He looked down at her, surprise clear on his face. A moment later it was gone, replaced by the sardonic languor she was fast growing accustomed to. "You're much too thin," he observed. "I can feel your ribs. " His cool fingers stroked her heated skin. "But I find you're much more interesting with your clothes off. "
She yanked herself out of his arms, wrapping the towel around her. He caught her arm before she could move completely out of reach, and he picked up a thick strand of her hair. Once she'd washed it she'd let it hang over the edge of the tub and it was almost dry, its familiar strawberry-blond color warm in the firelight. "And your hair is quite lovely. Such an unusual combination--chocolate-brown eyes and strawberry hair. "
She froze. Fifteen years ago he'd teased her, flirting with her, telling her she had chocolate eyes, and it had been a joke between them. She allowed herself a brief, searching look at him, but he didn't appear to have made any connection. He'd probably seen any number of women with chocolate eyes.
"The bed is in the adjoining room," he said.
"Wh. . . what?"
His smile was wry. "You were going to take a nap, remember? Unless you've changed your mind?"
"Please release me," she said in response. She couldn't think straight when he was touching her. Even the simple hold on her wrist sent waves of heat through her body, to places she didn't even want to think about.
"Why?"
She yanked, but he didn't let go. "If you bruise me your fellow degenerates might complain," she said bitterly.
"I expect they'll bruise you far worse than I will. Why do you want me to take my hand off you?"
"Because I don't like you. "
"Try again. Don't you have any idea why you shiver when I touch you?"
"Revulsion? Extreme dislike? Nausea?"
His slow smile widened until it was absolutely wicked, and he trailed his other hand up her bare arm, to the base of her neck, letting his fingers dance over her racing pulse. "No. But then, you wouldn't be likely to recognize it. Try this. "
And before she realized what he was going to do he'd leaned forward and brushed his mouth against hers, a light, clinging kiss, pulling away before she could react.
She stared up at him in consternation. "Why did you do that?" she whispered.
"To make a point. It's called sexual attraction, my innocent one. It's a powerful force when it hits this hard. It's animal instinct, the mating urge, and for some bizarre reason it exists between you and me. "
"Ridiculous. " She barely managed to get the word out.
He was trailing his hand up and down her arm while his other one captured her wrist. "Not at all. It's perfectly natural. It's just surprising it's so powerful between us. You're hardly my type. "
Her heart was thudding against her breast, so hard she thought he might hear it. The touch of his mouth had been devastating, and he was right, she wanted more.
"Let. Go. Of. Me. "
He smiled ruefully. "Of course," he said, and released her, stepping back. "There are clothes waiting in the other room, though I have to admit I'd rather you didn't put them on. "
"Whore's clothes?"
"On the contrary. You're missing the point. They want you because you're innocent. For all I know they'll dress you up like a nun. "
She slammed the door behind her, then looked for a key. Of course there wasn't one, but he didn't seem to be interested in following her. The clothes that lay across the bed were pristine and lovely--fresh white batiste undergarments, modest and understated, with nothing to cover them. She dressed quickly in what they'd left her--shift, drawers, petticoat and light corset. She laced it loosely, then climbed up onto the bed. She wasn't going to think about it, wasn't going to think about anything. She was going to fall asleep, immediately.
Which she did. But as she drifted off she remembered his mouth on hers, his hand brushing against her neck, and she wanted to weep.
Alistair Rohan stared at the closed door for a long moment. This was quite the most interesting day he'd had in a long time, perhaps years. It wasn't the birth of the Heavenly Host after months of drunken planning, it wasn't the incipient erotic events coming up. It was his own reactions that astonished him.
He wanted her. That pathetic little dab of a thing--who wanted anyone but him--and he was more aroused by her than by the most experienced, beautiful women in Venice, Paris or London. She was too thin, she was absolutely ignorant of any kind of pleasure, and, while her eyes brought back some hazy sense of a long-lost happiness, they weren't enough to account for this powerful attraction.
He'd like to believe it was her animosity, but there were any number of women were wise enough not to want to have anything to do with him. His reputation was widespread--most women with sense would keep their distance.
Perhaps it was because he felt her strong attraction to him, the attraction she was too innocent to recognize. She was so untutored that she had no idea that it was sexual longing raging in her pure veins.