Waterlocked
Page 11
“I speak it. That’s all that’s important. Você não acha?”
He’d forced a smile out of her. “Your Portuguese is rather nice, though.”
“That’s because I like the language more.”
She shook her head and little and tasted the fish. “It’s not always about indulging your own wishes, Terry. France is an important trading partner and if we’re going to continue to cultivate Jean Desmarais as an ally—”
“It’s all about indulging myself on my honeymoon. How’s the fish? Caught it earlier. Thought it might go well with those figs and the new wine.”
“Excellent.” She set her fork down and just looked at him.
“What?”
“You never cook at home.”
“We employ a cook at home. And I’m very busy.” He squirmed a little under her unwavering gaze. “So?”
“You’re a very good cook.”
“I have to be. Someday, I might not be able to afford domestic help, and I have a very demanding wife.”
“That’s so likely, husband.”
Mercy, he wanted to take her on the table right then. He loved calling her his wife. Loved it almost as much as the little curl her lip made when she heard the word. He was such a contrary ass sometimes.
She was still examining him. “We do have an excellent cook at home.”
“We do.”
“Whom you hired yourself.”
He narrowed his eyes. What was she getting at? “Yes…”
She grabbed him and pulled him over the table, licking up the side of his neck as Terry shivered. Then Gemma whispered in his ear, “You, Terrance Ramsay, are…”
Fuck, he knew she could hear his heart pounding. “I’m what?”
She bit his earlobe. “A snob.”
Gemma pushed him away before he could grab her. “I am not!”
She laughed. What had gotten into her? Whatever it was, he liked it. He tried to quash the smile that threatened his lips.
“You are,” she said. “You’re a food snob, aren’t you?”
“Not a snob. I just like good food.”
“Oh really? Because I saw the face you made at that dinner with the German club owners—” Terry couldn’t stop the wince. The beef had been dry to the point of jerky. And they should never have served that wine with dinner.
“Ha!” Gemma crowed. “I thought it was the company, but it wasn’t. It was the food!”
“It was the company, too.”
She took another bite of the fish. “You’re a food snob. How very aristocratic of you, Terrance.”
“It’s not snobbish to dislike over-spiced roast which tasted as if it had been run over with—” Gemma burst into laughter. “What do you know? You hardly eat anything.”
“I think it’s rather adorable. Do you have an apron? Watch the cooking programs while I’m out of the house?”
Forget the food. He threw his napkin down and stood, but she beat him to her feet and darted into the cabin. So they were playing that game? Terry’s blood sang. He loved a chase, and in the enclosed space, neither one of them could hide for long.
I love you. I want you. Be mine. I want you to be mine.
“Gemma,” he called tauntingly. “I can smell you, luv.”
She darted by, scratching one nail along his neck and whispering, “I can smell you, too.” Then she sped outside.
His fangs lowered at the quick bite of pain. He wanted her to latch onto it and suck. He wanted the bite of her fangs in his skin as she drank and licked and… The growl ripped from his throat when he caught her scent on the breeze and his eyes turned toward the bow. There. A white finger curled over the rail. She was hanging over the port side. He stripped off the loose pants he’d been wearing and slipped silently into the water, moving around the boat until he was right under her, then Terry leapt up and grabbed her legs, pulling her into the sea.
She fought him, twisting in the black water until the bubbles churned around them both, fighting up toward the surface, but he pulled her back down with a laugh. Her heart was thumping, and her amnis…
Suddenly Terry stilled. She continued to fight him, slashing her nails toward his throat and trying to fight out of his grip.
She was frightened.
He spun her around in his arms and shouted, “Gemma!” as loud as he could under the water. His amnis reached out and enfolded her body, which was stiff as a board. She clutched at his neck with wide eyes.
“You’re fine,” he said again, the last of the air leaving his lungs as he continued to try to sooth her. I have you, he mouthed. I have you.
Why was she frightened? She could stay underwater for hours, if she wanted. Hadn’t she ever tried it? Surely, at some point…
Gemma was frozen in his arms, wrapped in his power and slowly coming out of the unexpected panic. He swam toward the small trap door on the hull, pressing the hidden buttons that would release the catch, then he pulled her in and held her against him as he waited for the hatch to close behind him and the water to drain. When it did, he released the second set of doors, dragging a silent Gemma into the cozy paneled chamber that took the place of the stateroom.
“Gemma?” He grabbed a towel and stripped her clothes off. He was cold, dammit. His skin usually matched the temperature of the air around him, which meant at the moment it was as cool as the water they’d been swimming in. It would take a while for his amnis to warm his body up. “Gemma?”
