What was she to do? And she quivered.
“You tremble, Mrs Swift. In fear of me? I am indeed exceedingly…cross.”
If this passed for cross, she’d hate to see furious as his mouth began to trace her cheek, endeavouring perhaps to seduce the answers from her. She turned, denying him the pleasure.
But he took it anyway.
Lips as soft as silk, persuasive and deliberate, skimmed her cheek and she gasped. Broad palms cupped her chin and then he kissed her with brutal precision and elegant strength.
All was ardour and intensity and hunger, as he teased her mouth open, a hand sliding down her spine to tug her close. It clenched on her derriere, grinding her against hips which flexed in desire.
Her fingers fluttered for a brief and unsure moment but then grabbed his coat lapel, hauling him close. He responded with a groan, other hand now twisting in her hair, tilting and crushing her mouth.
Intoxication swept her.
She’d expected threats of imprisonment and demands of recompense; she received promises of hedonism and a potent masculinity.
“Tell me your name,” he whispered against her mouth and sudden cold drenched the rising burn.
A ruse. ’Twas all a ruse, to beguile the secrets from her, and she wrenched away, stumbling into the side table and sending Mars tumbling to the rug.
Through a fog of lust,Casper goggled as a marble statue with the largest Lance of Love he’d ever had the misfortune to gaze upon sneered up at him. It was lucky theobjet d’arthad fallen arse down or it would have snapped in two.
His own body felt likewise poised to shatter – needy, taut and afire, and all for a lying, red-haired temptress who boiled his blood like no other.
At the deception, he’d been enraged but tamped it beneath iron control, refusing to unleash such base emotion.
Answers were required.
Yet one taste of her lips, wholesome and ripe, and rage had melted away to uncover a similarly primitive sensation. And all he’d yearned for was a name to groan against her luscious soap-scented skin.
At least he could be sure he wasn’t alone in this covetous, all-consuming need as she’d gripped him close, moaned as he’d hauled her near, lips opening for his ravishment. And now, Mrs Swift stood with fingers to rasping mouth, verdant-green eyes dazed.
Casper stalked towards her but she spun for the door. He reached out to seize her by the arm, then the waist, bringing her flush to his body, her back pressed to his chest, lush derriere to his groin.
Her nape was slender and delectable, so he kissed it, lips tasting the softness, and a lament of pleasure met his ears.
“Tell me your name?” he demanded again, needing to hear some honesty this day.
“Mrs Swift,” she whispered.
“Your given name and please don’t lie.”
Her body grew pliant, soft curves moulding. Her neck tilted to allow more of his touch, a moan arising as he yanked her tighter, put teeth to nape, scraping across the delicate skin.
She gasped. “Evelyn.”
Temptation herself.
Well, he would possess Evelyn whatever her name was. But not in quarter of an hour as she had once accused; no, night after night of timeless pleasure – urgent and leisured, savage and tender…
And once they’d slaked this wild lust, he would send her on her way.
Rather rudely, a thorn of unease pricked his conscience: that he was acting the blaggard; that the painting did appear, after all, to have some connection with Sir Henry Pearce. Had she too been duped?
But no. Guilt had been writ large across her features, eyes downcast with deceit, freckles alight with a blushing culpable hue, and lips biting with the effrontery.
Ah yes, those lips. Another dichotomy ofMrsSwift because she’d tasted of innocence.
