Cheryl Holt Read Free Page A

closer.
    The mirror was directly behind her, the basin on one side, the vanity on the other, and he was in front. She was hemmed into the corner, unable to slip past, and it occurred to her that—discounting Hugh—this was the only instance she’d ever been closeted with an adult man. The doors were closed, the room isolated, the servants abed, and if she’d chosen to call out, no one was available to assist her.
    She was totally at his mercy, and she was supposed to be scared and alarmed, yet she found herself elated by the scandalous interlude. Where the heady, ribald euphoria sprang from she couldn’t have explained, because she hadn’t realized she was craving a clandestine adventure.
    Perhaps the man, himself, instilled the improper sentiment. He was overtly complacent about their situation, assured that he had every right to enter, confident that she would appreciate the wrongful intrusion. When he stared at her with those extraordinary eyes, she yearned to acquiesce to whatever he suggested.
    Still, she couldn’t permit him to remain, and she pulled herself up to her full height, which was distinctly lacking considering how he towered over her. “I’ll not ask again, sir.”
    “I’ve been watching you.”
    He’d been watching her? From where? For how long? Had he observed her whole bath? Mortified, she clasped the towel more securely against her breasts. “How terribly vile.”
    “You opened the peephole.” He shrugged, his offensiveshattering of polite conduct apparently being of no import. “Why wouldn’t I look through?”
    “What peephole?” she inquired, aghast.
    “The one between our rooms.” He ignored her outrage. “Your skin is so smooth. Like silk.”
    The simple statement disconcerted her. She’d never before received a flattering compliment from a man, especially not an attractive, virile, mostly naked one, and as she stumbled for a response, he advanced like a large cat, a graceful, predatory beast like those from the jungles of Africa that she’d seen at an exhibition in London. He was so near that the fist she’d valiantly anchored to her bosom to hold the towel was pressed against his ribs. His skin was warm, and his matting of chest hair tickled the heel of her hand.
    She tilted away, but the mirror prevented evasion. Though she fought to appear staunch and in control, her dilemma had quickly spiraled beyond her ability to navigate. Anxiously, she licked her bottom lip, which instantly had him studying her mouth as though intent on devouring her.
    “Sir, you’re scaring me.”
    “How?”
    “I’m not certain why you’re here—”
    “Aren’t you?” His words were husky with a dangerous lust that even she, in her sheltered, virginal state, couldn’t misconstrue.
    “—or what you propose . . .”
    “You know what I
propose
. I’ll be very gentle if that’s how you like it.” With a sure finger, he traced down her cheek and across her neck, and his touch was so blistering that she felt as if she’d been burned. She flinched, and he soothed, “You don’t need to be afraid.”
    She battled to comprehend what he was saying. It seemed that he aimed to force himself upon her, but there was no urgency in his demeanor. “If you were any kind of gentleman . . .”.
    “I’m no gentleman, my dear lady. Never have I professed to be.”
    Her pulse thudded at a higher rate. She had no notion how to interact with a man who uttered such a wild claim. If he didn’t deem himself to be a gentleman, then what code governed his behavior? “If you don’t depart, I’ll scream.”
    “I don’t care if you scream. I’m happy to indulge any of your whims, just as you’ll get to indulge mine, so you’re free to do whatever makes our rendezvous more enjoyable for you.”
    What?
She shook her head, perplexed and becoming frightened even though he’d done nothing that was outright menacing.
    “Please . . . I’m here alone, and I’m . . .” She wanted to state the