Sensuous Burgundy Page 4

  “You’re kidding!” Laura’s gaze narrowed dubiously.

  “Nope.” He shook his dark head, a thatch of hair lowering onto his forehead. Fighting the uncanny impulse to comb it back with her fingers, she clutched at her coffee cup. “For generations my family has worked exclusively in the family business. We manufacture paper products,” he explained, his face taking on a soft, faraway look.

  “You said you were born in New York. Is that where your family lives?”

  He hesitated. In that instant, Laura wondered whether he regretted opening up to her. It was a victory when he spoke, apparently resolving any qualms in her favor.

  “Yes. They live, for the most part, in Westchester—my parents, two brothers and a sister, and their assorted families.”

  “What are their reactions to your work?” Again Laura saw an unsureness cloud his gaze. This time, however, he was merely seeking the best way to express his answer.

  “You have to understand,” he began, his brown eyes fixed intensively on her own glittering blue, “that they did not wish me to become a lawyer.” He went on quickly, nipping Laura’s perplexity in the bud. “Lawyers were traditionally employees in the family business, rather than family itself.”

  “But the type of law you practice is a world away from that!”

  “You know that and I know that,” he sighed, “but my family saw it differently for quite some time.”

  “And now?” Her eyebrows lifted expectantly.

  Max smiled in that relaxed, self-assured way that made his words superfluous. “Now they know it too. It’s taken a long time, but they have come around. At least that was the impression I got when my father asked me to autograph his copy of Eleventh-Street Defense,” he added playfully. Something in his tone suggested the ability to keep his own success well within perspective. Laura liked that; and, to her subsequent chagrin, she told him so.

  “It’s refreshing to find someone who is not so hung up on his own ego that he can’t laugh at himself.” The flames that flared in Max’s eyes suddenly took on that more dangerous context that Laura found so disturbing.

  “Go out with me tomorrow night, Laura?” He hadn’t laid a finger on her, yet those compelling eyes hooked her once again. One part of her would have welcomed a continuation of discussions similar to those they’d begun on this evening, but her answer had to remain the same. Wordlessly, she shook her head.

  Then, far from the devastating attempts at persuasion she had expected, she found her hand grasped quickly and firmly. “Then at least dance with me once tonight.” It was a statement, rather than an invitation, and before Laura had a chance to demur, she was drawn out of her seat and into step alongside Max. His hand was warm and strong about hers, a delightful sensation, had her pride not been faintly bruised by his bold behavior.

  “And if I refuse?” She tested him, raising her voice as they approached the ever-growing crescendo of music in the crowded ballroom.

  He stopped abruptly and looked her daringly in the eye. “Then I’ll pick you up and carry you, screaming and yelling, if need be, to the center of the dance floor. And you wouldn’t like that very much, would you, Madame Prosecutor? Wouldn’t do much for your image, hmm?” He teased, half-playful, half-warning. Reading the acquiescence in her eyes while ignoring the anger lurking in their depths, he resumed his course until they arrived in a relatively less-congested area, where he swung her gently around into the circle of his arms. Any anger which had loomed moments earlier vanished in that first instant as he deftly brought her willowy frame into contact with his long, firm one, one hand clasping hers against his lapel, the other guiding her protectively, its weight feather light but ever felt as it roamed her back. In perfect syncopation they rocked easily in time to the slow tune. A versatile dancer, Laura secretly preferred the closeness of this more traditional dance, where both partners could exalt in each other as well as in the music. And in this particular situation, she did exalt in her partner, as together they enjoyed the gentle beat.

  Her body melted against his, her free hand creeping recklessly to his neck, where her fingers rested in his hair. Her head nestled comfortably at his collarbone, his chin caressing the soft tendrils of hair at her temple. The closeness was a drug, lulling her toward divine euphoria. Eyes closed, she followed his lead, her legs moving responsively to his, aware of the hardness of his thigh, the strength of his torso, the breadth of the chest against which she had so happily dissolved.

