Paxton Pride Read Online Free PDF Page A

spring. She visited a favorite dressmaker, lunched with an artist friend and called at the British Embassy for tea with Emily Edwards, who was nowhere to be found. With little else left to do, she told Hermann to head back to Georgetown and stop just below the heights at the foot of Rock Creek Bridge. Once there, she instructed him to travel on to the house without her. Hermann, more disgruntled than ever, urged her to come on in the carriage, but Karen would have nothing to do with the idea. She was more than capable of walking back through the park and sent the man packing. That had been two hours ago and she had long since lost track of time.
    Karen slid her bare feet along the smooth moist silt fringe along the burbling stream. She dug her toes into the mud, feeling ever so much the child. A child … no … not any longer. Her hands pressed against her cheeks, then traveled down her shoulders to cup each breast, full and rounded and unconfined beneath chemise and partially unlaced bodice. Her mind flashed on the stranger at the rotunda, how he towered above the others, the brief, conspiratorial wink, the tightness of his trousers leaving little to the imagination. Her nipples hardened beneath the fabric and she pictured him standing over her, legs partially spread, his shirt undone, hands on hips. He would stare at her, his eyes flashing with lust, stare at her barely concealed breasts. His eyes would travel down her body, undressing her, then back to her face as he knelt at her side, his hands reaching for her.
    Karen’s hands traveled the path his imaginary hands must take, touching lightly her cheeks, lifting a curl from her shoulder, touching her breasts, with fingers inscribing small circles around the taut, distended nipples. And then the hands alive and of their own volition traveled down, down to brush lightly over mons and stroke aching thighs … her warmth, his hands.…
    She bolted upright at the voice. A man’s voice, clear and strong, deep and melodious, singing softly, evidently to no one in particular. Karen jumped to her feet and with fumbling fingers quickly laced the bodice. Sweat beaded her forehead and she glanced around. Had someone been watching her? She could see no one. She wanted to hide, to run, but couldn’t decide where to or in what direction. The singing drew closer. Someone was walking up the stream. She could make out the splashing steps. If she could only find her shoes … but there was no time. The owner of the voice stepped from around a hillock and stopped short, but fifteen paces from her. “So beat the drum slowly, and play the pipes …” The singer halted in mid-song, startled by her presence. Karen stood unmoving, shocked. The man before her was none other than the Texan she had seen at the Capitol. He stood ankle deep in water, boots in hand, and doffed his flop-brimmed hat.
    â€œPardon me, ma’am. I never figured on running into anyone out here.”
    Karen forced her eyes from the bronzed, brown fur-matted muscular chest and the gold, strangely shaped amulet that nestled there. “I … I come here quite often,” she finally answered defensively. “I live near by.”
    Vance’s eyes roved approvingly over her lithe figure, stopped at swelling breasts and tiny waist, then strayed back to the shock of unruly honey gold hair. With a grin he stepped from the water. Karen stepped as quickly back from the bank. “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he assured her, “but I just realized the water is mighty cold.”
    Karen was determined not to let him sense her discomfort. He’s even taller, close up, she reflected. She attempted to assume her most aristocratic pose, despite her muddy feet.
    â€œI don’t mean to be forward,” the Texan said, “but don’t I know you?” Vance was very close now and his voice was quiet, soothing, as if directed for her ears only, so even the trees