tightened her
chest; physical longing, emotional longing, spiritual longing.
He was more than the dark
haired, stone carved male that attracted her so fiercely, he might very well
have been created in the likes of her own personal Adonis, perfect planes with
adoring flaws made to order for her own particular weaknesses. His jaw, square
and strong, almost too hard. His nose just that little longer than classical
beauty dictated. His eyes dark, deep, almond shaped, more harsh than sensual.
Without those flaws, he’d be too handsome, he wouldn’t be the single man that
set her blood on fire and tugged ruthlessly at her heartstrings.
He was more than the man
she’d fallen hopelessly in love with, the man she’d locked inside her heart and
refused to release, no matter that they’d never be together.
Nicolas was her other
half.
The brown eyes that held
her captive were softened by the awareness that crackled between them, yet not
without the hard edge of recriminations.
Dropping her gaze
abruptly, Catherine gripped the edge of his collar and redoubled her efforts.
Her fingers brushed his throat and burned. “Why do they always make these
things so fidgety?” she said to dispel the maelstrom of feelings and yearnings.
He said nothing and she
wasn’t about to look up again. Finally, she secured the badge and took a
welcome step backward. And caught the bemusement dancing in the brown depths of
his gaze.
Nicolas glanced at the
hard hats on the roof, then back to her. “Would you mind?”
He was the devil stoking
what was already a burning furnace, but for one more moment of her lingering
touch, for one more stolen kiss, he was prepared to burn in a hell made hotter
by his own hand.
Tomorrow, he’d start
un-loving and un-wanting her.
He lowered his head a
little as she reached up to fit the hat, then, before she could move away, he
stole his kiss, brushing her lips with the slightest pressure that sent an
immediate rush through his blood. When she didn’t jump away, he deepened the
kiss, dropping the torch to slip that hand around the back of her head,
threading his fingers in a knot of silky hair, moulding her mouth to his will,
branding her lips with the love pouring from his heart.
Only the sound of an
engine in the distance tore them apart and he’d swear she went as unwillingly
as he.
Cazzo. He rubbed at his temples as she whirled
away from him to busy herself with her own hat, to hide the clash of pleasure
and confusion he’d glimpsed in those vast blue eyes, to continue the pretence
that she didn’t respond helplessly to his kisses. He bent to retrieve the
discarded torch, testing the on switch to check that it had survived the fall.
He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t
inexperienced. And he knew when a woman melted beneath his touch and Catherine
was every inch that woman.
Why did she continue to
deny it? To deny him? Why had she given up on them easily? She wasn’t the type
of woman to lust without deeper emotions.
As she turned back to face
him, her auburn hair pressed flat beneath the hard hat to make her eyes seem
even rounder and larger, flashing blue in defiance of what had just happened.
That stubborn chin notched up defensively and the answers came to him like a
bucket of frigid water dumped over his head. Answers she’d already given him,
answers he apparently had difficulty remembering.
He wasn’t the stuff
royalty was made of and Catherine would deny herself a million times over in
favour of duty.
He wasn’t the kind of man
Ophella would accept as the husband of their future queen.
God help him for false
pride and immodesty, but Geoffrey was?
The reasoning eluded
Nicolas, but he had no option other than to accept the ending she seemed hell
bent on. Catherine put Ophella above all else and she’d decided that he wasn’t
the man to make her a better queen.
That man was Geoffrey. Her
choice sucked, but there it was.
“Lead the way,” he told
her grimly, bringing tomorrow a little
chest; physical longing, emotional longing, spiritual longing.
He was more than the dark
haired, stone carved male that attracted her so fiercely, he might very well
have been created in the likes of her own personal Adonis, perfect planes with
adoring flaws made to order for her own particular weaknesses. His jaw, square
and strong, almost too hard. His nose just that little longer than classical
beauty dictated. His eyes dark, deep, almond shaped, more harsh than sensual.
Without those flaws, he’d be too handsome, he wouldn’t be the single man that
set her blood on fire and tugged ruthlessly at her heartstrings.
He was more than the man
she’d fallen hopelessly in love with, the man she’d locked inside her heart and
refused to release, no matter that they’d never be together.
Nicolas was her other
half.
The brown eyes that held
her captive were softened by the awareness that crackled between them, yet not
without the hard edge of recriminations.
Dropping her gaze
abruptly, Catherine gripped the edge of his collar and redoubled her efforts.
Her fingers brushed his throat and burned. “Why do they always make these
things so fidgety?” she said to dispel the maelstrom of feelings and yearnings.
He said nothing and she
wasn’t about to look up again. Finally, she secured the badge and took a
welcome step backward. And caught the bemusement dancing in the brown depths of
his gaze.
Nicolas glanced at the
hard hats on the roof, then back to her. “Would you mind?”
He was the devil stoking
what was already a burning furnace, but for one more moment of her lingering
touch, for one more stolen kiss, he was prepared to burn in a hell made hotter
by his own hand.
Tomorrow, he’d start
un-loving and un-wanting her.
He lowered his head a
little as she reached up to fit the hat, then, before she could move away, he
stole his kiss, brushing her lips with the slightest pressure that sent an
immediate rush through his blood. When she didn’t jump away, he deepened the
kiss, dropping the torch to slip that hand around the back of her head,
threading his fingers in a knot of silky hair, moulding her mouth to his will,
branding her lips with the love pouring from his heart.
Only the sound of an
engine in the distance tore them apart and he’d swear she went as unwillingly
as he.
Cazzo. He rubbed at his temples as she whirled
away from him to busy herself with her own hat, to hide the clash of pleasure
and confusion he’d glimpsed in those vast blue eyes, to continue the pretence
that she didn’t respond helplessly to his kisses. He bent to retrieve the
discarded torch, testing the on switch to check that it had survived the fall.
He wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t
inexperienced. And he knew when a woman melted beneath his touch and Catherine
was every inch that woman.
Why did she continue to
deny it? To deny him? Why had she given up on them easily? She wasn’t the type
of woman to lust without deeper emotions.
As she turned back to face
him, her auburn hair pressed flat beneath the hard hat to make her eyes seem
even rounder and larger, flashing blue in defiance of what had just happened.
That stubborn chin notched up defensively and the answers came to him like a
bucket of frigid water dumped over his head. Answers she’d already given him,
answers he apparently had difficulty remembering.
He wasn’t the stuff
royalty was made of and Catherine would deny herself a million times over in
favour of duty.
He wasn’t the kind of man
Ophella would accept as the husband of their future queen.
God help him for false
pride and immodesty, but Geoffrey was?
The reasoning eluded
Nicolas, but he had no option other than to accept the ending she seemed hell
bent on. Catherine put Ophella above all else and she’d decided that he wasn’t
the man to make her a better queen.
That man was Geoffrey. Her
choice sucked, but there it was.
“Lead the way,” he told
her grimly, bringing tomorrow a little
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