  Echoing her thoughts, Max uttered a faintly sensuous “Mmmmm,” before wrapping her even more tightly in his embrace and whirling her around in a spurt of movement, then settling once more to the hypnotic pace of the dance. Laura was aware of the touch of his lips against her forehead, a delicious sensation she had no wish to disturb.

  She was conscious of the clean, masculine smell that had embedded itself on her memory and became one more item on the growing list of enticements the man held. Her hand was released to rest against his chest, allowing him the freedom of both hands to sensuously mold her body to the contours of his. From deep within Laura realized a sense of fulfillment at the closeness, though her mind was too befuddled by it to ponder either its cause or its meaning.

  The final chords of the music came as a disturbing jolt, bringing Laura reluctantly back to the world of reason. When she would have stepped from the supporting warmth of Max’s body, however, she found herself within a steel-banded prison, held at his whim. She tilted her head back and looked into the eyes which gazed so softly down at her. Neither of them had spoken since they had taken to the dance floor. There had been a higher form of communication in use, making words unnecessary. Both knew this, as they continued to gaze at one another.

  “You’re a very dangerous man, Maxwell Kraig,” she finally said, more breathlessly than she had expected.

  “Would you care to elaborate on that?” he challenged softly, his breath fanning her face intimately.

  Impishly, she shook her head. “No way. I…think that I’d better find my father now.” It was the last thing she wanted to do, the first thing being to stay in the delightfully heady haven that Max had built for her. Yet she was, indeed, on dangerous ground. Unfortunately, though, she needed Max’s permission to leave, so strongly did his arms hold her. And he had something else in mind.

  “Come here,” he ordered, raising one arm up to span the curve of her shoulders as he turned to walk beside her to a far corner. The lights had begun to flicker wildly as the band launched into a hearty disco beat.

  “Where are you taking me?” she yelled above the outpouring of sound, the uproar behind them masking the trepidation in her voice.

  Max lowered his dark head to her ear. “I want to show you something.” They had reached a wide column, one of four in each of the corners of the room. Before she realized what was happening, Laura found herself backed against its dark side, the world obliterated from her view by the tall hulk of the man in front of her.

  “Max—” Her words of protest were stilled by his mouth, swooping down to capture hers with infinite precision. She resisted at first, squirming to extricate herself, only to find his body more fully against hers, imprisoning her in a web of growing arousal. The hands which had briefly pushed against his chest now splayed across it, crushed against him, yet tingling with the contact.

  Hungrily, his lips devoured hers, stoking her own appetite until her response was as demanding. If later she was dismayed by the magnitude of her own need, her only consolation was in the knowledge that his was as great. For now, however, her only thought was of the new and exciting feelings, somehow less frightening than they had once been, that the man evoked in her.

  With a ragged moan he pulled her away from the column to wind his arms around her slimness. She gasped helplessly as his fingertips brushed her breasts, then ran one hand over his shoulder to weave its fingers into the hair at his nape, subconsciously giving him even greater access to that most sensitive breast.

  Suddenly, he drew his
head back to look into her eyes. The smoldering flame she saw in his startled her into the awareness of where they were and…who they were. Sensing her thoughts, he released her slowly, taking a deep and unsteady breath as he did so. As relieved as Laura was, something within her cried at the sudden loss.

  “You are a very dangerous woman, Laura Grandine,” Max crooned huskily, as his gaze continued to hold hers.

  She struggled to regain her balance. “Was that what you wanted to show me?” she mocked. Her tremulous whisper took all sarcasm from her words.

  One side of his mouth quirked fiendishly. “Among other things.” Laura did not have to ask about those other things. She had felt them all too clearly and knew that she would spend long hours remembering them…and trying not to remember them.

  “I’d really better get back.” She tried again, not trusting herself to withstand much more of his charm. Perhaps, she mused, he was right. There was something dangerous within her, something which Maxwell Kraig had been the only man ever to unleash. She had, over the years, had her share of male company and manly kisses. Yet never before had she been affected like this.

