The seduction of ellen, p.3
The Seduction of Ellen, page 3
“You stopped recognizing the truth years ago, Mister Corey. Your entire life is a lie.”
“And yours isn’t?”
The offhand remark cut too close to the bone. Flustered, Ellen said anxiously, “If you’ll kindly excuse me.” She turned and hurried away.
Ellen blamed Mister Corey for this whole outlandish fiasco. The others were merely pawns in his elaborate con game. It was, she felt certain, Mister Corey who had hatched the far-fetched scheme. He who had rounded up the players and he who would claim the lion’s share of the money they managed to swindle out of Alexandra.
Ellen strongly suspected that the cold Mister Corey would not be content with the sum—however great it was—that her aunt had agreed to pay. He had undoubtedly read about Alexandra Landseer’s visit to London in the London Daily Express. He knew that her aunt was an extremely wealthy woman and extremely vain. It was as if he had purposely placed the advertisement in the paper knowing that Alexandra would see it and respond.
Would a man like that be satisfied with what he’d been promised or would he try to relieve Alexandra of the bulk of the Landseer fortune?
These doubts were nagging at Ellen on the fourth evening at sea when she accompanied Alexandra to a shipboard dance. She found herself hoping that the cool, confident thief wouldn’t be there.
But despite the fact that she knew exactly what he was, she couldn’t deny the attraction he held. A fact that shamed and frightened her.
She shuddered to think that such a flawed man could nonetheless so perfectly symbolize the fortuneteller’s prediction and the mysterious, dreamlike vagueness of her own romantic fantasies. Fantasies that had long been forgotten until she’d had the misfortune of meeting Mister Corey.
Thank God he couldn’t read her thoughts.
Midway through the evening’s dance, Ellen finally began to relax. How foolish she had been to worry about Mister Corey appearing at this gala affair. Surely his kind had not been invited. And even if he had, he couldn’t possibly own the proper attire for such an occasion.
Bored and growing warm in the stuffy, crowded ballroom, Ellen told Alexandra that she was going up on deck for a breath of fresh air.
“Don’t stay out too long and catch a cold,” her aunt berated.
“I won’t,” Ellen dutifully replied.
Four
Lifting the skirts of her well-worn ball gown, Ellen made her way toward the wide center staircase, paused at the base and looked up.
And lost her breath.
His lean, tanned hand resting carelessly on the smooth marble balustrade, Mister Corey stood at the top of the stairs. He was elegantly dressed in dark evening clothes and a pristine white ruffled shirt. His hair had been carefully brushed and was shimmering in the light from the crystal chandeliers. The curving scar on his right cheek shone pale white against the darkness of his olive skin. The left corner of his mouth was lifted in the hint of a teasing smile, but his black, brooding eyes were as lifeless as ever.
Mister Corey was looking directly at Ellen and she at him. She wished she could return to her chair. But it was too late. Holding her gaze, Mister Corey leisurely descended the carpeted stairs, took her elbow and guided her onto the polished dance floor.
In his arms, Ellen was more than a little uncomfortable. His nearness—the closest she had been to a man, other than her son, in ages—was so intimidating she was momentarily tongue-tied and unduly flustered. Heart pounding, face flushed, she made a misstep. Mister Corey caught her, held her tightly and suggested she relax.
Which made her all the more nervous.
Fully aware that she was behaving like a foolish, frightened old maid, Ellen realized—miserably—that the perceptive Mister Corey had already picked up on her involuntary response to him.
But Ellen was also an astute woman.
While Mister Corey had that insolent, nothing-bothers-me manner of a totally secure man, she sensed that his caustic wit and sardonic grin likely masked some deep, underlying pain.
She knew enough about concealing pain behind a brittle facade to easily recognize the practice in others. Somewhere in Mister Corey’s past, he had been hurt. Badly. She would bet her life on it.
But that was his problem, not hers. Her once-fragile heart had long since hardened. This dark, mysterious man warranted no compassion from her. He was, after all, a thief and a fraud and she had no use for him.
