Werewolf in Las Vegas

Chapter 17

Luke found Mr. Thatcher putting the final touches to the breakfast table. He placed a small bouquet of roses in the center and stood back to admire the effect.

“Very nice, Mr. Thatcher. Giselle will love those.”

“I daresay she will. She seems to appreciate small kindnesses.”

“She . . . ah . . . didn’t stay in the guest room last night. I don’t want you to be surprised when she comes out of my bedroom.”

Only a slight flicker in Mr. Thatcher’s eyes registered his response to that. His demeanor remained calm. “That’s between you and the lady, sir.”

“True.”

The butler cleared his throat. “But I would like to say one thing, if I may be permitted to do so.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“I would caution you not to get attached. I doubt that she’ll be around very long.”

Luke remembered that the butler and Giselle had talked the night before while Luke had been embroiled in the scheduling conflict down in the kitchen. “Did she say anything specific about that to you?”

“Not exactly. Call it intuition, but I don’t see her as a long-term solution to your loneliness.”

Luke caught his breath. Mr. Thatcher was always so proper and formal. He rarely made such a personal comment. “Who said I was lonely?”

“Pardon me, sir.” His naturally ruddy cheeks turned a shade darker. “I forgot myself for a moment.”

“No offense taken, but I am curious. Why would you assume that I’m lonely?” The word resonated within him, and it sounded far more valid than he’d like to admit.

“Well, I’ve . . . been thinking about loneliness recently. I may have erroneously thought I recognized behaviors in you that are similar to mine. My mistake. I do apologize.”

“You’re lonely?” Luke had never considered that possibility.

“I believe so, sir. Things have changed, as they always do, of course. I’m not caring for a young family any longer. And, no reflection on you, but I did enjoy the elegant parties your parents used to have in this penthouse. They kept me busy.”

Luke nodded. “Makes sense. It’s been a lot quieter around here since my dad died and my mom left.”

“Of course. And you haven’t been in a celebratory mood, which is perfectly understandable.”

“Listen, Mr. Thatcher, if you want to take time off and visit your family in Hertfordshire, I can manage without you for a couple of weeks. I know you usually go in July, and you can still do that, but maybe you need a visit now.” And in the meantime, Luke could figure out ways to liven up the place. Weekly poker nights in the penthouse, maybe.

What the butler really needed was for Luke to find a wife and produce some kids. If Luke had a wife, she might want to invite friends over for dinner. Mr. Thatcher would have a busy life again. But Luke couldn’t just snap his fingers and make that happen.

“I appreciate the offer, sir. I may take you up on it, but not at the moment.”

“Why not?”

“I want to make certain that your sister is, shall we say, settled before I leave the country for any extended period of time.”

Luke was touched by that. He’d always thought of Mr. Thatcher as a second father to him and Cynthia, but he’d never known for certain that the feelings went both ways, and whether they were like a son and daughter to the butler. He was not a demonstrative man. But if he couldn’t leave until Cynthia was “settled,” as he’d put it, then he obviously cared for both of them in a fatherly sort of way.

“Thank you, Mr. Thatcher,” Luke said. “I’ll take all the moral support I can get right now.” He glanced at the table, where the plates were covered with silver domes, as usual. “Mind if I check out Giselle’s waffle?”

“Be my guest.” The butler stepped forward and lifted the lid on the prettiest waffle concoction Luke had ever seen. An arrangement of blueberries, raspberries, and mint leaves ringed the waffle, which was mounded with whipped cream and topped with dark red strawberries. In the center of the arrangement sat a giant strawberry carved in the shape of a rose.

“Oh, how pretty!” Giselle exclaimed as she walked into the room. She exchanged a glance with Mr. Thatcher, one Luke couldn’t interpret. Then she clapped her hands together. “Let me get my phone and take a picture. That’s a work of art.” She ran back to the bedroom.

Mr. Thatcher gazed after her, a bemused smile on his face.

“She does appreciate small kindnesses,” Luke said. “Give my thanks to Stefan.”

“Of course.” Mr. Thatcher removed the dome from Luke’s meal, which looked about as nice as an omelet could, but it was obvious the chef had enjoyed decorating the waffle a lot more.

And the butler had loved bringing up the cart loaded with this special breakfast for two. He would have been even happier, Luke now realized, if he’d been serving brunch for ten. Something had to be done about that, although Luke wasn’t good at planning parties. He immediately thought of Cynthia as the logical one to do that and realized that was sexist of him. She was a woman, so he assumed she could plan parties, but he’d never thought to ask if she wanted to be a corporate officer. He’d recently had thoughts that his dad hadn’t been evolved, but Luke might as well put himself in the same category. How embarrassing that he’d never thought to ask Cynthia if she wanted to have a role in the corporation.

Giselle returned with her phone and moved around the table snapping pictures of the waffle from all angles. Luke wondered why her outfit looked so familiar, and he finally placed it. She’d found an old pair of his boxer shorts and a T-shirt that had seen better days.

