"Just one," she admitted.
His tone abruptly shifted to a serious one. "Do you come here often?"
They'd spent the first part of the evening playing a kind of silly game, but she sensed that he didn't want any more games. Neither did she, and that moment marked a distinct change in the atmosphere between them. As they wandered past rose beds and flower gardens, he started asking her about herself. Meredith told him she'd been away at school and that she'd just graduated. When his next question was about her career plans, she realized that he'd erroneously assumed she meant she'd graduated from college. Rather than correcting him and risking some sort of appalled reaction when he discovered she was eighteen, not twenty-two, she sidestepped the problem by quickly asking him about himself.
He told her he was leaving in six weeks for Venezuela and what he was going to be doing while he was gone. From there, their conversation shifted with astonishing ease from one subject to another, until they finally stopped walking so that they could concentrate better on whatever was being said. Standing beneath an ancient elm on the lawn, oblivious to the rough bark against her bare back, Meredith listened to him, completely entranced. Matt was twenty-six, she'd discovered, and besides being witty and extremely well-spoken, he had a way of listening intently to what she said as if nothing else in the world mattered. It was disconcerting, and it was very flattering. It also created a false mood of complete intimacy and solitude. She'd just finished laughing at a joke he'd told her, when a fat bug dived past her face and buzzed around her ear. She jumped, grimacing and trying to see where it had gone. "Is it in my hair?" she asked uneasily, tipping her head down.
He put his hands on her shoulders and inspected her hair. "No," he promised. "It was just a little June bug."
"June bugs are disgusting, and that one was the size of a large hummingbird!" When he chuckled, she gave him a deliberately smug smile. "You won't be laughing six weeks from now, when you can't walk outside without tripping over snakes."
"Is that right?" he murmured, but his attention had shifted to her mouth, and his hands were sliding up the sides of her neck to tenderly cradle her face.
"What are you doing?" Meredith whispered inanely as he began slowly rubbing his thumb over her lower lip.
"I'm trying to decide if I should let myself enjoy the fireworks."
"The fireworks won't start for another half hour," she said shakily, knowing perfectly well she was going to be kissed.
"I have a feeling," he whispered, slowly lowering his head, "they're going to start right now."
And they did. His mouth covered hers in an electrifyingly seductive kiss that sent sparks exploding through Meredith's entire body. At first the kiss was light, coaxing; his mouth shaped itself to hers, delicately exploring the contours of her lips. Meredith had been kissed before, but always by relatively inexperienced, overeager boys; no one had ever kissed her with Matthew Farrell's unhurried thoroughness. His hands shifted, one of them drifting down her spine to draw her closer, while the other slid behind her nape, and his mouth slowly opened on hers. Lost in the kiss, she moved her hands inside his tuxedo jacket, up his chest, over his broad shoulders, and then she wrapped her arms around his neck.
The minute she molded herself against him, his mouth opened farther, his tongue tracing hotly across her lips, urging them to part, and then demanding it. The moment that they did, his tongue plunged into her mouth, and the kiss exploded. His hand covered her breast, caressing it through her bodice, then restlessly swept behind her, cupping her bottom and pulling her tightly against him, making her vibrantly aware of his aroused body. Meredith stiffened slightly at the forced intimacy, and then for no explainable reason on earth, she laced her fingers through his hair and crushed her parted lips to his.
It seemed like hours later when he finally dragged his mouth from hers. Her heart racing like a trip-hammer, she stood in the circle of his arms, her forehead resting on his chest, while she tried to cope with the turbulent sensations she'd felt. Somewhere in her drugged mind it began to occur to her that he was going to think she was behaving very oddly about what had, in reality, been only a simple kiss. That embarrassing possibility finally made her force her head up. Fully expecting to see him watching her with puzzled amusement, she raised her gaze to his chiseled features, but what she saw there wasn't derision. His gray eyes were smoldering, his face was harsh and dark with passion, and his arms tightened automatically, as if unwilling to let her go. Belatedly, she realized his body was still rigidly aroused, and she felt a peculiar sense of pleasure and pride that he had been, and was still, as affected by the kiss as she was. Without thinking what she was doing, her gaze dropped to his mouth. There was bold sensuality in the mold of those firm lips, and yet some of his kisses had been so exquisitely gentle. Tormentingly gentle ... Longing to feel that mouth on hers again, Meredith lifted her gaze to his, an unconscious request in her eyes.
Matt understood the request, and a sound that was half groan, half laugh tore from his chest, his arms already tightening. "Yes," he answered hoarsely, and seized her lips in a ravenous, devouring kiss that stole her breath, and drove her mad with pleasure.
Some time later, laughter rang out, and Meredith jerked awkwardly out of his arms, whirling around in alarm. Dozens of couples were strolling out of the club to watch the fireworks—and well ahead of them was her father who was stalking toward her with rage in every long, ground-covering stride. "Oh, my God," she whispered. "Matt, you have to leave. Turn around and walk away! Now."
"No."
"Please!" she almost cried. "I'll be fine, he won't say anything to me here, he'll wait until we're alone, but I don't know what he'll do to you." A moment later Meredith knew the answer to that.
"There are two men on their way out here to escort you off the grounds, Farrell," her father hissed, his face contorted with fury. He turned on Meredith and caught her arm in a viselike grip. "You're coming with me." Two of the club's waiters were already walking across the driveway. As her father gave her arm a jerk, Meredith appealed once more to Matt over her shoulder. "Please, please go—don't make a scene."
Her father pulled her two steps forward, and Meredith, who had no choice but to walk or be dragged, was relieved almost to tears when both waiters who had been coming toward Matt slowed and then stopped. Matt had apparently started walking toward the road, Meredith realized with relief. Her father evidently reached the same conclusion, for when the waiters looked uncertainly to him for further instructions, he said, "Let the bastard go, but call the gate and make sure he doesn't come back."