Zero Control Page 11

  The idea appalled him, but it was the very thing that had made their illicit hookup exciting.

  Pervert.

  He needed to get his head back on his job, remember the reason he was here and stop thinking about Roxie. But how could he do that when just the sight of her clouded his mind and narrowed his focus to his cock?

  What had happened to his control? How had he let this thing between them turn into a full-blown sexcapade? He dared to dart a gaze to the back of the bus.

  Roxie sat beside Jess and Sam, talking and laughing. Absentmindedly she reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

  Damn, how he wished she was stroking him.

  He had never intended on following Roxie inside the old church, and his unmanageable impulses had him questioning his principles. He’d signed a morality clause. He was breaking all the rules. Yes, he hadn’t completely crossed the line. They hadn’t made love all the way yet, but damn nearly had. The lines had blurred, and he was losing all sense of right and wrong. If he kept going with this affair, he was risking losing himself, and that scared Dougal more than he cared to admit.

  All the way back to the resort, his tangled mind gnawed on the dilemma. What should he do about Roxie? He didn’t find any answers, and in fact, as she got off the bus and he caught a whiff of her sensual scent, he felt his control unraveling all over again.

  Gerry met him as he walked into the lobby. “Canna speak with you a moment?”

  “What’s up?” Dougal asked, fearing that somehow Gerry had guessed his secret.

  “Step into my office.” Gerry led him down the corridor and when the door was closed behind them, he perched on the corner of his desk and said, “Somethin’ else ’as occurred.”

  “What happened?”

  “Someone beheaded the water sprinklers inna back garden,” Gerry explained.

  Okay, Dougal thought. Maybe this wasn’t connected. Cutting off sprinkler heads wasn’t in the same league as tampering with a plane or rigging a spotlight to fall. “When?”

  “I don’t know for certain. The sprinklers were workin’ last night, but the gardeners discovered the problem this mornin’ after you’d already left with the tour group. I thought about callin’ or textin’ ya, but it didn’t seem that big an issue. We’ve already bought new sprinkler heads and they’re bein’ replaced. Do ya think it could be the same person who tampered with the spotlight?”

  Dougal shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “It seems more like petty vandalism than sabotage. Maybe there’s no connection.”

  And maybe there is.

  “What about the security cameras?” Dougal asked.

  “There’s no camera inna back garden,” Gerry said, “but I’ve footage of the side gardens and the back patio area.”

  “Have you reviewed them?”

  “Ya.”

  “Anything alert your interest?”

  “Not really. But a guest was out strollin’ the gardens at 3 a.m.”

  “Can you cue up the tape for me?”

  “Sure.” Gerry went to his computer, typed on the keyboard and in a few moments camera surveillance of the side gardens popped into view. The gardens looked beautiful in the moonlight. After a couple of seconds a woman stepped from one of the cottages. She was too far away to make out her features, but then she came closer, moving over the cobblestone walkway through the flowers. She had her head down, sweater wrapped tightly around her.

  Then she looked up and the camera caught her face.

  Dougal’s stomach tightened.

  It was Roxie.

  ROXIE’S BODY STILL BURNED from the encounter she’d had with Dougal in the bell tower. The achy throb between her legs a sweet reminder of what they’d done. She was wild with wanting and couldn’t wait to have more delicious sexual adventures with him.

  And from now on, she wasn’t going anywhere without a condom.

  She dug through the gift basket left in her cottage, pulling out all the prophylactics and stuffing them in her purse. There was a sucker in the basket in the shape of a penis. Feeling giddy at the erotic whimsy, she laughed and opened the sucker and stuck it in her mouth.

  Mmm, cherry.

  She was humming to herself and licking her lollipop when the doorbell rang. When she looked through the peephole and saw it was Dougal, she tossed her sucker in the trash and flung open the door.

  “Hi,” she greeted him.

  “Hello,” he said, his voice subdued, his eyes somber. “Can we talk?”

  “Sure, sure.” She stood aside and waved him in. “Would you like something to drink? Water? Soda? Wine? Or I could make a pot of coffee.”

  “Water’s fine.”

  She took bottles of water from the well-stocked fridge and held one out to him. He sauntered closer, his masculinity assaulting her senses. Her breath caught and her chest rose, gently pulling against the nubby texture of her robe. His dark, enigmatic eyes snared hers and she felt time simultaneously contract and expand, creating a surreal sensation as if she’d stepped into the pages of a fairy-tale storybook.

  Their fingers touched in the transfer of the water bottle. It was barely discernible, the gentle brushing of his skin against hers and yet she felt it shoot straight to the center of her stomach.

  “Thanks.” He smiled, revealing white teeth that contrasted sexily with his tanned skin and the reddish highlights in his dark, well-trimmed beard, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Let’s sit down,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  He plunked down on the couch in the sitting area; Roxie perched on the chair opposite him.

  “Um, so what was it you wanted to discuss?” she ventured.

  He sat with his legs spread apart, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands—clasping the water bottle—dangling between his legs. He canted his head, met her gaze. “Is there anything that you want to tell me?”

  A ripple of apprehension ran over her. “Um…no. Why do you ask?”

