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Not so clever, a sly voice murmured. No matter what she did, she’d have to drop the robe eventually.
He folded his arms. His gaze moved over her again.
It was pointless to pretend he didn’t enjoy watching her. She was a woman born to excite a man. Even now, he could close his eyes and see her face and its perfection of innocence. Her rounded breasts. The smooth skin that led to the exquisite whorl of dark curls he’d glimpsed before.
No wonder Hamilton had been taken in. He almost felt sorry for the man. Who could stand up to witchery like this?
She had gone absolutely still. There was tension in every line of her body. Yeah. There would be, he thought, shifting his weight in the chair.
It was moment of truth time.
She had to let go of the robe in order to finish dressing.
“Won’t you at least turn your back?”
“No,” he said coolly. “I won’t.”
She muttered something he couldn’t catch. Matthew suppressed a grin. He had to give her credit. She had balls.
A couple of seconds went by and then she let the robe fall to the floor.
His mouth went dry.
She’d put on a pair of those plain white cotton panties.
The women he knew wore silk or lace. He liked that. The sensual glide of a soft fabric. The flirtatiousness of lace. He liked black and scarlet, colors that contrasted with the delicacy of skin.
Cotton was for T-shirts and gym shorts and—and how in hell could those white cotton panties look so sexy?
Was it the starkness of them against her golden skin? Or the very simplicity of them, the realization that what they hid from his eyes were the sweetest secrets of her body?
What would happen if he came up behind her? Bent his head, sank his teeth lightly into her shoulder while he slid his hand into that plain white cotton and cupped the gentle swell of her backside, moved his fingers over her flesh until they reached the delicate petals that guarded her womanhood.
Holy hell. He kept this up, he was in trouble.
She took something from the bed. A bra. Slipped it on and closed it. Good. He could breathe again. Next, she’d put on the T-shirt…
Instead she reached her hands to the cups and though he couldn’t see what she was doing, he could imagine it.
She was doing that little thing women did. Cupping her own breasts. Arranging them in the bra. Touching the silken skin he ached to touch, to taste…
He shot to his feet. “Hurry it up,” he said coldly. “Pack the rest of your stuff and do it pronto.”
She pulled on a pair of white cotton trousers. Yanked a pale gray T-shirt over her head. Slid her feet into her shoes and turned toward him, fully dressed right down to sandals that showed ten delicate pink toenails.
He had to clench his jaw to keep from going to her and tossing her down on the bed.
It was the situation, that’s what it was. Danger, risk, the unknown. Add a good-looking woman, stir well and you ended up with a lot of heat.
Some color had come back to her face. Getting some clothes on did that for prisoners. He didn’t want that. He wanted her scared. She’d be easier to handle and quicker to tell him what he wanted to know.
“Come here.”
She gestured at the suitcase. “But you said—”
“I know what I said. Come here.”
She moved toward him slowly, her eyes locked to his face. Such enormous eyes. They were the color of rich coffee, though when the light caught them a certain way, he could see flecks of green and gold in the irises.