Mister Corey didn’t know what was going through Ellen’s mind at that moment, but he was well aware of his unsettling effect on the lonely woman. Her dislike of him was elemental and impersonal. She firmly believed that he was after her aunt’s money. Ellen Cornelius clearly didn’t approve of him, didn’t like him.
But she was attracted to him on a purely physical level. It was not a mutual attraction. While he had no doubt that she had once been quite beautiful, there was now little about her that was appealing. She was too thin to suit his taste. With his arm around her, he could feel her ribs and there was no generous swell of bosom rising above the square-cut neckline of her sadly out-of-fashion pink ball gown.
Her brown hair didn’t gleam with golden highlights and she wore it pulled severely back from her face and twisted into an ugly pinned-up knot at the back of her head. Her green eyes were large and almond-shaped, but they held no spark, no glow. And her lips seemed to be permanently drawn into a stern line of disapproval that strongly discouraged any temptation to kiss them.
The years had been unkind to Ellen Cornelius and she obviously was not a happy woman. But he had no real interest in learning the cause of her disillusion. Her problems were the last thing he needed.
Feeling awkward and anxious and wishing the dance would end, Ellen was conscious of the fact that dozens of ladies in the ballroom were far prettier than she. She wondered why Mister Corey had chosen to dance with her. Was it simply that he was mean-spirited and cruel and enjoyed upsetting her, liked having her make a fool of herself in his arms?
Her forehead pressed against his cheek, Ellen nervously glanced around, convinced that everyone was watching them. She wasn’t that far off the mark. Within minutes of his late arrival, a number of interested females were twittering and smiling, intrigued by the dark, enigmatic Mister Corey.
As soon as the dance ended, Ellen found herself back in her gilt chair beside the elegantly gowned Alexandra, who wasted no time critiquing her niece’s performance. “You never did learn to dance properly. You haven’t any natural grace, Ellen. You are clumsy and uncoordinated and you’d do well to just stay off the floor and stop embarrassing yourself and me.”
Ellen was so accustomed to her aunt’s belittling, she paid her no mind. Her undivided attention was on Mister Corey and his new dance partner, a tall, stunning, expensively gowned beauty with dark hair, fair skin and a voluptuous body that she was eagerly pressing against his.
Even Alexandra noticed the striking couple. “Ellen, look who Mister Corey is dancing with now!”
Endeavoring to sound nonchalant, Ellen said, “Mmm. Who is she? Do you know her, Aunt Alexandra?”
“I know of her,” sniffed Alexandra. “She is Mademoiselle de Puisaye, a rich, spoiled French beauty who does exactly as she pleases. They say all the eligible bachelors on the Continent are after her.” Alexandra clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Looks like she is enjoying the dance with Mister Corey a bit too much.” She shook her head and exhaled loudly, “What could any sensible woman see in that rude, scowling man?”
“I can’t imagine,” said Ellen.
And then she felt her heart squeeze painfully in her chest as the music ended and the French beauty whispered something to Mister Corey.
He nodded.
She laughed.
And the couple hurriedly left together.
Waiting just long enough to make certain she wouldn’t bump into the pair, Ellen claimed a raging headache and escaped to the stateroom she shared with her aunt. Inside, she paced about, restless and edgy.
And wondering, miserably, if Mister Corey had only seen Mademoiselle de Puisaye to her stateroom where he had said a gentlemanly good-night. Or had he gone inside?
Instinctively, Ellen knew the answer. She sighed and sank down onto the edge of the bed.
Just a few doors down, in the well-appointed stateroom of Mademoiselle de Puisaye, Mister Corey and the French beauty sank down onto the edge of the bed.
“I saw you the minute you walked into the dance,” said the confident Gabrielle de Puisaye, “and I said to myself, ‘That man is going to make love to me tonight.’ You are, aren’t you?”
Mister Corey leaned down and placed a kiss on the bare swell of her breasts above her low-cut bodice.
“Tonight. In the morning. Tomorrow afternoon. Whenever. Whatever you want.”
“I want you to undress me and I want you to tell me your name.”
“Mister Corey,” he said, urging her to her feet before him.