  His eyes darkened. “Why did you really come on this tour alone?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? My date backed out on me at the last minute,” she lied, and immediately wondered why she’d done so. Normally she was a very honest person. Had spying on Eros for her boss already started her sliding down a slippery slope of sin?

  “You didn’t consider canceling your trip?”

  She raised her jaw. “Why should I?”

  “A lot of other women would have.”

  “I’m not like a lot of other women.”

  “I can see that.”

  “I needed an adventure.” That much was true. She hadn’t had a good adventure since, well…never.

  “So that was the only reason you came to England alone? No secret agenda?”

  His question caused her pulse to race. Why was he asking her that? Could he suspect what she was really doing here? Had she somehow inadvertently given herself away? Darn it, she’d told her boss she was wrong for this job.

  Dougal leaned in closer. Was it her imagination or was that a glint of something very sensual in his eyes? Was he—like she—thinking about what had happened in that bell tower?

  He did not look away. She wanted to drop her gaze, but she was afraid that he’d read something into it if she did—like guilt. Cool it. You’re going to give yourself away. “No other reason.”

  Damn! Her voice sounded too high, too reedy, too jumpy.

  “Just looking for adventure, huh?” He leaned back against the couch.

  “Yes.” What was he hinting at? “What’s this all about?”

  “About today…” He paused, futzing with the label on his water bottle and not meeting her eye.

  Omigosh, he was regretting it. Her cheeks flamed. Roxie gulped. “Yes?”

  “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way. You’re great. Better than great. You’re a really special woman. It’s just that I—”

  “I get it,” she interrupted, struggling to tamp down the dismay rising i
nside her and the feeling that she’d been a silly fool. “I’ve given men the brush-off before. The old ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ routine. Seriously, Dougal, don’t give it a second thought. I had fun, you had fun…” She shrugged like it was no big deal.

  “It’s that it’s so intense and moving so fast.

  “It’s bound to burn out just as quickly,” she finished for him.

  “So you feel the same way?” He looked so relieved she wanted to reach out and smack him.

  “Hey,” she said, feigning nonchalance, “I was up for a casual thing, but I understand your job prohibits it.”

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I shouldn’t have done what I did. It was wrong. I led you on.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “You did.”

  “But this thing between you and me.” He toggled his finger back and forth. “It simply can’t go any further.”

  She gulped, nodded, even though she longed to ask, “Why not?”

  “Will you accept my apology?”

  What could she say? She forced a smile. “Of course, but there’s no reason for you to apologize.”

  “Thank you, Roxie. You’re one class act.”

  Yeah? Well, what was she supposed to do about this unpleasant feeling mucking around inside her?

  “There’s one other thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe you should skip the tour for the next couple of days. Stay in Stratford, do some local sightseeing. Get a massage on the house. Hang out at the pool.”

  “You’re kicking me off the tour?” Something inside her shriveled.

  “No, no, it’s just that if we gave this thing a couple of days to cool down, maybe it wouldn’t be so difficult for either of us to resist temptation.”

  “Okay, sure, fine,” she rushed to assure him. She didn’t want Dougal Lockhart thinking she cared.

  He stood up and held out his hand, the same hand that had done very intimate things to her just hours before. “Friends?”

  She took his hand, shook it and lied. “Friends.”

  LEAVING HER COTTAGE feeling worse than when he’d arrived, Dougal went to his own living quarters. His plan had backfired. He’d gone to coax a confession out of Roxie, and instead he’d felt such overwhelming chemistry it had been all he could do to get out of there without ripping her clothes off and doing her on the rug, carpet burns be damned.

  He’d sat and looked at her and realized there was no way she could have decapitated those sprinkler heads or tampered with the spotlights or messed with the autopilot on the airplane. At least that’s what his gut was telling him.

  But his mind—his cautious, distrustful mind—was telling him he could not completely ignore the fact that Roxie had been in the gardens around the time the sprinklers had been vandalized. Plus, who was she really? She could have the technological know-how to sabotage the autopilot. Or she could be working with a skilled accomplice. It was flimsy evidence at best, and the only concrete thing he had to link her to any of the problems at the resort. By focusing on her, he was closing himself off to other possible suspects.

  His head wasn’t in the game. His brain was lust-glazed, his body consumed. He’d had to break the spell she’d woven over him and telling her that they could not take their relationship any further was a step in that direction. And he’d lied about being friends. There was no way he could just be friends with her.

  It had been a painful moment, but he’d made the right call. Besides, if she stayed behind at the resort for the next few days and something else happened, his doubts about her innocence would be solidified. Conversely, if nothing happened, it would go a long way in proving that his gut was right, that she wasn’t involved in any kind of subterfuge.

  Unless, whispered the doubting voice at the back of his head, she’s smart enough not to make a move when most of the other guests are away from the resort.

  Roxie’s not like that, argued his stubborn gut. She was honest and genuine and open-minded. She didn’t seem furtive at all.

  Except Dougal no longer knew if this was his gut that was talking. It could easily be his penis.

  Or even worse…his heart.

