Rules of Passion (Greentree Sisters 2)

Marietta landed against his chest with a whoof, and found herself staring up into his dark eyes.

“Doing this?” he demanded, still angry, and bent his head.

And kissed her.

Marietta was surprised, but only for a moment. The feel of his body against her sent a shiver of excitement through her like no other. And she really could feel him this time, almost as if she were naked. The broad strength of his chest and his arms, the narrow power of his hips. His mouth might be hot and desperate, but it was also passionate and needy, and she reached up and wrapped her arms about his neck and held on.

This kiss was different from any of their previous ones. Max’s anger and passion were burning bright, and he had forgotten he was a gentleman who needed to retain control—he had forgotten he was the teacher. He kissed her as if he wanted to, as if he wanted her, and he no longer cared why they were doing this.

Her mouth was so sweet, so willing. Max felt as if he were drowning in the touch of her, the taste of her. He felt the swell of her breasts pressed to his chest, so soft and pliable without the hard shell of her stays. Everywhere his hands touched, he felt her. The fine curve of her waist, and the outward flare of her hips—whoever had dressed her knew what they were about. In a moment she’d be on the floor with him on top of her, and any chance he had to turn her mind to his way of thinking, to stop them both from doing something irrevocable, would be gone.

For a dangerous second he teetered on the edge, and then somehow he reeled them both back to safer ground.

Max lifted his mouth from hers. He was breathing quickly and so was she, her eyes closed, a hectic flush across her cheeks, her mouth swollen from his kisses. In her silk clothing that was hardly clothing at all, she looked wanton and accessible, but he knew the truth. Despite what she thought, Max knew she was no more cut out to be a courtesan than he.

“Ah Max…” she whispered, then swallowed, and tried again. “Max, would you say that you lost control then? Just a little bit?”

He frowned down at her. “Nonsense. I was fully in control.”

She smiled, her pink lips tilting up. “No, you weren’t.”

It was as if she was pleased that he had almost hoisted her onto the drinks table and plundered her. He wasn’t putting her off being a courtesan; he was feeding her delusions.

“Would you say I seduced you just then?” she went on, running a fingertip up his chest to his throat and smoothing the tanned skin.

He laughed angrily. “No, I would not.”

Disappointment flickered in her eyes, but the next moment she shrugged. “Oh. Well I think I did, a little. You kissed me then like you meant it, Max.”

He swore under his breath, just as there came a polite tap on the door, and Marietta gave him another secretive little smile as she called sweetly, “Come in.”

A procession of blank-faced servants carried in several trays of food and arranged the plates upon the table under the window, along with bottles in iced buckets. It was a meal for several, not just two, but he supposed the whole point of Aphrodite’s was excess. Excess in eating and drinking, and making love to beautiful and experienced women.

With a brief bow from the one in charge, the servants filed out again and closed the door behind them.

There was a silence, and then Marietta strolled over to the table. “Mmm,” she said, bending to take a sample from one of the dishes with her finger. “This looks delicious. I didn’t realize I was so hungry. All this looking seductive and being submissive, I suppose.”

He grunted. “Submissive! You’re hardly that.”

She ignored him, and instead slipped her finger between her lips to taste the food. Watching her, Max had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Arrogantly he had believed he was strong enough to do what was necessary tonight—either to talk some sense into her, or trap her with her desire for him. He had no doubt when he set out for Aphrodite’s that he was to be the eventual winner in this contest, that he would bend her to his will and she would finally see sense.

Marietta was no courtesan. She was made to be loved by one man, and he was beginning to think that he was that man. But he was being severely tested. What if it was Marietta who bowed him to her will, instead of the other way around? What if he ended up following her around like a lovestruck puppy?

What was it about this girl? Despite all the arguments to be made against what he was doing, he knew he would not stop. She had become an obsession. He wanted to save her, but the feelings driving him were deeper than that, darker than that. He knew he had little to offer her—his man of business had made it abundantly clear that his plans to reopen the mining venture on his Cornish property were shaky at best—but his need for her overr

ode good sense. It was visceral, meshed within him as if it were a part of him. All those years as the next Duke of Barwon, when he had been rich and handsome and fêted, no woman had caused more than a brief flutter of interest in his heart. And now he had found the woman in Marietta, but he no longer had anything with which to tempt her; no money and no position, no jewelry or fine things. Only himself, and their growing passion for each other.

Was it enough?

The food really was delicious. There was chicken vol-au-vent and roast pigeons and lobster, as well as a number of other meats, served with a heavily buttered dish of asparagus. There were lemon tarts, an orange soufflé, and ices in special glasses. Marietta saw to it that his plate was kept piled, offering him a taste of this and that, gazing at him expectantly as he sampled each dish and commented upon it, and trying not to argue with him over his choices. He appreciated that she was working very hard at being the perfect hostess, but it was difficult to concentrate on what he was eating when she was flitting backwards and forwards in a costume that fired his imagination. When she began to insist on removing his jacket and shoes he put a stop to it.

“Sit down, Marietta,” he said sharply. “You’re giving me indigestion.”

She sat down, looking dismayed. “I was only trying to make you comfortable,” she offered. “A good courtesan would make certain that her gentleman was comfortable.”

“No doubt, but as I’m as comfortable as I’m going to be, you can desist.”

She was silent for a little while. “You really are ungrateful, Max,” she said at last.