It hung on her, effectively disguising her shape. He’d requested ugly, and she’d had to raid his dresser drawers to fill that request. Of course she looked cute as hell, and he wanted to do her as much as ever.

“My folks have a chef,” she said, “but Isabella has never risen to these heights. I want to inspire her. My mom loves strawberry waffles, too. She should have one like this for her next birthday breakfast.”

Luke was ridiculously pleased by Giselle’s enthusiasm. “I told Mr. Thatcher to give our compliments to Stefan, our chef.”

“Oh, my goodness, yes! In fact, later I’ll go down and tell him myself.” Then she glanced at Luke’s plate, which was loaded up with his omelet and a big pile of hash browns. “Good golly, Miss Molly. Are you really going to eat all that?”

“I am if you’ll stop taking pictures and sit down. Thank you, Mr. Thatcher, for bringing us such a great breakfast.”

The butler inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Allow me to pour your coffee.”

“Sure. That would be great.” Watching the butler serve at the table was a treat Luke had enjoyed since he was a kid. A drop was never spilled, a dish never broken.

Mr. Thatcher finished pouring the coffee and stepped back from the table. “Will there be anything else?”

“Not for me,” Giselle said. “Luke may need another omelet, though.”

“Smart aleck.” Luke glanced at the butler and caught his brief smile. “That should do it, then. Thank you.”

“You are most welcome. Let me know when you’re ready for me to clear everything away. Bon appétit.” With a brief bow, the butler left.

Unable to keep his distance from Giselle, Luke walked around the table and helped her into her chair.

She laughed. “Thank you. How sweet. No one’s done that for a while.” She settled into her seat with her usual grace. “This waffle is so beautiful I almost hate to take a bite out of it.”

“I could say the same about you. But I’ll do it anyway.” He leaned down and gently nipped the side of her neck.

“Hey!” She turned to glance up at him. “What’re you do–”

He kissed her, stopping her protest. He shouldn’t be kissing her, seeing as how they wouldn’t be having sex. Mouth-to-mouth stimulation was nearly as potent as visual stimulation, especially when she kissed him back, which she was currently doing.

Swiveling in her seat, she took hold of his head and held him there while she angled her mouth and French-kissed the heck out of him. He grabbed the back of her chair for support and used his other hand to find out if she was wearing a bra under that gigantic T-shirt. She wasn’t, which allowed him to play with her breasts until she began to squirm in her seat and whimper into his mouth.

He knew where this was leading, and he wasn’t going there. She’d admitted to being sore, and one little soak in Epsom salts wouldn’t be enough. She needed time. He wasn’t sure how much, but more than a few hours.

With more restraint than he’d thought himself capable of, he stopped caressing her plump breasts and stepped back. He was breathing like a long-distance runner, and his johnson poked against the soft jersey of his sweats.

She was quite flushed herself. If she hadn’t bothered with panties, then his boxers might be damp. He liked the thought of that. He might not throw them in the laundry for a while.

“My fault,” he said once he got his breathing under control. “I started it. But we’re not having sex again until you promise me that you’re recovered.”

Her gaze lifted to his. “We could take it slow and easy.”

He groaned. “Don’t do that! God, you’re a seductress. Maybe we could start out slow and easy, but you know as well as I do that we wouldn’t end up that way. We’d both get carried away, and before you know it, we’d be slamming into each other. That’s how it is with us.”

“Yeah.” She smiled at him. “You’re right.”

“Stop smiling like that.”

“Okay.” She pressed her mouth into a thin line, but laughter danced in her green eyes.

He’d never get tired of the many moods of Giselle Landry. Whether she was laughing, or dreamy-eyed, or talking earnestly, or moaning with passion, she fascinated him. But somehow he had to keep himself from having sex with her right now, and probably this afternoon, and maybe even tonight. How depressing was that?

He walked around to his chair and pulled it out. “I’m going to sit right here and eat this huge omelet and all these potatoes. After that, I’ll be too full to have sex.”

“I would imagine that’s true. After you’ve eaten everything, I would expect you to explode like an overloaded Hefty bag.”

“I’m a man of action, a man who lives large. I need fuel for my many activities.” He put his napkin in his lap and picked up his fork. About that time, he heard Giselle moan with pleasure. He didn’t have to look to know why. She’d taken a bite of her strawberry waffle loaded with whipped cream.

He kept his eyes on his plate and cut into his omelet. He didn’t need to watch her eating that thing. Bad enough that he had to listen to her over there sighing in orgasmic delight.

Under different circumstances, he might not have thought that waffle presentation was especially erotic, but after his night with Giselle, everything seemed erotic. The baked waffle smelled like good sex, and the raspberries reminded him of her aroused nipples. He wanted to set that strawberry rose in her navel, or maybe lower than that, and nibble for a while. Then there was the whipped cream. . . . He could do a whole riff on the erotic possibilities of whipped cream.

“You said you wanted to know about some of my brother’s practical jokes.”

