Seduction in Mind Read Free Page B

Hattie's will care."
    "True," Eddie muttered, heaving himself up from the leather-covered couch. "But don't do that to me again. It scares the hell out of me."
    Sam was shrugging into his jacket. "Do what?"
    "Change the pattern of our dissolute lives. If you can be touched by cupid's arrow, then no man's safe. And that's bloody frightening."
    "Rest assured that after Penelope, I'm forever immune to cupid's arrow," Sam drawled. "Marriage doesn't suit me. As for love—I haven't a clue."
    "I'll drink to that," Eddie toasted, snatching up the brandy bottle as Sam moved toward the door.
     
    But by chance, their route took them past the studio of Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema, an artist as celebrated as Leighton, and a small carriage parked at the curb caught Sam's eye. He recognized it from Leighton's. Knocking for his driver to stop, he turned to Eddie. "I'll meet you at Hattie's in a few minutes."
    "Why are you getting out here?"
    "I need some air."
    "Why?"
    Sam was already swinging down from his carriage. "No special reason," he said, pushing the door shut. "I'll see you in ten minutes." Glancing up, he gave instructions to his driver.
    "You're sure now?" Eddie looked perplexed.
    "You'll be entertained at Hattie's with or without me, but I should be there shortly."
    "You're acting very strangely tonight."
    "You're drunk," Sam replied pleasantly, and nodded to his driver.
    The carriage pulled away.
    ----
Chapter Four

     
    But Eddie was right, Sam realized as he stood on the curb before the commanding entrance to Alma-Tadema's pseudo-Pompeian palace. He was strangely out of sorts tonight, or curiously ruminative, or, more precisely, in rut for the tantalizing little bitch who had turned him down that afternoon. And he wondered for a moment if his vanity was involved, if he wanted her simply because she'd said no.
    But he wasn't so crass, nor was he vain. Although he had no explanation for his motivation other than lust. Or none he could comfortably accept. So lust it was that made him stop—and propelled him toward the door.
    Alma-Tadema was feted in society; they'd met before, but Sam had never crossed the threshold of his home. Taking note of the dearth of other carriages, he wondered if the artist's wife was out of town and he might be intruding on a tête-à-tête. His consideration was fleeting, however. He really didn't care.
    Unconsciously straightening his cravat, he walked to the huge double doors, lifted the polished brass lion's-head knocker, and let it drop.
    A young servant girl came to the door. No one so pretentious as Leighton's Kemp was there to greet Alma-Tadema's guests. Her curtsy was unpolished, her face scrubbed and rosy, and Sam decided that in spite of his wealth, Sir Lawrence was considerably more natural a man than the head of the Royal Academy.
    He asked to see her master, and when the maid inquired whom she should say was calling, Sam said, "If you don't mind, I'd like to surprise him." Offering her a warm smile, he placed a twenty-pound note on her palm, winked, and added, "Miss Ionides and I are friends."
    She didn't hesitate; the sum represented several months' salary. "Right up the stairs, sir, and turn to your left," she directed, taking the hat and gloves Sam handed her. "His studio be those double doors at the end of the hall."
    When Sam reached the doors, one of them was ajar, revealing a portion of the studio and a fascinating view that brought his erection surging to life. A golden twilight bathed the room, gilding the naked flesh of the woman who had consumed his thoughts. Miss Ionides was languorously disposed on a large sable rug that was draped over a running course of marble plinths. The backdrop represented the partial ruins of a Roman temple—Alma-Tadema's speciality in history painting, as was his virtuoso depiction of female flesh. An alabaster bowl of white lilies at the lady's feet was no doubt meant to be metaphorical, or perhaps paradoxical, because this was no innocent maiden