Read By The Sea, Book Four: The Heirs for Free Online Page B

enthralled to him in the first place: because
Alan Seton had a magician's touch. After their first night together
he had known exactly what she wanted, how much she wanted, where
she wanted it. She hadn't even been a challenge for him.
    Now he slid his hand through her hair,
rubbing the cool, damp thickness into the back of her neck with
warm, firm fingertips. "Alan, don't," she said, closing her eyes.
"You know it won't work." But it was working, and quickly
too.
    She must break off the contact; then the
spell would be broken too.
    "I'll make it up to you when this is over,
Cindy; I will," he said on a sigh. He slid his hand from the back
of her neck, along the line of her shoulder, and down, inside her
soft robe, over the front of her breast.
    The convulsive events of the last few hours
had whipped Cindy's senses to fever pitch, and her moan—almost a
sob—said that the fever was about to break. "Oh, God,
Alan— stop it."
    "Stop? And yet you say I don't pay enough
attention to you," he said. His voice was low, seductive, and
completely unnerving.
    She stood up, breaking the allure of his
voice, of his touch. "Not tonight," she said firmly.
    His blue-gray eyes held her in a look of
curious appraisal. "It's been more than a month, Cindy."
    "That long? It doesn't seem like it." And
why should it? She'd been making love nearly every day during that
month. "Time flies when you're having fun, I guess," she added,
aware of the irony in her remark.
    Did he know? He had certainly suspected, she
knew that much. Again he looked at her, hard, and this time it was
clear that he knew there was someone else.
    He snorted. "You know what? Your loss," he
said briefly. He turned and walked out of the room without looking
back.
    For a moment Cindy was too taken aback to
respond. He'd never walked out on her before. She knew why, of
course: guilt, because he had been spending so much time ignoring
his marriage to chase the Cup. But that was then.
    "Goodbye, Alan," Cindy murmured to the empty
room. "Goodbye and good luck."
    Four years of her life down the drain. A
tear, the first of the night, rolled down her high fine cheekbone,
but Cindy wiped it away; it was hardly the time for regrets. No,
she told herself, she would not miss Alan. And certainly not anyone
else connected with the Shadow campaign.
    But how sad never again to see the
beautiful, colorful characters in the stained-glass panels. For the
last time she gazed at her favorite. For the last time she tried to
fathom the mystery of the woman in the flowing blue gown, her arms
outstretched toward the next panel. Who was the tall young man with
shoulder-length hair in the adjacent panel? In his simple robe, he
made it impossible to tell. Why did he have one hand on his breast
and the other raised, palm forward, toward the woman? Was the
maiden fleeing from the serpentine creatures and gargoyles in the
panel on the other side of her? Reaching out for the man's blessing
or guidance? Since the room once had been a chapel, he was probably
a holy man. But Cindy had always chosen to believe that he was
Lancelot, warning Guinevere not to follow him. But Guinevere loved
him desperately and would do anything to be with him. Anything.
    The clock on the bed stand told her that it
was three a.m.—time to pack. Cindy locked her door, and from under
the massive four-poster she pulled a soft dark blue duffle bag.
She'd spent part of the last few weeks in an intense and
comprehensive shopping spree, and the fruits of her effort lay
neatly folded, still with price tags attached, in two drawers of
the armoire: a whimsical but undeniably chic selection of travel
wear.
    Unfortunately the circumstances had forced
Cindy to shop exclusively among the ready-to-wear lines. Once they
got to Europe she would have plenty of opportunity to replenish her
wardrobe from among her favorite couturiers. For now she tried to
stay brutally practical, stuffing her bag with American designers:
a plain little skirt and