“I know that,” she said. “I mean your given name.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said as he turned her about and began to deftly undo the tiny hooks going down the back of her lush satin evening gown. He urged her opened dress down to her waist and was amused to see that she wore absolutely nothing beneath the gown’s bodice. Curious, he pushed the dress to her hips and revealed her naked backside. “My, but you’re a brazen lady, Gaby. No underclothes of any kind?”
Giggling, Gabrielle shoved her shimmering eggshell gown to the carpet, stepped out of it, kicked it aside and turned to face Mister Corey. Naked, save for her shoes and stockings, Gabrielle quickly discarded her dancing slippers, peeled the stockings down her legs, and tossed them aside. She sank to her knees before him and quickly removed his shoes, but not his black stockings. She then rose to her feet, bent to him, kissed his lips, then eagerly climbed astride his lap.
“I’m not brazen, I just plan ahead,” she told him, running her hands through his hair and tracing the long white scar down his cheek with a red-nailed finger. “This way you don’t have to fuss with all that cumbersome silk and lace to get to the real goodies.”
“I do admire a woman who is well organized,” he said, his hands spanning her bare waist. “Now, if you’ll just give me a minute, I’ll get undressed.” He started to lift her up off his lap. She resisted, clinging to his neck.
“No, not yet,” she begged. “Do it to me while you’re still fully dressed. I like it that way. It’s so…naughty and exciting.”
Her hands went to the waistband of his dark trousers. Looking into his cold black eyes, she promptly freed his throbbing erection and said, “Oh, God, I knew it. You’re so big and hard and hot. Put it in me, Mister Corey. Hurry, hurry, I can’t wait to feel you moving inside me.”
Mister Corey willingly obliged.
“Ahhhh,” Gabrielle moaned with delight as he slowly impaled her on his hard, pulsing flesh.
With his hands on her firm thighs, he guided her, lowering her soft, yielding body down onto him until he was buried in her.
She loved it.
Gabrielle immediately began rocking and thrusting her hips and Mister Corey quickly caught her rhythm. Her bare, full-nippled breasts pressed against his dark face, the Frenchwoman murmured teasingly, “You’ve done this before, Mister Corey.”
“As have you, Gaby,” he replied.
Unashamedly experienced, needing no extra time and mindless of her partner’s stage of arousal, Gabrielle quickly climaxed, letting herself go, crying out in her ecstasy. Damp with perspiration, heart pounding beneath her naked breasts, she collapsed against him, wrapping her arms around his neck and clutching his sides with her knees. She was aware that he’d not yet attained release and she was glad.
She wanted more.
Sighing, smiling foolishly, Gabrielle finally sat up, looked him in the eye and said, “You’re still hard, Mister Corey. Soooo deliciously hard.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“Do you like games?”
“Try me.”
“Let’s see if we can manage to get all of your clothes off while you’re still inside me. Wouldn’t that be an enjoyable challenge?”
It turned out to be just that.
The couple tumbled about on the bed, rolling to one side so that Mister Corey could get his arm out of a jacket sleeve. Gabrielle busied herself with the buttons on his white ruffled shirt. Working furiously, Gabrielle laughing all the while, they contorted their bodies, reaching around each other, tugging at clothing, taking care to not come apart.
Finally Mister Corey was as naked as she, except for his dark stockings.
“Here’s how we’ll do this,” he said, lying on his back with Gabrielle seated astride him.
He slowly rolled up into a sitting position facing her as she drew her legs around his back. Checking to see if she was comfortable, assured that she was, he bent his right knee and brought it up close to his side. Immediately taking her cue, she twisted about, reached out, and peeled off his black stocking. She tossed it to the floor and said, “Now give me your other foot.”
“We did it!” Gabrielle cried jubilantly, when the last black stocking came off. “Now, let’s do it.”
Five
“Good morning, Miss Cornelius. May I join you?”
Ellen turned from the ship’s railing to see Enrique O’Mara approaching.
Nodding, Ellen said, “That’s Mrs. Cornelius, Mr. O’Mara.”
He laughed and said, “That’s Ricky, Mrs. Cornelius.”
