She was often guilty of over-thinking things—that came with the territory of having an anxious, over-excited brain—but maybe it was best if she didn’t over-think this particular thing. Maybe she just needed to...act. Do what her instinct told her for a change.
She hadn’t had any experience with that, as her instincts had always been wrong in the past—at least, that was what her parents had said—but right now she had nothing to lose. Tomorrow he’d be leaving for Katara and the palace, and her one chance to get him to see her differently, to change his mind, would be gone.
It was now or never.
So she didn’t think, just pushed herself up and out of her chair, moving over to where he sat.
He arched one dark brow. ‘What do you want, little one?’
‘I’m not that little.’ She stopped in front of his chair, considering her next move.
‘No,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps you’re not.’ His gaze travelled over her in a leisurely fashion and it felt almost as if he was looking right through the material of her dress...
Inara’s skin prickled with sudden heat, her breath catching.
He was doing that, wasn’t he? Because, come to think of it, her dress was a little see-through—not that she’d ever paid much attention, as for the past five years she hadn’t had to worry about her appearance.
But now that heat was in his eyes, glowing like banked embers, and she could feel the pressure of his stare like a hand stroking slowly over her skin, she suddenly wanted more than anything in the entire world to be beautiful for him. To be sexy and desirable, to be his choice for the night. Not the scared sixteen-year-old her own parents had been willing to give to a monster.
She took a slow breath, then another, trying to control the frantic beat of her heart. Then she took a couple of steps closer until she was standing almost next to the chair. His legs were outstretched in front of him, crossed at the ankle, and she was painfully aware of how long and powerful he was. So much bigger than she was and so much stronger.
She wasn’t sure why that made her so breathless, but then that was the problem with Cassius. Everything about him made her breathless.
His head rested against the back of the chair, his eyes gleaming as he looked up at her, the tension between them pulling tighter.
Say something, idiot.
‘Um, I’ve never had brandy before,’ she said, her voice scratchy. ‘Can I have a taste?’
He shifted slightly and she found her attention flickering to his body once again. She noted the stretch of his trousers over his powerful thighs and the pull of the cotton over his shoulders. He’d got rid of his jacket and tie, and his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat. She could see his pulse beating beneath smooth olive skin, strong and steady...
‘Never?’ he asked.
There was a look in his eyes and a certain hot note in his voice that made her think he wasn’t just talking about brandy. But she wasn’t sure what else he could be talking about. Whatever it was, she was suddenly hotter and even more breathless than before.
‘No.’ She didn’t know what to do with her hands except clasp them in front of her. ‘Is it nice?’
Inwardly, part of her cringed. She sounded so silly. Like a little girl. But what else could she say? Social graces and small talk had never come easily to her, much to her mother’s annoyance, and as for getting the attention of a man, well...
‘For God’s sake, Inara,’ her mother had said at the first aristocratic gathering to which they’d managed to swing an invite. ‘If you can’t open your mouth without boring everyone to tears, then just shut it and smile. Some men like a quiet woman.’
So she’d been quiet after that, as she couldn’t trust herself to say anything interesting. And clearly she shouldn’t trust herself now, especially when he’d be used to all kinds of beautiful, experienced women. Women who were far more interesting than she was, and far more beautiful too. Not pale and weedy and weak-looking. Untidy and chaotic and awkward, hardly anyone’s prize.
Except he’s looking at you like you might be his.
And he was. Or at least she thought he was. The smoky amber of his gaze was now a hot golden-brown, like the warmed brandy in his glass, and there was something distinctly speculative in it. As if he was imagining things...
Her palms were sweaty and she couldn’t breathe, and part of her wanted to turn around and leave the room, flee back to the safety of her study or her bedroom, or basically anywhere he wasn’t.
‘Being good at maths is useless to us, Inara,’ her mother had said coldly after the last social failure. ‘We need an aristocratic alliance and if you can’t even manage that then what good are you?’
Good enough to turn over to an old man who had an unhealthy obsession with young girls, apparently.
But she wasn’t her parents’ chess piece now and she’d had five years of freedom from being criticised constantly. And, more than anything else, if she didn’t follow through with this she knew she’d never find out what it would be like to be wanted by him. To be touched by him. To have a night with him...
She’d never have a chance to change his mind about divorcing her, and she’d never have something of him to keep for herself if that didn’t work.
So she stayed where she was, breathless and aching, and afraid and excited all at the same time.