Page 67 of Where the Heart Leads
Why now? Or was it: why him?
Was it because—could it be because—he desired her? Truly desired her in a way no other man ever had?
She was no witless ninny; she knew what the hard ridge pressing against her stomach was. But he was a man; was that rock-hard bulge any real barometer of his emotions? Of what he felt for her beyond the purely physical?
She’d read extensively, the classics as well as more esoteric texts. When she used the word “desire,” she meant something beyond the purely physical—something that transcended the physical, reaching onto that plane where the great emotions ruled.
Was her unconscious, and blatantly ungovernable, attraction to him somehow bound up in desire? Was her attraction a sign that with him, she could, if she chose, explore the elusive conundrums of desire?
Barnaby sensed through the kiss, through the subtle change in her lips, that she’d started to ponder something. But she was heated and pliant in his arms, neither defensive nor resistant, and she’d once again kissed him with a wanton lack of restraint; he was content enough, at least for the moment.
But he was curious, increasingly so, about what held the power to distract her at such a time. In the interests of his continuing campaign, it unquestionably behooved him to find out; given the circumstances, it was almost certainly connected with their exchange.
Drawing unhurriedly back from the honeyed depths of her mouth, reluctantly releasing her lips, he looked down into her face. The shadows cloaked them, but they’d both been in the semidark long enough for their eyes to adjust. He watched, fascinated, as clouds of desire swirled through her dark eyes; they cleared only slowly, her customary incisive, decisive expression only gradually replacing the dazed evidence of delight.
Eventually, she blinked; the expression in her eyes turned to a frown.
He felt his lips curve. “What are you thinking about?”
She studied his face, searched his eyes. “I was wondering…about something.”
She was normally devastatingly direct. His curiosity only grew. “About what?”
Hands still clasped about his neck, head tilting, she narrowed her eyes fractionally—in undisguised challenge. “If I tell you honestly, will you answer honestly?”
Shifting his hands to her waist, supporting her against him, he didn’t need to think. “Yes.”
She hesitated a moment, then said, “I was wondering if you truly desire me.”
Other women had asked the same thing, on occasions too numerous to count. He’d always understood that when women used the word, they meant far more than men assumed. Consequently, he knew the glib answers, the ways not to answer so he didn’t have to lie. In this case, however…
And she’d asked for honesty.
He held her dark gaze steadily. “Yes. I do.”
Head still tilted, she studied his face. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? Men lie about that particular subject all the time.”
She was perfectly correct; he had no grounds on which to defend his sex. And it didn’t take a genius to see how any argument would go—around in circles.
But demonstrable fact spoke much louder than vows.
Reaching up, he caught one of her hands, and drew it down. All the way down between them, until he curved her palm about his erection.
Her eyes grew enormous.
His smile grew tight. “That doesn’t lie.”
Her eyes narrowed, but he noticed—very definitely noticed—that she made no move to pull her hand away.
Quite the opposite. The warmth of her palm seeping through his trousers, the light flexing touch of her fingers, instantly became an unsubtle torture that had him questioning his sanity.
It had seemed a good idea at the time.
Jaw clenching, he kept his eyes on hers, and prayed his wouldn’t cross.
“I’m not so sure,” she murmured, “about that, about its significance. It seems to happen rather often with men—perhaps, in this case, this”—her fingers curled lightly, making him inwardly jerk—“is merely a reflection, an outcome, of our setting, suggestive, illicit, shadowed.”
“No.” It required massive effort to keep his tone even, as if explaining some logical theory. “Atmosphere doesn’t affect it at all. The company, however, does.” Ignoring the interest seeping into her eyes, he forced himself to continue, biting the words off through clenching teeth, “And in the present company,thathappens all the time. Regardless of time and place.”