His warm, friendly manner and infectious grin disarmed her. She laughed too and said, “That’s Ellen, Ricky.”
“Ah, sí, Ellen,” the good-natured Ricky replied as he stepped up and rested his muscular forearms on the railing beside her.
Spanish on his mother’s side and Irish on his father’s, Ricky O’Mara possessed the good looks and fiery spirit of both parents. He was one of those rare individuals who enjoyed every minute of his life, no matter where he was, who he was with, or what he was doing. He took genuine delight in things others hardly noticed. To him, a spectacular sunrise was cause for celebration. As was the dazzling sight of the vast Atlantic Ocean stretching before them. He found joy all around, which made him a joy to be around. People liked Ricky O’Mara because he liked them.
Ellen Cornelius was no exception. Circumstances being what they were, she had honestly expected to dislike him. But it was impossible. The happy-go-lucky Ricky was a naturally sweet, kind, fun-loving man who cared about others. He was so amicable, Ellen wondered why on earth he chose to be friends with the sullen Mister Corey.
Ellen lifted a hand to shade her eyes and said, “Tell me, Ricky, how have you been entertaining yourself these past five days at sea?”
Ricky’s broad grin grew broader still. “Oh, it has been easy. There is so much to do and see. So many delicious meals.” He winked at her and added, “So many pretty women on this ship, Ellen.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed,” she said dryly. “Anyone in particular that you—”
“No, oh, no,” he said emphatically, shaking his dark head for emphasis. “I love all women.” He flung his long arms out in an encompassing gesture. “I could never love only one.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I am very sure. I will never marry. It wouldn’t be fair, since I could never be a faithful husband.”
“No, no, it wouldn’t,” Ellen said. “At least you know yourself and admit it.”
“Yes, I do. I have never been in love,” he stated, then reasoned, “I am thirty-four. If it hasn’t happened to me by now, it never will.” Laughing then, he touched Ellen’s hand where it gripped the railing and said, “What about you, Ellen? You are Mrs. Cornelius, so you must have been in love once. Will you fall in love again?”
She answered quickly. “Never in a million years.”
She laughed then and Ricky laughed with her. They fell silent for a moment, then Ricky needlessly cleared his throat and said, “Ellen, I know that you do not approve of me, of us, but—”
“I really don’t want to discuss it, Ricky,” she stopped him. “Whether I approve or not is unimportant. You were contracted by my aunt, not by me. My opinion, as usual, is of no value. So, you’d be wasting your time trying to convince me that this upcoming excursion is on the up-and-up.”
“But it is,” he said, his expression earnest. “Padjan knows where—”
“Ricky,” she interrupted, “please. Let’s change the subject.”
Ricky wisely heeded her advice. The disarming smile back on his lips, he said, “You know something? I like you, Ellen Cornelius.”
Ellen raised an eyebrow at him. His flashy grin suggested both his amusement with the world and his fondness for it. And for himself. But on him the expression was somehow boyishly charming.
“I like you too, Ricky.”
In the following days—and nights—Ellen saw Mister Corey and Mademoiselle de Puisaye together regularly. Bristling each time she spotted the laughing French beauty seated beside Mister Corey at dinner, or at a gaming table, or on a railside bench in the moonlight, Ellen reminded herself she was far too sensible to care.
While there was no denying that Mister Corey had a certain menacing charm, Ellen knew instinctively that he had found the kind of woman he preferred in the bold French beauty. The kind of woman he deserved. A woman who was much like himself. A woman who shared his values—or lack thereof. The counterpart to his toughness and vulgarity and sensuality.
They were, Ellen decided, a perfect pair and they had her blessing!
After ten full days at sea, the SS White Star slowly entered the New York harbor. Ellen hadn’t realized how homesick she’d been until she saw the imposing Statue of Liberty rising to meet the clear New York sky.
Once again, Ricky O’Mara stood beside her at the railing. “Glad to be home?” he asked, his dark-eyed gaze on the Manhattan skyline.
“You have no idea,” Ellen said.
“Ah, but I do,” said the smiling man who had been away from his beloved America for more than a year.
