The Treasure Box by Penelope Stokes Page B

her hands and leaned it against a table. “You really should keep the door locked when you’re here alone, my dear Miss Woodlea,” he said. “Any man off the street could walk in here and have his way with you.” As he spoke these last words, his voice dropped to a throaty, provocative whisper, and he leaned close to kiss her.
    Their lips met briefly, and Rachel took a step back. “Derrick, I’ve got work to do.”
    â€œIt can wait. Don’t tell me that mopping the floor is more interesting than this—” He kissed her again, gathering her body close against his.
    Rachel hesitated. “Of—of course not,” she stammered. “But—”
    â€œBut nothing.” He led her to the back corner of the room, where a long banquet-size table stood against the wall. Slowly, deliberately, never taking his eyes off Rachel for a second, he removed the chairs and set them one by one on the floor. Then he held out his hand to her. “ Had we but world enough and time ,” he quoted in a quiet, entreating voice, “ This coyness, lady, were no crime— ”
    â€œDerrick—”
    He captured her hand and drew her to him. “ But at my back I always hear Time’s winged chariot hurrying near. And yonder all before us lie deserts of vast eternity .”
    â€œAndrew Marvell,” Rachel murmured as his lips moved insistently against her own. “It’s a beautiful poem, but—”
    He backed her against the table, and her knees gave way. “ Now, therefore, while the youthful hue sits on thy skin like morning dew, let us sport us while we may— ” He pressed closer to her and slid the back of his fingers seductively down the curved line of her throat. “I want you, Rachel. Here. Now.”
    She tried to push him away and found herself trapped. “I know, Derrick. I—I feel the same way.” She stumbled over the words. “But we should wait.”
    â€œWhy should we?” He moved against her.
    â€œIt won’t be long until our wedding. We are engaged, after all.”
    â€œExactly my point.” He ran his hand up into her hair and caressed her neck. “Engaged is practically married. What’s the harm?”
    â€œThe doors—”
    â€œI locked them behind me when I came in.”
    â€œWhat if someone comes—?”
    â€œIt’s nearly midnight. The streets are deserted. No one’s about.”
    â€œOh.” Rachel closed her eyes. She tried to think, but the tiny rivulets of liquid fire running up and down her nerve endings made reason impossible. No one had ever held her like this before, touched her, kissed her with so much passion, made her feel so . . . adored.
    Adored. What had Mam said? That being adored can weave a powerful enchantment around the soul. It was a kind of spell; she could feel Derrick drawing her in with every kiss, every touch. Spinning with invisible threads a lush silk web, more sumptuous than the softest feather bed covered with satin sheets.
    It would be so easy just to abandon propriety, to fall into his arms and stay there forever.
    His kisses grew fiercer as his ardor increased. His hands grasped her waist and lifted her up onto the table. One kiss more, and there would be no turning back.
    â€œDerrick, NO!” The protest rose up from some deep place inside of Rachel. She must have shouted, for he jerked back in surprise.
    â€œWhat?” The single word came out harsh, accusing.
    â€œI—I—” She sat up, her fingers moving nervously to tidy her hair and rearrange her dress. “Please. Let me go.”
    A fast-moving inner storm clouded his face. Rachel could see the vein in his neck throbbing as he clenched his jaw, and for a moment she feared he might strike her. But then the darkness blew past, and he smiled—at least with his lips. “Of course, my darling,” he said, his voice tight with restraint. “I