Midnight's Wild Passion

He’d be dead before he stopped desiring her.

She tensed at his nearness. She probably suspected him of some wicked purpose. Who could blame her?

Hesitantly, and he hadn’t been hesitant with a woman since his earliest youth, he extended one arm and curled it around her shoulders. Her muscles tightened and wariness shadowed her expression.

“What do you want?” Her sharpness lacked its usual bite.

Oh, Antonia, you’re so strong. Too strong. Bend a little or you’ll break.

“We’re in my bedroom, Cassie’s only a few

feet away. She’s sick, not deaf,” she said in a dark tone. “If you think I’ll let you have your way here, you’re a fool.”

“Miss Smith, your suspicions wound me,” he said with a smile. He drew her, stiff and unwilling, against his side. Immediately her warmth seeped into his veins. He’d known he’d missed her, but only now did he realize how much. “I mean no harm.”

“You lie.”

“Often,” he agreed amiably, feeling the resistance leaching from her. “Not this time.”

“I’m in no fit state to fight you,” she muttered, curving into him as if created to fit his body.

“I know,” he acknowledged ruefully, wondering why of all the women in the world, she was the only one who ignited any glimmer of chivalry in his soul. “But it’s no fun when you just give in. I’ll wait until you’re up for another bout.”

She hid her face in his shoulder. She inhaled on a shudder, as if she hadn’t taken a full breath in days. “You’re an evil devil, Ranelaw.”

“Absolutely,” he said softly, firming his hold as she shifted, not away as she should, but closer.

He waited for her to continue her excoriations on his character but she remained quiet. Nor did she attempt to break free.

The room had no fireplace, but the day was mild for early May. Antonia was soft and warm in his hold. She smelled of fields of flowers and a trace of sweat. The combination was unaccountably evocative.

He turned his head and rested his chin on the soft cushion of hair. He’d never touched a woman intending only to comfort her. Unless he counted Eloise when he was a child.

“Are you crying?” he whispered after a long, surprisingly peaceful interval.

“No,” she said in a choked voice, burying her face deeper into his shirt. One arm snaked around his waist almost like she expected him to pull away. As if he would.

Women’s tears never affected him. He’d witnessed too many, going back to his mother, who used emotional blackmail more effectively than any female he’d known since. And he’d encountered virtuosi at the art.

Antonia’s reluctant tears made him want to punch something.

He tried to reawaken his cynical self. Remind himself that before he finished with her, Antonia Smith would be crying in earnest.

His cynical self scorned to enter this untidy room.

He placed a hand beneath her chin. She resisted as he tilted her face. “Now who’s lying?”

“It’s . . . it’s just tiredness,” she said unsteadily. “I’m fine. Truly.”

Still she kept fighting. He couldn’t help but respect her for it. Although she must recognize she neared the limit of her endurance. He felt it in her boneless weight. He read it in her drawn, pale face drenched in tears.

“I can see that.” He frowned. “Is Cassie really so sick?”

“Yes.” She dashed the tears from her cheeks. More fell to take their place.

He didn’t want to feel sorry for Miss Demarest. He’d rather she stayed a stranger, for all that he meant to bed her. If he started to think of Cassie as more than just an instrument of revenge, his ruthlessness mightn’t hold.

But it was impossible to remain unmoved by Antonia’s suffering. He didn’t bother spouting platitudes about Cassie being young and healthy and surviving this crisis. Antonia was too smart for such drivel.