The Seduction of Phaeton Black by Jillian Stone Page A

moonrise.”
     
    “Draw me a bath.”
    He said nothing about how the apartment looked. America had scrubbed and washed until the flat smelled like spring and sparkled like a finely cut diamond. A serviceable bed frame and reasonably clean mattress had been carried down from the attic and set up in her room.
    Esmeralda had encouraged her to borrow a few more furnishings, and she pulled together quite a nice little sitting room. She had also managed to get to the market, stocking the larder with sorely needed staples. Crossing off chores as she went, even the disgusting ones, the list shortened considerably by late afternoon.
    He stood in the center of the room, scrutinizing every last detail of her work, but made only a single comment. “It appears you have been busy today, Miss Jones.” He settled into a chair and opened the newspaper.
    She jabbed her fists into her sides and bit her lip. Fine. If that was all she got, it would have to be enough. “Do you take a relaxer? Perhaps some sherry or—”
    He barely looked up from his article. “Whiskey, neat. A good tumbler full.”
    “There’s a wire message for you. Came tucked in the Times .” She nodded at the pale yellow envelope that had dropped onto his lap, unnoticed.
    America tilted her head and pursed her lips. “I doubt many Scotland Yard detectives receive messages inside their evening paper.”
    Phaeton read the wire and returned to the news. “A colleague of mine requests a meeting. Nothing clandestine about it, Miss Jones.”
    She exhaled a sigh and pivoted on her heel. Setting several pots of water on to heat, she soon had the copper tub by the stove filled with steaming water. She placed a cake of hard soap and several towels on the kitchen table.
    “Your bath is ready, Mr. Black.” She turned to leave the room.
    “Stay where you are, miss.” Gingerly, he rose from the deeply cushioned chair. “Went a few too many rounds with Detective Farrell, I’m afraid.” Her drawn brows no doubt signaled confusion. “Pugilism, Miss Jones, at the athletic club.”
    “I see, sir.”
    With some effort, he stretched himself up to his full height. “A bit stiff, as you can see. You will need to undress me. And give me a bath.”
    A slight eye roll accompanied an open mouth. “Are those new duties, sir? They do not appear on the list.”
    He stood entirely too close. “You use the word sir as though you are prepared to obey me. Are you, Miss Jones?”
    She uttered a sigh and removed his jacket and waistcoat. He made only small efforts to help with his disrobing. She pushed braces over broad shoulders and unbuttoned his trousers. Slipping his pants off, she could not help but notice there was also something rather stiff below deck.
    It seemed Mr. Black wished to be stimulated, perhaps brought to pleasure. Well, two could play this game.
    Slowly, she unbuttoned his shirt, making sure her fingernails scratched at the thin undershirt beneath. She removed both and stepped back to admire his chest and arms. They were larger, harder, more defined than she remembered from that morning.
    “Your sport does you good, Mr. Black.”
    He sucked in air when she reached for the string on his drawers. Gently, purposefully, she worked her palms around his buttocks and slipped off the undergarment.
    “I’ll need you to step out of these and into the tub, then.” She looked up to find his eyes fixed on her.
    She pressed her lips together to avoid a grin. How easy men were. Give a man a bit of this and that, and he will begin to drool like a hound.
    “Too hot?” She poured cool water into the bath to adjust the temperature. The man’s penis jumped and twitched every time she drew near.
    Eyes closed, he settled into the bath. With his bare knees out of the water, and his head laid back against the edge of the cooper tub, he looked like a painting she had once admired in Brussels. Such striking masculine repose.
    Determined to treat his bath no different from an everyday