key.” Seizing her wrist, hetook the key from her unresisting fingers, conscious of the trembling in his hands.
He shoved the key in the lock, gave it a savage turn, heard the snick of the bolt’s release and pushed the door inward, then stepped back. Without a word, she walked past him into the darkened room, leaving the door open and the key in the lock. A light from the street filtered through the edges of the closed drapes, giving him glimpses of her silhouette. He stood in the hallway, watching as she walked to the bed and curled her hand around an iron post.
In his mind, he saw her lying beside him in that bed, the light from the windows playing dimly over her naked body, the blackness of her hair fanned over the pillow in an ebony tangle. He imagined her writhing against the building pressure caused by the caressing stroke of his hands.
To dispel the image and the inherent intimacy of a darkened bedroom, he stepped forward and flipped the wall switch by the door. Light pooled beneath the fringed Victorian lamp on the nightstand. Its diffuse glow spilled through the shade and spread onto the bed in mute invitation.
Cursing under his breath, he pivoted from the sight and jerked the key from the lock. “You left the key in the door.”
When he took a step to drop the key on the bedside table, she turned and came toward him, her blouse unbuttoned fully two-thirds of the way down. The muscles in his chest and throat constricted, closing off his breathing as he stared at the lacy white fabric stretched tautly over her breasts.
Woodenly he lifted his hand to give her the key. But she ignored it and reached past him, giving the door a decisive push. It swung shut with a dull thud and a click of the latch. She turned back to him and slid her hands up the front of his shirt to his shoulders, her blouse gaping open a little more.
“I want you to stay.” She tilted her head back, black hair swinging to hang down her back.
His hands came up, but they stopped short of touching her and, instead, held the air inches from her body. He dragged his gaze from her breasts up to her face. It lingered fractionally on her lips, still slightly swollen from his previous rough kiss, then traveled up to her eyes. He saw the desire in them—and the faint shadowing of grief that lurked at the edges. It didn’t take a great deal of intelligence to figure out that she was using him as a stand-in, a substitute for the man who had died.
“This isn’t a good idea,” he told her, his voice rumbling the warning.
“Why? Because I suggested it?” Her gaze traveled over his face, exploring the angular line of his jaw, his high, hard cheekbones, and the slant of his forehead. His hat sat low on it. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those men who doesn’t like it when a girl makes the first move?”
Reaching up, she swept his hat off and gave it a toss, then ran her fingers through his coarse black hair, combing away the flatness from the hat and studying the wayward strands that curled onto his forehead.
“Because you aren’t thinking clearly,” he said with a terseness. “You’ve had too much to drink tonight.”
Cat paused to consider that. “Maybe I have,” she admitted. “Lord knows, I’ve never been this brazen before. Maybe the alcohol has washed away my good sense. But I don’t recall appointing you to be my conscience.”
“Stop kidding yourself.” A thread of anger ran through his voice. “It isn’t me you want.”
A knifing pain twisted through her at his words.Cat fought it off with a defiant toss of her head. “Isn’t it?” she challenged him.
Since entering the hotel room, she had avoided his gaze. His height, his build, the darkness of his hair—they reminded her of Repp. But she couldn’t maintain the pretense when she looked into his gray eyes. Yet that didn’t stop the little thrill from tingling through her at the dark light smoldering in them.
“Tonight, you made me feel things I didn’t
He shoved the key in the lock, gave it a savage turn, heard the snick of the bolt’s release and pushed the door inward, then stepped back. Without a word, she walked past him into the darkened room, leaving the door open and the key in the lock. A light from the street filtered through the edges of the closed drapes, giving him glimpses of her silhouette. He stood in the hallway, watching as she walked to the bed and curled her hand around an iron post.
In his mind, he saw her lying beside him in that bed, the light from the windows playing dimly over her naked body, the blackness of her hair fanned over the pillow in an ebony tangle. He imagined her writhing against the building pressure caused by the caressing stroke of his hands.
To dispel the image and the inherent intimacy of a darkened bedroom, he stepped forward and flipped the wall switch by the door. Light pooled beneath the fringed Victorian lamp on the nightstand. Its diffuse glow spilled through the shade and spread onto the bed in mute invitation.
Cursing under his breath, he pivoted from the sight and jerked the key from the lock. “You left the key in the door.”
When he took a step to drop the key on the bedside table, she turned and came toward him, her blouse unbuttoned fully two-thirds of the way down. The muscles in his chest and throat constricted, closing off his breathing as he stared at the lacy white fabric stretched tautly over her breasts.
Woodenly he lifted his hand to give her the key. But she ignored it and reached past him, giving the door a decisive push. It swung shut with a dull thud and a click of the latch. She turned back to him and slid her hands up the front of his shirt to his shoulders, her blouse gaping open a little more.
“I want you to stay.” She tilted her head back, black hair swinging to hang down her back.
His hands came up, but they stopped short of touching her and, instead, held the air inches from her body. He dragged his gaze from her breasts up to her face. It lingered fractionally on her lips, still slightly swollen from his previous rough kiss, then traveled up to her eyes. He saw the desire in them—and the faint shadowing of grief that lurked at the edges. It didn’t take a great deal of intelligence to figure out that she was using him as a stand-in, a substitute for the man who had died.
“This isn’t a good idea,” he told her, his voice rumbling the warning.
“Why? Because I suggested it?” Her gaze traveled over his face, exploring the angular line of his jaw, his high, hard cheekbones, and the slant of his forehead. His hat sat low on it. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those men who doesn’t like it when a girl makes the first move?”
Reaching up, she swept his hat off and gave it a toss, then ran her fingers through his coarse black hair, combing away the flatness from the hat and studying the wayward strands that curled onto his forehead.
“Because you aren’t thinking clearly,” he said with a terseness. “You’ve had too much to drink tonight.”
Cat paused to consider that. “Maybe I have,” she admitted. “Lord knows, I’ve never been this brazen before. Maybe the alcohol has washed away my good sense. But I don’t recall appointing you to be my conscience.”
“Stop kidding yourself.” A thread of anger ran through his voice. “It isn’t me you want.”
A knifing pain twisted through her at his words.Cat fought it off with a defiant toss of her head. “Isn’t it?” she challenged him.
Since entering the hotel room, she had avoided his gaze. His height, his build, the darkness of his hair—they reminded her of Repp. But she couldn’t maintain the pretense when she looked into his gray eyes. Yet that didn’t stop the little thrill from tingling through her at the dark light smoldering in them.
“Tonight, you made me feel things I didn’t
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