The Gold Coin (Colby's Coin 1)

"I know what you meant." He was still holding her hand, brushing her gloved fingers against his lips. "I also know that something's going on in that beautiful head of yours, something that's making you keep your distance from me. You barely spoke a word to me at the party—after our ride, that is. Those few minutes following the race, when we were together—did I offend you?"

She didn't pretend to misunderstand. "You know you didn't."

"Good. I didn't think so." Without warning, Damen tugged her closer, brought her arms around his neck. "In that case we'll discuss your misconceptions later, whatever they might be. Because Fenshaw's due here soon with our papers, after which we won't be alone. And since I've been unable to stop thinking about you—the feel of you in my arms, the taste of your mouth under mine—and since I can't seem to act rationally around you, I need to do this." His palms slid down the length of her arms, capturing her face and angling it toward his.

Anastasia's breath caught, but she had no time to react before Damen's mouth swooped down, seized hers in a hot, bone-melting kiss. Demonstrating none of the other morning's gradual onset, he let the powerful pull between them take over, his lips moving purposefully over hers, his arms rigid as they shifted to her waist, bringing her against him.

"Anastasia." He said her name, and the sound made shivers go through her. She opened her mouth to respond, and his tongue slid inside, teasing and caressing hers until a low moan escaped her.

Damen tightened his grip, drawing her closer still, kissing her more deeply, his hands moving restlessly up and down her spine.

For a moment, Anastasia gave in, her eyes sliding shut as she sank into the kiss, pleasure drenching her senses as she felt Damen's warmth, his incredible power, engulf her. She pressed against the solid wall of his chest, felt the silk of his waistcoat against her cheek, the crisp muslin of his shirt collar beneath her fingertips. It was exquisite, this intoxicating feeling that flowed through her, making her limbs go weak and her heart pound like a drum. The sensations were just as they had been two days ago, only stronger, more potent. She could drown in this feeling, her body too alive to protest, her mind too dizzy, too clouded…

Much too clouded.

That triggered a warning bell—one that screamed its reminder about her decision—and its basis.

Abruptly, Anastasia tensed, planting her hands firmly on Damen's shoulders and wrenching herself away. "Don't," she managed, her breathing shallow. "Please."

Damen caught at her elbows, his tone and expression raw. "What is it? Why are you pulling away?" He frowned. "Dammit, Anastasia, answer me. Are you upset with me?"

Resolutely, she stepped backward, folding her arms across her breasts—whether for emphasis or emotional support, she wasn't certain. "I'm not upset with you. I'm upset with me. With us. With the situation." She inhaled slowly, determined to stand her ground. "Why don't we pretend this never happened, and just get to the purpose of my visit: signing our partnership papers?"

His eyes narrowed on her face. "I can't do that. Neither, for that matter, can you. As for the papers, we can't sign them until Fenshaw gets here. And he's not due for twenty minutes."

Anastasia blinked. "Your note said the appointment was at eleven."

"It said your appointment was at eleven. Fenshaw's is at half after. I wanted some time alone with you."

Why did that notion elicit a rush of pleasure she couldn't squelch? "Damen, this is a bad idea," she informed him, knowing how unconvincing she sounded.

"On the contrary, it's the best idea I've had in ages." He moved closer again, threaded his fingers through her hair. "What happened to the new style you were trying?" he murmured, sifting strands of burnished copper off her shoulders.

"It failed miserably. By last night I gave it up. I simply can't keep my hair from toppling to my shoulders, no matter how hard I try."

"Stop trying." Damen brought one tress to his lips, savoring its texture. "You weren't meant to look prim. You were meant to look unaffected, sometimes disheveled, always beautiful—and always unique, the way you looked on horseback." His forefinger slid beneath her chin, raised it until their gazes locked. "The way you look now, with your lips still moist from mine and your eyes asking me to kiss you again."

"Damen…" Anastasia had no idea what she was going to say. Her palms were on his lapels, smoothing up the cloth of his blue tailcoat.

"H-m-m?" His lips brushed hers, once, twice, then hovered as he awaited her consent. "One more kiss," he said, his breath teasing her mouth. "Just one. Then we'll talk."

She took an unconscious step closer. "And this kiss will be the last?"

"If you want it to be."

Her eyes searched his face. "You know I don't want it to be."

"Um-hum. And I also know why you believe it should be." His knuckles caressed her cheek, the side of her neck, the curve of her shoulder, absorbing the tiny shivers his touch elicited. "What you're thinking—it's not true, Anastasia," he said huskily. "I promise you, it's not. Now stop fighting the inevitable and kiss me."

&n

bsp; "You don't understand…"

"Yes I do. Now kiss me."

She gave up. She didn't have the strength not to. Not when she wanted more than anything to feel the incredible pleasure of his mouth on hers again.

With a breathy sigh, she leaned up, closing the distance between their lips and giving him exactly what they both wanted.