cupping her breast. But she pulled away from him and climbed into the bed, slipped down under the covers, and pretended to be asleep.
“And I would wake up,” she whispered, “with him beside me, kissing me awake. He would say, ‘I love you, Justice’ over and over again while he kissed me.”
Justice smiled when the bed depressed and creaked under his weight and the covers floated down over both of them. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight, their naked bodies entwining. “I love you, Justice.” He kissed her softly, slowly, deeply until her eyes fluttered open. “I love you, Justice.”
“I love you, Knox.”
“Okay, and then what?”
She snickered. “And then what I don’t know. He took over from there.”
Knox laughed outright, then stilled. She watched him as he studied her reverently. Finally, he murmured, “Miss McKinley, you haven’t been a very good student this semester.”
“I’m so sorry, Professor Hilliard,” Justice breathed. “What can I do to make it up?”
“Come to my office for a conference after class. I may be able to find a way for you to earn some extra credit.”
Moriah Jovan (http://moriahjovan.com) writes romance with a few unexpected twists and turns, usually involving sex, religion, money, and politics—all the things your mother told you not to talk about in public. She lives in Kansas City, Missouri, and, when not involved with her kids or her day job, spends her time listening to the voices in her head conversing with imaginary friends.
Over the next several weeks, we will be publishing more original Moriah Jovan excerpts at SexyLittleOutfits.com.