  Lightly fingering a loose tendril of hair by her cheek, Max looked at her lips, still warm and moist from his kiss. “You’re right. Daddy will be looking for his little girl and…I do have a date around here somewhere.” It was an exaggerated sigh that mocked her, his taunt arousing a sudden and petulant fury in her.

  “If that’s the way you treat your dates, remind me never to be one,” she fumed, whirling around to escape. An iron grip on her wrist stayed her. With deliberate slowness she turned her head, first to his hand, then to his face, willing a fire in her gaze to underscore her irritation and demand an explanation for his hold on her. She was not prepared for the hoarseness in his otherwise good-humored tone.

  “Dammit, if you aren’t as sexy when you’re angry!”

  Incensed further she clenched both fists and teeth. “Sorry, but Daddy’s waiting.” She mocked his words, tugging to free her hand from his steel grip.

  “Then I’ll take my leave. Good night, Laura.” He spoke softly, only the barest hint of humor now in his gaze as he placed a light kiss on her cheek, released her wrist, and walked smoothly off, leaving Laura to seethe.

  Remaining in the shadows, she sought the support of that same broad column to still her quaking limbs. Then with every ounce of clearheadedness she could muster, she attempted to make some sense out of what had taken place. Unfortunately, she saw things all too clearly. For what emerged, above all, was not so much the audacity of the man, but rather the nature of her own reaction to it. She was annoyed. Her pride had been injured. She felt strangely hurt. Disappointment had followed the termination of his kiss. Frustration had overblown his patronizing comment. Envy had soared on his reminder of the silky sophisticate awaiting him.

  All too clearly Laura recognized these emotions. Not quite so clearly did she know what to do about them. Suddenly she’d had enough of the party. Straightening her shoulders and raising her chin, she left her shelter and made her way around the dancing populace, then back through the crowd to where she finally located her father, engaged in conversation with the esteemed district attorney for whom the entire evening’s bash had been orchestrated.

  “Ah-hah!” she exclaimed, winding her arm through her father’s. “I’ve killed two birds with one stone.” Her wary eye in his direction gave Franklin Potter warning of her intent.

  It was her father whose attempt to cajole her backfired. “Why, Laura! I thought you’d be busy dancing—”

  “I’ll bet you did.” She chided him, though her irritation was rapidly falling victim to the comforting familiarity of the two men before her. Lest it fade into oblivion, she turned to Frank, impaling him with her most stern expression. “You and I have something to discuss.”

  “Laura!” Again it was her father. “That’s no way to talk to the star of the party!”

  Frank, however, was more than able to handle the hard-biting temper of the young woman he’d known since she’d been a child. “Monday morning, ten o’clock. How’s that?”

  “But, Frank—” she began, reluctant to be put off when she knew that much of her fire would have burned out by then.

  “Monday, Laura.” It was the D.A. at his most final. Laura quickly shut her mouth.

  It had perhaps been a good thing that Frank had refused to discuss Maxwell Kraig that evening. Not only would it have been inappropriate, given the setting, but Laura’s own thoughts were still too raw.

  After spending most of the weekend with her father, then seeing him back off to Chicago Sunday afternoon, she had put things into perspective. The only thing she had to discuss with Frank was how to handle Maxwell Kraig on the legal level. Anything else was her own personal affair.

  “Okay, let’s have it.” Frank broached the topic as soon as Laura had been seated in his office. She held a cup of fresh coffee, snatched from the percolator that was earmarked for the small crowd that passed through that door in the course of the day.

  “Tell me everything you know about him, Frank.” She paused at the studied innocence on his face. “And don’t tell me you don’t know about whom I am talking!”

  “He has quite an effect on you, doesn’t he?” There was humor, verging on enjoyment, as the perceptive D.A. confronted her.

  “You think this is pretty funny, don’t you?” she accused pertly.

  The man with the round red cheeks and thinning gray hair grinned. “It’s just that you’re usually so unflappable, Laura. You’re too serious sometimes. I enjoy seeing you flustered, for a change.”

