She should stop him, she knew she should stop him, but she
felt as weak as a kitten. She said something--a protest?
a plea?--and his mouth was on hers
again, and everything Tessa knew about men and their
passions was reduced to ashes in the scorching heat of
that embrace. Her limbs were shaking, wild
tremors shook her body, her blood seemed to ignite. She
was clinging to him for support, kissing him back,
allowing those bold hands of his to wander at
will from her breast to her thigh, taking liberties she
knew no decent girl should permit, not even a French girl.
When he left her mouth to kiss her ears, her eyebrows, her
cheeks, she got out a shaken whisper, "I never knew it
could be like this. You make me feel things
I never knew existed, sensations I've never experienced
before. You seem so different tonight."
And he did. His body was harder, his shoulders seemed
broader, and she hadn't known he was so tall. As for his
fragrance--
Then she knew, she knew, and she opened her eyes wide,
trying to see his face. It was too dark, but she didn't
need a light to know whose arms she was in. He
didn't wear cologne as Paul did. He smelled of fresh air
and soap and freshly starched linen. Outrage rooted her
to the spot, but only for a moment longer.
Those clever hands of his had slipped and were beginning
to massage her bottom.
"Trevenan!" she gasped, and fairly leaped out of his
arms. He made no move to stop her, but said in a laconic
tone that grated on her
ears, "What a pity. And just when things were beginning
to turn interesting."
She was so overcome with rage she could hardly find her
voice, and when she did find it, it was high-pitched and
unnatural. "Interesting? What you did to me
was not interesting. It was depraved."
As he advanced she retreated. Though she felt a leap of
alarm, she was too proud to run away. When he halted
beside the stone steps, so did she, but she
was careful to preserve some space between them. The
lights on the terrace had yet to be extinguished, and she
had a clear view of his expression. He could
hardly keep a straight face.
"Depraved?" he said. "That's not the impression you gave
me. I could have sworn you were enjoying yourself. 'I
never knew it could be like this,'" he
mimicked. "'You make me feel things I never knew
existed.'" He began to laugh.
"I thought you were Paul," she shouted. "How dare you
impose yourself on me in that hateful way."
He arched one brow. "My dear Miss Lorimer, as I recall,
you were the one who imposed yourself on me. I was merely
enjoying a quiet smoke when you barged
into the gazebo and cornered me. I didn't kiss you. You
kissed me." His white teeth gleamed. "Might I give you a
word of advice? You're too bold by half. A
man likes to be the hunter. Try, if you can, to give the
impression that he has cornered you."
The thought that this depraved rake--and he had to be a
rake if his kisses were anything to go by--had the gall to
give her advice made her temper burn even
hotter. She had to unclench her teeth to get the words
out. "There is no excuse for your conduct. You knew I
thought you were Paul."
"Come now, Miss Lorimer. That trick is as old as Eve."
Anger made her forget her fear, and she took a quick step
toward him. "Do you think I'd want your kisses? You're
nothing but my grandfather's lackey. You're
a secretary, an employee. If I were to tell him what
happened here tonight"--she pointed to the gazebo--"he
would dismiss you."
"Tell him, by all means. He won't think less of me for
acting like any red-blooded male. It's your conduct that
will be a disappointment to him." His
voice took on a hard edge. "By God, if I had the
schooling of you, you'd learn to obey me."
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