  9

  FOR THE NEXT FOUR DAYS, Roxie stayed at the resort. In between the spying and researching she did for Porter Langley, collecting a lot of information about the inner workings of Eros, taking photos, talking to employees and e-mailing updates to her boss, she did as Dougal suggested. She visited the Eros spa, got a manicure and a pedicure, a facial and a two-hour massage. She had to admit that after years of self-sacrifice and denial, it felt luxuriously decadent to pamper herself. But even as she did so, she couldn’t help feeling guilty for what she was doing. Not because it was illegal, but because it went against her moral code. She felt as if she was betraying Dougal—having a good time at his resort and essentially stabbing him in the back at the same time.

  She tried to forget everything by renting an inner tube and spending one whole day just floating around in the heated moat. Another day she walked into Stratford and took a self-guided tour of the town. Then on Friday, she went shopping, buying souvenirs for Stacy and her friends. That same afternoon, she’d explored the grounds of the castle and she discovered a replica of a medieval torture chamber in the dungeon that she found both exciting and disturbing. But no matter what she was doing or what she found to occupy herself, Dougal was never far from her mind.

  Constant fantasies bombarded her and more than once, she took respite in the bathtub, filling it with hot water and scented bath beads, leaning back against the cool porcelain and rubbing herself in all the right places with a nubby washrag. It had given her some physical relief, but her mental torture kept building. Why on earth couldn’t she stop thinking about that man?

  It’s because he never finished what he started, she rationalized.

  On Saturday, Eros was throwing a Lord Byron-themed Regency ball. The slogan was Mad, Bad and Dangerous to Know, the reigning color scheme lavender and gold. Guests were encouraged to dress in the garb of their favorite Regency-era character and wear provocative masks. Roxie was excited about attending and seeing Dougal again. It would be interesting to learn if time apart had dampened their enthusiasm for each other or whetted it.

  Roxie dressed in a floor-length gown, which according to the lady at the checkout kiosk of the costume room was exactly like something Jane Austen would have worn to a party of this caliber. “You’ll be the spitting image of Elizabeth Bennet,” the woman had assured her. Roxie had also picked out a purple sequined mask that matched the violet wood sorrels on the print of her dress. When she put it on, she had to admit she felt utterly bewitched.

  Guests packed the ballroom dressed as Jane Austen, Beau Brummell, the first Duke of Wellington, Lady Caroline Lamb, Princess Lieven, Walter Scott, William Wordsworth and many other colorful historical figures. There were also dozens of Elizabeth Bennets and Mr. Darcys, but that was to be expected.

  Roxie made note of the attention to detail Taylor Corben lavished on the event. From the romantic decor to the lyrical music to the lavish buffet, everything was impeccable. The romantic atmosphere swept everyone back in time to that manners-driven era sandwiched between the Georgian and Victorian periods. Darn if she didn’t feel as though she’d stepped into an 1813 drawing room.

  She arrived at the party at the same time Sam and Jess did, but immediately after entering the grand ballroom, her gaze skimmed over the gathering. After several minutes, she thought she spied Dougal in the corner with his back to her talking to one of the staff members, but then he turned, and the man was beardless. Still, how many men possessed shoulders like his?

  He looked up and from behind his exotic black mask, his eyes met hers and she had no more doubts. It was Dougal after all, looking for all the world like Mr. Darcy himself in his period attire.

  Her heart tripped.

  She missed the skintight leather Shakespeare in Love pants, but he did look just as fine in riding breeche
s and his clean-shaven jaw. The sight of his unadorned face took her breath away. His chin was firmer, larger than she’d imagined. The difference in his appearance heightened her awareness.

  And her arousal.

  He stalked across the ballroom toward her.

  Fear and longing did a tandem tango through Roxie’s body, pounding her heart, bubbling her blood, setting little firestorms up and down her nerve endings. Her muscles tensed and her knees weakened.

  “Hi,” he said, drawing near.

  “Hi,” she answered, sounding all girlish and breathy.

  Even in the Regency finery, everything about him was rugged, all male. He had the kind of masculinity that couldn’t be defined by clothing or facial hair. His nails were clipped short, but not manicured. His palms were calloused. Old scars crisscrossed the back of his knuckles as if he’d had to punch his way out of more than a few arguments. He had a flinty-eyed, old-fashioned-movie-lawman aura about him beneath the Mr. Darcy facade.

  She didn’t know what to say to him after not having spoken to him for four days, so she just gave him a coy smile and ducked her head.

  “Would you like to dance?” he asked.

  “Wouldn’t that be breaking the rules?”

  “It’s a party. I’m expected to mingle with the guests.”

  “Ah, so that’s it.”

  “You’re going to make me beg, aren’t you?” He smiled.

  “You did dump me.”

  “Alas, to my regret.”

  “Are you admitting it was a mistake?” She could not stop a thrill of excitement from zipping through her.

  “I am.” He bowed, held out his hand. “Pray, Miss Bennet, a dance?”

  Oh, he’d already figured out her weakness. The bastard.

  “I do not know this dance.”

  “I shall teach you.”

  “Pray, dear sir, do you honestly wish to suffer trampled toes?”

  “My toes are my own concern, dear lady. I suspect your hesitation has less to do with your dancing skills and more to do with your fear of my proximity.”