On a Wicked Dawn (Cynster 9)

Because that risked revealing far too much. He locked his gaze on her stubborn face. "Because going too fast will raise questions — questions we'd rather weren't asked. Like is there any reason for my sudden pursuit of you — I've only known you for how long? Twenty something years? Too fast, and people will wonder what's behind it. And my possible motives are the least of it. I told you from the start, this needs to be convincing, and that means slow. Four weeks. No shortcuts."

"I thought you meant we could take up to four weeks, not that it had to take four weeks."

"People need to see a steady progression from mild interest, to awareness, to decision, to confirmation. If they don't see any motive — if we don't give them a good show — they won't accept it."

All nonsense, of course. If she had any more gowns in her armoire like the one she was wearing, no one would wonder at his sudden decision.

On the thought, his gaze lowered; he frowned at the offending article. "Have you any more gowns like that?"

She glared, then looked down at her gown, spread the skirts. "What is it about this gown that so irks you?"

He had wisdom enough to know to keep his lips shut; instead, he heard himself growl, "It's too damned inviting."

She seemed taken aback. "Is it?"

"Yes!" He'd thought the effect bad enough in his hall, and even worse under the chandeliers. Yet the worst, most dizzying effect was now, in half-light. He'd noticed it under the trees; it had been partly to blame for his unwise words. In poor light, the gown made her skin shimmer, too, as if her bare shoulders and breasts were part of a pearl, rising from the froth of the sea. Offered, waiting for the right hand to recognize and seize, take, reveal the rest that the gown concealed…

Small wonder he could barely think.

"It's…" He gestured, struggling to find the right words to talk his way out of this morass.

She was looking down, considering. "Inviting… but isn't that how I should look?"

It was the way she lifted her head and met his gaze — head-on, direct — that shook his laggard wits into place. His eyes slowly narrowed as he considered — her words, and her. "You know." He took a menacing step toward her. She dropped her skirts and straightened, but didn't step back. He halted and glared down into her eyes. "You know damned well how you — in that damned gown — affect men."

Her eyes widened. "Well of course." She tilted her head, as if wondering at his thought processes. "Whyever did you imagine I'd worn it?"

He made a strangled sound — the remnants of the roar he refused to let her hear. He never lost his temper — except, these days, with her! He pointed a finger at the tip of her nose. "If you wish me to marry you, you will not again wear this gown, or any like it, unless I give you leave."

She held his gaze, then drew herself up, folded her arms—

"For God's sake, don't do that!" He shut his eyes against the sight of her breasts rising even higher above the rippling edge of her bodice.

"I'm perfectly decent."

Her tone was clipped, distinctly acid. He risked lifting his lids the veriest fraction; his gaze, predictably, locked on the ivory mounds flauntingly displayed by the distracting gown. Her nipples had to be just—

"Anyone would think you've never seen a lady's breasts before — you can't expect me to believe that." Amelia kept her delight at his susceptibility firmly in check. Not hard; she didn't like the direction this discussion was taking.

His gaze was unabashedly locked on her breasts; beneath the thick fringe of his sooty lashes, his dark eyes glittered. "At this point, I don't much care what you believe." There was a quality in his voice, in the slowly and precisely enunciated words, that made her still, that alerted every instinct she possessed. His gaze slowly rose, and fixed on her eyes. "I repeat: if you want me to marry you, you will not again wear this gown, or any like it."

She lifted her chin. "I'll need to some time — toward the end—"

"No. You won't. Need to. Or do so." She felt her jaw lock, could almost feel her will and his collide, but while hers was like a wall, his was like a tide — it flowed all around, surged, tugged, weakened her foundations. She knew him too well, knew she couldn't push him and didn't dare defy him at this point.

It didn't happen easily, but she forced herself to nod. "Very well." She drew in a breath. "But on one condition."

He'd blinked, his gaze lowering; he jerked it back up to her face. "What condition?"

"I want you to kiss me again." He stared at her. A moment passed. "Now?" She spread her hands, widened her eyes. "We're here — completely private. You locked the door." She gestured to her gown. "I'm wearing this. Surely our charade suggests a certain script?"

Luc looked into her eyes — he was perfectly sure he'd never felt so torn in his life. Every instinct, every urge, every demon he possessed wanted nothing more than to seize the slender body so provocatively displayed and feast. Every instinct bar one. Self-preservation was the only naysayer, but it was screaming.

Increasingly hoarsely.

There was no way he could argue his way out of her suggestion. Aside from anything else, his mind baldly refused to be a party to that much deceit.

He lifted his shoulders, making it look like a shrug, in reality trying to ease the tension that had already locked every muscle. "Very well." His voice was even, his tone commendably nonchalant. "One kiss."