Far Too Tempted by Emma Wildes Page A

me.”
    She could smell the heady scent of wine on his breath and remembered how often he’d had his glass refilled at dinner. Everyone at the table had begun lifting their brows, even the duke.
    “You’re drunk,” she spoke contemptuously, and spun away.
    Catching her shoulder, he spun her back. “Yes, I am. And no, we haven’t finished our discussion. Agree to a truce, Jess.”
    She was all too acutely aware of the strength of the hands that held her, but not actually afraid. Whatever she thought of the man, he wouldn’t hurt her. She snapped out, “No.”
    He caught her wrists and jerked her forward so that she stumbled on the path and fell against him, chest to chest. “Yes. Agree.” His breath stirred her hair.
    She seethed. She raged against his effrontery, against the way that he was holding her, touching her. Looking up to meet his angry shimmering gaze, she said hotly, “I despise you. You are nothing but a womanizer with the morals of a toad. Any man who would seduce a married woman at his mother’s party is a scoundrel.”
    His grip on her wrists tightened fractionally. She was flush against his tall body, and could feel muscular hardness of his thighs, hear the beating of his heart. It was difficult to maintain an aura of dignity when she felt so very small next to his height and lean strength.
    His eyes narrowed. “Always, always, we’re back to that, are we? God in heaven, that was a long time ago. Can’t we forget it?”
    “Is that how it works, you seduce and forget?” Her tone was falsely sweet.
    “Did it occur to you, Jess, that she might have seduced me?”
    The question took her off-guard. “What?”
    In the starlight, his face was a handsome mask of shadows. His lashes were long and very dark over his eyes. He drawled softly, “Oh yes, that is how it works sometimes, my little innocent. The brush of a breast against your arm, the flutter of a fan that taps your wrist suggestively, the placement of her hand, just so, under the table on your upper thigh during dinner. I’m not always the hunter. The game is played from both sides. That night, I was not the one who suggested the gazebo.”
    She choked out, “Don’t try to excuse your amoral behavior.”
    “I’m not excusing anything, as I don’t answer to you. I am simply enlightening you to the truth. Passion is a sport played equally by men and women.”
    “I don’t care about your…sport.” Jessica jerked against his hold. “Let me go, Alex.”
    “That’s because,” he said thickly, “you don’t know anything about it, Jess. How can you condemn what you know nothing of?”
    “What I know and don’t know is none of your business.”
    “Oh, come on, Jess. Don’t try and tell me your laggard lover ever taught you a thing about what goes on between a man and a woman. You wear your innocence like a flying flag on a ship’s mast. Maybe I should change that.”
    “What?” She gaped, going very still.
     
    Alex usually could hold his liquor well, but tonight frustration had intensified the effects to a startling degree. A part of him understood her feminine affront over the incident years ago because it had toppled him from some absurd pedestal. A part of him was angry that he was being punished for a wrong he’d never intended.
    A part of him was simply very attracted to her and he was not used to such open disdain.
    He wanted to taste her.
    Very much.
    She was pressed against him because of the pressure he exerted on her arms. The softness of her breasts and the curve of her hips touching him was enough to rattle any good judgment he had left. Her upturned face was pale in the dim light, her eyes very wide and light. And her mouth—it was so very tempting.
    The notion of kissing her was insane, that dim realization came a second too late, just before he gave in to the madness.
    He bent his head and felt her stiffen just before his lips captured hers.
    Sweet warmth. She gasped and he swallowed that sound, his eyes