Midnight Harvest Read Free Page B

Pharaoh on her nightstand—she called him Rameses, but Saint-Germain read his name in the cartouche as Khafre—as well as golden hieroglyphic motifs in her wallpaper. “It isn’t just that siesta won’t last forever: I have to attend a reception at the British Consul’s residence this evening, and I’ll need two hours to get ready. It’s very formal—white-tie.” She continued to watch him. “Will I see you there?”
    “Very likely,” said Saint-Germain. “But probably not until midnight; I doubt I’ll appear at the beginning of the evening.”
    “You aren’t going to attend the dinner, then, just the concert to follow,” she said shrewdly; at thirty-two she considered herself very much a woman of the world, and in the last two months had become accustomed to Saint-Germain’s eccentricities. “You don’t like to have to avoid the food.”
    “A sad necessity, hermosa, or at least an exercise in forethought; you know how awkward it can be to have to account for such quirks,” he said as he came back to the bed. “In any case, I prefer not to draw anyone’s attention to it.”
    “It’s probably for the best, though I would truly welcome your escort.” She sighed, wrapping a stray tendril of hair around her finger. “I would be the envy of half the women there, I daresay, but I don’t want tongues to wag about us.”
    “Nor I,” he said, knowing his reticence was for vastly different reasons than hers. “So we must continue to be circumspect. And not simply because I do not dine as most others do.” He sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over her, kissing her deeply and slowly, feeling her desire reawaken as her lips parted.
    “Ah, Comte,” she whispered as he stretched out beside her. “I am so glad you have decided to spend this time with me, no matter how brief it may be. It is little enough to brighten my life. But if Ponce,” she went on, making a moue of distaste at her husband’s name, “insists on remaining in l’Argentina for years on end with that German mistress of his, he cannot expect me to pursue a nun’s existence.” She slipped her hand into his hair. “Not that Ponce ever treated me so well as you have done:”
    “I have done nothing that would compromise you,” he reminded her as his lips grazed the rise of her small, pointed breasts.
    “I don’t think Ponce would agree,” she said with a quick, delicious smile. “If the well-born ladies and gentlemen of Cádiz knew what you and I have been doing with our Friday afternoons, they would be shocked, and scandal would follow. I have no liking for being an object of defamation.” She ran one finger along the edge of his jaw. “But at least you have done nothing that would truly disgrace me. Or endanger my marriage. What a perfect lover you are, Comte: attentive, insouciant, and incapable of impregnating me. And so very discreet—if there are rumors, I can still deny them believably.”
    “No, I would not put you in any danger that can be avoided. Nor would I expose you to ostracism, if I could prevent it,” he promised her as he did something quite wonderful to her nipples.
    She sighed again, luxuriously, and arched her back. “That’s … that’s … keep doing that,” she murmured.
    He obeyed, and slowly began to work his way down her body, his touch finding new sources of arousal as he went. When he discovered some especially intense response, he lingered, expanding on her excitement until she was almost shivering with anticipation. He parted her legs and caressed the soft folds that were already moist.
    “Not yet. Not yet,” she said, her hands in his hair. “Make it last longer.” She drew his head down to kiss his mouth, releasing him slowly.
    “Very well,” he said, and slowly worked his way up her body, still learning new ways to excite her. “If this is what you want.”
    Her smile was subtly feline, deeply satisfied. “Most lovers would be vexed with me,” she said softly as he kissed