Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

“Why did you think you were? I recall you stuffed yourself at lunch.”

She gazed out over the water, unaware that he was watching her face closely. She shrugged, then winced at the slight pulling feeling in her ribs. “It’s silly. But when you were carrying me, my stomach felt empty, and rumbly, sort of.”

His eyes glittered. “So sophisticated,” he said.

“What does that mean?” she asked, turning to frown at him.

“Not a thing, Chauncey.” He sat up and began to sift sand between his fingers. “I come here when I want to think things out,” he said, seemingly intent on the piles of sand he was building.

“And are you thinking important things now?”

“I believe so,” he said vaguely, the damned sand holding all his attention. “Things seem to become clearer out here, and more simple.”

He shifted his position slightly, and Chauncey found herself looking at his long legs, outlined snugly in dark brown flannel trousers. His thighs were well-muscled, and her eyes followed their line upward. She shocked herself when she looked blatantly at the taut outline of his groin. She blinked, aware that the silly feeling was back in her stomach again.

“Chauncey,” he said, his voice heavy with feeling. Her eyes flew to his face and she felt herself grow quite red.

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I . . . I don’t know what’s wrong with me! You must think I’m awful.”

Suddenly he lay back on the blanket and spread his arms wide. His gaze held hers and she noticed in the bright sunlight the dancing golden flecks lighting the liquid brown of his eyes. “I have decided,” he announced grandly, “that I have been run aground. Behold a collapsed man. Do with me what you will, Chauncey.”

She ran her tongue nervously over her lower lip, and Delaney wondered frantically if he would embarrass the both of them, for he could feel the nearly painful swelling of his manhood.

“What do you mean?” she asked at last, her eyes, thankfully, still on his face.

“So it is my total surrender you demand?”

He looks as if he wants to consume me, she thought with blurred insight. She was suddenly frightened, and quickly turned her face away from him. Where was her burning hatred of him? Where was that unyielding part of her that had been her anchor for so very long?

“More thrust and parry?” he asked gently, the irony of his tone reaching her.

“I am . . . afraid,” she said, and he couldn’t mistake the honesty in her voice.

“Don’t you remember my telling you last night that I would never harm you? I might be a brash American, my dear, but I am not lost to all honor.”

She felt her breath catch harshly in her throat. She wanted to yell at him that she wasn’t afraid of him. It was herself she feared. Her mind fastened on his words. Not lost to honor. But he was, damn him, he was! Dear God, she wanted to hate him, plunge a dagger into his chest! She realized that she was getting exactly what she wanted. How many weeks had she been set on her single-minded course to bring about this moment? You must take advantage of the situation, she told herself angrily.

She turned back to him and gave him a dazzling smile, trying desperately to exude a wanton promise in her eyes. To her utter chagrin, he laughed softly.

“Oh, Chauncey, you haven’t the . . . experience to play the seductress.”

She stiffened alarmingly, frightened that he seemed to see so easily through her.

“Nor is there any need,” he continued. He sat up, turning gracefully toward her. Gently he cupped her chin in his hand.

“I never before realized how it would feel to let another person become so important, so vital to me.”

“Then why have you been so . . . elusive, as if you were mocking me?”

“I’ve wondered the same thing myself, believe me! It all started the night of the masked ball. You were such fun to tease, never at a loss for a stinging retort. I suppose I wanted to see how outrageous you would become.”

“So outrageous that I nearly killed myself!”

“And what man could ignore such a dramatic gesture? You please me, Chauncey, as no woman has ever done before. You delight the imagination.” He wanted desperately to kiss her, to pull her down with him on the blanket. He dropped his hand from her chin.

“You become the poet,” she said with forced lightness, but her voice was shaking in spite of herself.

He waved away her words. “I’m twenty-eight years old, Chauncey, not too much older than you. I’m a rich man, and have no need for your money.”