He’d forced a smile out of her. “Your Portuguese is rather nice, though.”
“That’s because I like the language more.”
She shook her head and little and tasted the fish. “It’s not always about indulging your own wishes, Terry. France is an important trading partner and if we’re going to continue to cultivate Jean Desmarais as an ally—”
“It’s all about indulging myself on my honeymoon. How’s the fish? Caught it earlier. Thought it might go well with those figs and the new wine.”
“Excellent.” She set her fork down and just looked at him.
“What?”
“You never cook at home.”
“We employ a cook at home. And I’m very busy.” He squirmed a little under her unwavering gaze. “So?”
“You’re a very good cook.”
“I have to be. Someday, I might not be able to afford domestic help, and I have a very demanding wife.”
“That’s so likely, husband.”
Mercy, he wanted to take her on the table right then. He loved calling her his wife. Loved it almost as much as the little curl her lip made when she heard the word. He was such a contrary ass sometimes.
She was still examining him. “We do have an excellent cook at home.”
“We do.”
“Whom you hired yourself.”
He narrowed his eyes. What was she getting at? “Yes…”
She grabbed him and pulled him over the table, licking up the side of his neck as Terry shivered. Then Gemma whispered in his ear, “You, Terrance Ramsay, are…”
Fuck, he knew she could hear his heart pounding. “I’m what?”
She bit his earlobe. “A snob.”
Gemma pushed him away before he could grab her. “I am not!”
She laughed. What had gotten into her? Whatever it was, he liked it. He tried to quash the smile that threatened his lips.
“You are,” she said. “You’re a food snob, aren’t you?”
“Not a snob. I just like good food.”
“Oh really? Because I saw the face you made at that dinner with the German club owners—” Terry couldn’t stop the wince. The beef had been dry to the point of jerky. And they should never have served that wine with dinner.
“Ha!” Gemma crowed. “I thought it was the company, but it wasn’t. It was the food!”
“It was the company, too.”
She took another bite of the fish. “You’re a food snob. How very aristocratic of you, Terrance.”
“It’s not snobbish to dislike over-spiced roast which tasted as if it had been run over with—” Gemma burst into laughter. “What do you know? You hardly eat anything.”
“I think it’s rather adorable. Do you have an apron? Watch the cooking programs while I’m out of the house?”
Forget the food. He threw his napkin down and stood, but she beat him to her feet and darted into the cabin. So they were playing that game? Terry’s blood sang. He loved a chase, and in the enclosed space, neither one of them could hide for long.
I love you. I want you. Be mine. I want you to be mine.
“Gemma,” he called tauntingly. “I can smell you, luv.”
She darted by, scratching one nail along his neck and whispering, “I can smell you, too.” Then she sped outside.
His fangs lowered at the quick bite of pain. He wanted her to latch onto it and suck. He wanted the bite of her fangs in his skin as she drank and licked and… The growl ripped from his throat when he caught her scent on the breeze and his eyes turned toward the bow. There. A white finger curled over the rail. She was hanging over the port side. He stripped off the loose pants he’d been wearing and slipped silently into the water, moving around the boat until he was right under her, then Terry leapt up and grabbed her legs, pulling her into the sea.
She fought him, twisting in the black water until the bubbles churned around them both, fighting up toward the surface, but he pulled her back down with a laugh. Her heart was thumping, and her amnis…
Suddenly Terry stilled. She continued to fight him, slashing her nails toward his throat and trying to fight out of his grip.
She was frightened.
He spun her around in his arms and shouted, “Gemma!” as loud as he could under the water. His amnis reached out and enfolded her body, which was stiff as a board. She clutched at his neck with wide eyes.
“You’re fine,” he said again, the last of the air leaving his lungs as he continued to try to sooth her. I have you, he mouthed. I have you.
Why was she frightened? She could stay underwater for hours, if she wanted. Hadn’t she ever tried it? Surely, at some point…
Gemma was frozen in his arms, wrapped in his power and slowly coming out of the unexpected panic. He swam toward the small trap door on the hull, pressing the hidden buttons that would release the catch, then he pulled her in and held her against him as he waited for the hatch to close behind him and the water to drain. When it did, he released the second set of doors, dragging a silent Gemma into the cozy paneled chamber that took the place of the stateroom.
“Gemma?” He grabbed a towel and stripped her clothes off. He was cold, dammit. His skin usually matched the temperature of the air around him, which meant at the moment it was as cool as the water they’d been swimming in. It would take a while for his amnis to warm his body up. “Gemma?”
