Black Ice by Anne Stuart Page B

thing bought to entertain wealthy lovers. Another lie.
    Then again, hadn’t he already figured out she was wearing the wrong bra size? Her soft skin looked pinched against the black lace, and he wanted to take it off her. But time was running out.
    So he simply kissed her again, pulling her up tight against him, her nearly nude body hot against his open shirt, and she kissed him back with enough enthusiasm that he believed it when she said she was no tremulous virgin. Even though she was shaking in his arms.
    The moans were coming from the television, loud and heartfelt, punctuated by screams and grunts. It didn’t matter what kind of sound they made—no one would be able to tell the difference between the film and the real thing.
    Her skin was hot to the touch, soft as silk against his hands. She had her arms around his neck now, holding on to him as if she might blow away in a strong breeze, and he liked that. “Take off your underwear,” he said.
    Her eyes, which had been half-closed in dreamy delight, shot open. “What?”
    “What do you think we’re doing, Chloe? Take off your panties. You can leave the bra on if you insist.”
    She had frozen, and the color had drained from her face. “Get away from me,” she said, shoving at him.
    But it was too late. It had been too late since he’d set foot in her bedroom. Perhaps it had been too late from the moment he’d first seen her.
    The upscale underwear was meant to be easily disposed of. He reached between them and caught the lace in one hand, yanking hard, and the ties tore.
    “No,” he said. Merciless, he reminded himself, as he pulled her up against his body. This was a job, something he had to do. He kissed her again, and while her hands tried to push him away her mouth answered his.
    And then it was too late. He picked her up, moved her to the antique chest and set her down on it, moving between her legs. He didn’t know if she realized what was going to happen, or if she was capable of rational thought. It didn’t matter.
    She was wet, as he thought she’d be. It took him only a moment to unfasten his pants, and then he was inside her, deep inside, and he felt the unmistakable shock of a tiny orgasm ripple through her before she was able to stop herself.
    She was going to cry, going to push him away from her, and he wasn’t about to let that happen. He stopped her mouth before she could protest, wrapped her legs around his hips and began to move, not releasing her mouth until he knew he had her with him, that she wastrying to get closer to him, wanting to thrust back but unable to because of her seat on the chest of drawers. He could feel the shivers building, knew that whatever her consciousness was telling her, her body had overruled it, and all she wanted was completion. Satisfaction. Him.
    And he pulled out, almost completely, drinking in her anguished cry like the honey it was. “Who are you?” he whispered in her ear. “What are you doing here?”
    She clawed at him, trying desperately to bring him back, but he was much stronger than she was, and he held her still, his hands pinning her hips to the gilded top of the dresser. “Who are you?” he demanded again, his voice as cold as his body was hot.
    Her eyes were dazed, her mouth a soft wound. “Chloe…” she said in a choked voice.
    He thrust into her, hard, then withdrew before she could stop him. She cried out again, but he was without remorse. “Your clothes don’t belong to you,” he whispered, and in the background the noise from the television increased in intensity, matching his own ruthless arousal, “you speak languages you pretend you don’t. You’re here for a reason, and it has nothing to do with translating. Are you here to kill someone?”
    “Please!” she cried.
    Again he thrust, and he could feel her hovering on the edge, ready to explode, helpless as he knew hecould make her, knew that he needed to make her. “What do you want, Chloe?” he whispered, knowing