Read Online The Gilded Cuff by Lauren Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lauren Smith
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phantom of the past, a gentleman whisking his lady toward a distant bedchamber. Sophie was only too eager for his seduction, but everything around her was a distraction. There were statues and art in odd places. She couldn’t help stopping in front of carved marble figures or running her fingertips over the glossy polished wood of what had to be priceless antiques. After she paused for the tenth time, Emery sighed.
“What is all of this?” Sophie stood transfixed by a marble figure of Poseidon that was tucked into a corner.
“Over the years I’ve collected and rescued many pieces from original houses built in the first half of the last century on the island.”
“Why?” Sophie turned her face up to his.
He was silent for a long moment, his gaze crossing the expanse of years. “Back before the Depression, this coast was covered with castles and palaces. American fortunes were lavishly spent on homes that rivaled those of the European royals. But after the Depression and every decade since, those same houses have slowly decayed, been destroyed, sold. Just last year some developer beat me out in an auction. He bought one of the houses four miles from here.” Emery’s eyes sharpened, the lines of his face tightening as he popped his jaw. “He bulldozed the whole place and built some cheap condominiums. Americans have never respected history.” Emery spat the last few words. Irritation tinged with a hint of despair consumed his hazel eyes.
How true it was. Too many landmarks, too many places with history had been destroyed in the wake of American growth.
Emery tightened his grip on her hand. “I’ve devoted much time and personal resources to preserving any land I can and I rescue everything possible from demolition sites and bring it here.”
Shock rippled through her at the thought of this man hunting for bits of Americana, that he could care so much for the broken dreams of a golden age long past. Her heart clenched tight. He was unlike anything she’d expected. He was haunted, yes; tortured, yes. But whatever hold his past had on him, he seemed determined to protect it. Like a king in a bewitched land where time could never move forward and he never aged. There was something sad and beautiful in seeing this about him. She couldn’t help but wonder if he thought his preservation of the past in some way preserved his brother, too.
“It seems like you’re a romantic, Emery.” She gripped his hand tighter, squeezing his palm.
His hands suddenly curled around her arms, shaking her a little. Fine lines around his eyes creased as his gaze hardened.
“Never mistake me for a romantic, Sophie. Especially not when I am fighting off the desire to bend you over my bed, naked and open for my possession. I’ve done nothing but devise a thousand ways in which I’d like to take you, restrain you, own you. Does that sound romantic to you?”
Sophie’s mouth went dry. Rather than be repulsed, his words shot fire straight to her womb, and she blinked slowly, barely able to move.
“Any more of those delightful little hungry looks of yours, and I’ll forget the bed and take you against the wall right here,” he warned.
“Promises, promises,” she muttered, inwardly amused she could find air to breathe. At twenty-four years old she’d never been all that interested in sex, had actually dreaded intimacy of any kind. Yet, here she was panting like a cat in heat after a stranger, wanting him to make love to her until she forgot her name, until her legs gave out and her vision hazed.
I’m shameless, completely shameless and I don’t even care.
Was it possible to go from prude to wanton in a mere hour? Apparently it was.
She eyed Emery with open hunger, the way his dark suit molded to his muscles and clung to him as he moved. He was like a leopard: sleek, graceful, powerful. He could corrupt a legion of the purest angels, have them tearing their wings from their backs and throwing themselves prostrate at his
“What is all of this?” Sophie stood transfixed by a marble figure of Poseidon that was tucked into a corner.
“Over the years I’ve collected and rescued many pieces from original houses built in the first half of the last century on the island.”
“Why?” Sophie turned her face up to his.
He was silent for a long moment, his gaze crossing the expanse of years. “Back before the Depression, this coast was covered with castles and palaces. American fortunes were lavishly spent on homes that rivaled those of the European royals. But after the Depression and every decade since, those same houses have slowly decayed, been destroyed, sold. Just last year some developer beat me out in an auction. He bought one of the houses four miles from here.” Emery’s eyes sharpened, the lines of his face tightening as he popped his jaw. “He bulldozed the whole place and built some cheap condominiums. Americans have never respected history.” Emery spat the last few words. Irritation tinged with a hint of despair consumed his hazel eyes.
How true it was. Too many landmarks, too many places with history had been destroyed in the wake of American growth.
Emery tightened his grip on her hand. “I’ve devoted much time and personal resources to preserving any land I can and I rescue everything possible from demolition sites and bring it here.”
Shock rippled through her at the thought of this man hunting for bits of Americana, that he could care so much for the broken dreams of a golden age long past. Her heart clenched tight. He was unlike anything she’d expected. He was haunted, yes; tortured, yes. But whatever hold his past had on him, he seemed determined to protect it. Like a king in a bewitched land where time could never move forward and he never aged. There was something sad and beautiful in seeing this about him. She couldn’t help but wonder if he thought his preservation of the past in some way preserved his brother, too.
“It seems like you’re a romantic, Emery.” She gripped his hand tighter, squeezing his palm.
His hands suddenly curled around her arms, shaking her a little. Fine lines around his eyes creased as his gaze hardened.
“Never mistake me for a romantic, Sophie. Especially not when I am fighting off the desire to bend you over my bed, naked and open for my possession. I’ve done nothing but devise a thousand ways in which I’d like to take you, restrain you, own you. Does that sound romantic to you?”
Sophie’s mouth went dry. Rather than be repulsed, his words shot fire straight to her womb, and she blinked slowly, barely able to move.
“Any more of those delightful little hungry looks of yours, and I’ll forget the bed and take you against the wall right here,” he warned.
“Promises, promises,” she muttered, inwardly amused she could find air to breathe. At twenty-four years old she’d never been all that interested in sex, had actually dreaded intimacy of any kind. Yet, here she was panting like a cat in heat after a stranger, wanting him to make love to her until she forgot her name, until her legs gave out and her vision hazed.
I’m shameless, completely shameless and I don’t even care.
Was it possible to go from prude to wanton in a mere hour? Apparently it was.
She eyed Emery with open hunger, the way his dark suit molded to his muscles and clung to him as he moved. He was like a leopard: sleek, graceful, powerful. He could corrupt a legion of the purest angels, have them tearing their wings from their backs and throwing themselves prostrate at his
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