He blinked down at her. Why…? “Lamps?”
Drawing back a fraction more, she leveled her gaze—on his cravat. “You insisted on a bed, and light enough to see.” She drew in a breath—and set her fingers to his cravat. “So we can light more lamps if one isn’t enough—”
“Phoebe.” He closed one hand over hers, stopping her from further disarranging his cravat. In retrospect, he’d been slow in picking up the signs, because he’d thought…He waited until she looked up at him, until he could see her darkened violet eyes, and the stubborn, indefatigably determined set of her chin. “What did you want to discuss with me?”
He felt obliged to confirm that matters were as he now thought.
“Not so much discuss as address. Us. This—my seduction.” Sliding one hand from beneath his, she waved over her shoulder at the red-silk-brocade-draped divan. “There’s the bed, we have light, so now it’s just—”
“No.” Gripping her hand, he lifted it away from his cravat. Retaining his hold, he resurveyed the room, but there really was no question in his mind. He met her gaze. “We are not staging the final act of your seduction here, tonight.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, her glance now more ireful than desireful. “Why not?”
He suddenly realized what the real source of the tension thrumming through her was. It was difficult not to smile with smug satisfaction; preserving an expression of impassivity, he racked his brains for an excuse she would understand, one that wouldn’t worry her—one she would accept.
“Because”—he kept his eyes locked with hers—“the final act in your seduction will run for considerably longer than half an hour.”
She blinked, then blinked again. “Oh.”
“In fact”—the more he thought of it, the more sure he was—“you should think more in terms of several hours.”
She started to mouth “several,” stopped, swallowed, then nodded. “I see. Very well.” She looked past his shoulder for a moment. “In that case—” She tried to step back, out of his encircling arm, but he held her securely.
He looked down at her. “Where are you going?”
She braced her hands against his chest. “If we’re not…then we should return to the ballroom.”
Her tone was determinedly prim. He chuckled, the sound as delightedly devilish as he felt. “You’ve just handed me yourself for half an hour, in a setting designed for titillation.” By a female mind, what was more. He caught her startled, widening gaze as it lifted to his eyes. “You can’t possibly imagine I’ll refuse.”
Phoebe read his intentions in his eyes, clearly writ in the devilish green, and inwardly groaned. This was not a good idea; this wasn’t what she’d planned. Then she remembered. “No.”
He looked at her; she smiled.
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He frowned, clearly considering, then slowly shook his head. “Those words I gave you—they only apply when I’m kissing you, or at the very least have my hands on you. I gave them to you so you won’t feel threatened, but you’re not in such a position now, so they don’t function.”
She felt her jaw drop. His gaze had gone past her; keeping one of her hands locked in one of his, he moved her aside and walked toward the divan, towing her behind him.
He halted and studied the divan. “Especially not after bringing me here. That qualifies as incitement, and with incitement you can’t vacillate. Once you’ve incited, you have to cope with whatever response you get. That’s the way incitement works.”
She struggled to follow his reasoning, then realized he was talking purely to distract her while he planned…. She tugged on his hand. “We really should get back to the ballroom.”
“Not yet. We’ve plenty of time. More than half an hour, really, given the crowd down there.”
She was struggling to think of a useful response when he turned and her nerves leapt, but then he sat on the divan. He bounced lightly, testing, then he sighed and reclined back against the cushions, lifting both legs onto the bed so his feet hung off the end, lifting one arm over his head and settling his shoulders into the piled cushions. She stared down at him.
A slow, wolfish, thoroughly untrustworthy smile curved his lips and lit his green eyes. He changed his hold on her hand so his fingers now manacled her wrist. “You’re not really going to tell me that you’d rather be weathering the crush down there than attending to my needs?”
Her mouth dried. She considered him for a long moment, then asked, “Your needs?”
“Hmm. Isn’t this something like the fantasies you and Catherine dreamed of in creating this room? Having a sheik or sultan capture you and order you to pleasure him? Isn’t that how it goes?”
He’d guessed right, and he knew it, but not even in their wildest dreams had either she or, she’d wager, Catherine ever conjured a sheik or sultan who could hold a candle to him.
Aside from all else, he was real—real flesh, hot blood, and very hard muscle. Reclining before her in an unbelievably arrogant pose, one that was doing real violence to her already weakened resistance.
Then something in his eyes changed; she could have sworn his gaze grew hotter, but harder and more ruthless, too.