  “Well, thank you,” she snapped with an indignant look. “I sometimes wonder whether, between you and my father, you’d rather see me married and raising children. You’re both rushing me, Frank,” she warned gently.

  The politician lowered his head, looking at her now over his wire-rimmed spectacles. “You know you’re one of the best lawyers I’ve had in years. I’d be in rough straits without you! But you do take things too seriously sometimes.”

  The slim hand held up before her signaled for his silence. “I think, Mr. District Attorney, that we’ve gotten off the subject. I want to know everything about Max Kraig. Please, Frank, whatever you tell me will help me in planning my case and its strategy.” She had practiced the line repeatedly; when it came out, she did feel convinced that her interest was purely professional.

  Apparently in agreement with her reasoning, Frank began. “I’ve known Max for six, seven years now. He’s a tough lawyer, Laura. And a good one. He’s honest and hard-working.”

  “Sounds ominous,” she quipped, sipping her coffee as the D.A. continued.

  “You should remember three things about him, Laura.” He leaned back in his seat, letting a hand rest on the cushion of his generous middle. “First of all, don’t let the media image lull you into thinking that he rides along on reputation alone. He doesn’t! Max is a consummate lawyer. He is well prepared and shrewd. Nothing slips by him.” Laura could have already told him that!

  “Second,” he went on systematically, “he is an expert in psyching out both witnesses and jurors. He knows just when to charm them and just when to stick the knife in. He can be the master of understatement when it suits him.” Laura swallowed convulsively; he seemed to be the master of far too many things.

  “I wish I had half his skill in the courtroom,” he added with a sigh of admiration.

  “And I’m sure,” Laura interjected diplomatically, “that he wishes he had half your skill as a politician. Everything is relative, Frank! Now”—she paused to get the D.A.’s full attention—“how about that third thing I should remember?”

  He grinned wickedly. “Please remember”—his voice was lower than usual—“that he has a devastating effect on women.”

  For a moment Laura’s sentiments came sharply close to the surface. “Now what is that supposed to mean?” If it was a personal warning he wished to issue, he was too late. F
rank’s obvious disapproval of her assumption immediately brought a flush to Laura’s cheeks. She had misinterpreted him, taking his words personally when they had been intended on a purely legal level. “Oh, you mean, jury type of thing,” she mumbled apologetically.

  “Precisely.” He overlooked her lapse. “Female witnesses are apt to be awed, perhaps intimidated by him. That we cannot help. But the jury is another matter. He’s bound to charm the pants—figuratively, of course—off any female juror.”

  Laura’s own legal acuity grasped this dilemma. “I’m in a bind. On the one hand, considering that the victim was a lovely, young coed at Smith, those women on the jury would be highly sympathetic to the prosecution. Max Kraig, however, can turn that all around, just with his damned sex appeal…” She stood up, dropping her empty foam cup into the wastebasket as she walked to the window. Despite the snow that had both fallen and been shoveled against the basement-level window, Frank’s office still held a charming dog’s-eye view of the main street which dissected Northampton.

  “Laura”—the D.A.’s softer tone brought her head around with a start—“don’t let him snow you.” It was a personal warning, after all. Even sensing its futility, she gave lip service to her credo.

  “I can handle it, Frank.” Her voice was calm, her gaze steady. Only her insides swirled in testimony to her doubts. “I see Max as a lawyer, a professional. We are on opposite sides of the courtroom. You know how much my work means to me, and this case…”

  He picked up where she left off. “This case will mean big things for you. You’ve earned it, Laura. In the three years you’ve been in my office, you’ve done your share of assault and batteries, larcenies, breaking and enterings. That job you did prosecuting the Coolidge Inn armed robbery last summer clinched it. You’re ready. This is your case. But—” He hesitated. Not very often was Frank Potter at a loss for words; this seemed to be one of those rare times. Laura waited patiently, if a bit apprehensively.