He risked looking at her, and sure enough, she had whipped cream on her upper lip. “You have some whipped cream on your mouth.” He pointed to his own upper lip to show her where.

“Thanks.” Her tongue darted out, and she licked it away.

He stared at her full mouth and remembered all the ways she’d used it to drive him insane.

“Do you still?”

“Still what?” Want her? With the heat of a thousand suns. Somehow he didn’t think that’s what she’d asked, but he’d lost track of the conversation.

“Want me to tell you about my brother’s tricks?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. That’s a good idea. He’ll probably booby-trap the cabin somehow.” He dug into his omelet again. “Something to do with water.”

“Once he set up an elaborate scheme with a bouquet of flowers and a sensor that would cause water to shoot out of the vase if someone leaned down to smell them. But that’s not targeted to a specific person, so I don’t think he’d bother to set that up in the cabin. He’s not going to repeat his bucket over the front door, so I honestly don’t know what to expect. He was never really into explosives.”

Luke stared at her. “What do you mean by ‘never really into’? Did he ever blow anything up?”

“Not much. Mostly baked goods. When he blew up a triple-layer Black Forest cake, he had to pay for the cleaning crew out of his allowance. I think that ended the explosion phase. After that, it was mostly water pranks.”

Luke chewed and swallowed. “Then I guess we’ll just have to drive up there and find out what sort of surprise he’s concocted. I got directions from Owen.”

“Want to take my motorcycle?”

“We’d better go in my car. We’ve had some snow in the mountains, and we might hit an icy patch of road. Plus it will be chilly up there.”

She shrugged. “Okay. The car it is. Probably a better idea until I recover anyway. Is your omelet good?”

He’d barely tasted it. All he cared about was getting through the meal and out of the penthouse without grabbing her. “Yep. Delicious.”

“Do you normally eat with such concentration?”

He put down his fork and looked at her. “No, but normally I’m not fighting the urge to have my dining companion stretched out under me in the middle of the table.”

Her breath caught. “Do you have any idea how exciting it is to hear something like that?”

“Do you have any idea how close I am to becoming an inconsiderate jerk who takes you regardless of whether I’ll hurt you in the process?”

Her lips parted and her cheeks grew pink. “I wouldn’t care.”

“I would.” Shoving back his chair, he tossed his napkin on the table. “I’ll move your suitcase back into the guest room. You can get ready in there.”

“You’re throwing me out of your bedroom?”

“Yes. For my sanity and your protection.”

“You’re very gallant, Luke.”

“Don’t say that yet. Wait until we’re both heading down in the elevator. No, not even then. I could stop the elevator and take you before we get to the bottom. Congratulate me when we’re in the car headed up into the mountains. I can’t very well do you and drive a mountain road at the same time.”

“I suppose not. In any case, thank you for making me feel so desired.”

“If you were any more desired, I’d be in flames.” He stalked into the bedroom and grabbed her suitcase. He had to carry it open because that was the way she’d left it and he didn’t want to take the extra time to zip it up. That meant he had to breathe in the light but exotic scent of Giselle. She didn’t wear perfume, so it had to be her natural scent. He loved it.

“Thank you!” she called out to him as he deposited the open suitcase in the guest bedroom and made a beeline for the master.

“I’ll be ready in twenty minutes.” He shut and locked the door.

“Me, too!” she shouted from her seat at the table.

He stood on the other side of his bedroom door, literally panting from the effort of separating himself from temptation. She’d become such a vital part of his existence so quickly that it scared the shit out of him. If this wasn’t soul mate territory, what was?

She liked knowing that she affected him this way. He could see it in her eyes. And she craved their lovemaking as much as he did. That hot kiss at the table had told him so. If he hadn’t called a halt, they would have been doing it—in the chair, up against the table, on the floor. And whipped cream would have ended up all over everything.

But he wouldn’t have liked himself very much afterward. The woman had announced that she was sore, and unless he had become some sort of brutish cad, that should matter to him. Hell, he was sore, too. Anyone would be who’d had the sex marathon they’d been through.

Sadly, he didn’t care about that. He would take a little twinge for the reward of having her again. He wasn’t about to make that decision for her, though. When they made love again, and he hoped it would be fairly soon, he needed to know that he was giving her pleasure and not pain.

Therefore, he’d lock himself in the bedroom, take his shower, and get dressed while she performed the same chores in the guest bathroom. He would not think of her stepping into the shower and letting the water slide over her lithe body. He would not think of her lathering up, which would require touching all those intimate places he craved.

Right. He wouldn’t think of it at all. Except every damn minute. Stripping down, he walked into the master bath and turned on the jets in the shower they’d shared only hours before. He could do this.

As he stepped into the spray, he was swamped by the erotic memories of Giselle turning to wash all the chocolate from her creamy skin, and of him leading her, with her eyes closed, to the jet that was perfectly positioned to give her a climax. After that . . . He groaned as the potent image of Giselle offering herself turned his cock into an unforgiving steel rod.

Surrendering, he faced the nearest jet, took hold of his problem, and solved it.