On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

She needed to know Martin loved her, completely, utterly, beyond all reservation. But that wasn't the principal reason she needed to hear the words, volunteered, freely offered. She needed to know that he knew.

The soft thud of her heart still filled her ears, the warm glow of aftermath still held her as she studied his eyes, considered his direction, and what he wanted her to believe. If she asked for a declaration of love, made her acceptance of his suit conditional on hearing one, he might well oblige-without actually meaning it, without truly facing the fact.

"No." She slumped back onto the pillows, stared up at the canopy. Tried to blot out his nakedness, and hers.

Silence, then he stirred, came up on his hands and knees over her-prowled up to look down at her face.

His was a mask of utter implacability. "I won't give up."

A growl-a warning. She glared up at him. "Neither will I."

The comment took him aback-clearly mystified him-which only added to her ire. "Let me up." Twisting, she bent her knees, pushed at his left arm; he let her slide from beneath him, but swung up and followed on her heels.

"This is ridiculous!" When she didn't pause but, spying her chemise, headed for it, Martin reached out, wrapped his hand in the curls at her nape, and drew her back to him. All the way back, finally looping an arm around her and drawing her flush, once more, against him.

Her eyes snapped at him. "I couldn't agree more."

She tried to free her hair, but he declined to unclench his fist. Looking into her face, he tried to ignore the immediate reaction of his body to the silken caress of hers, knew by her breathing that she was perfectly aware of it, too. "We've been intimate on three occasions."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "Four."

He counted. "Four. Which only increases the odds that you're carrying my child."

"Possibly."

"If you are, we're getting married."

Her eyes clouded; he could see thoughts whizzing through her mind, but couldn't define them.

She suddenly pushed back, her palms to his chest. Releasing her hair, he let her go. "If," she stated, "it proves to be so, then we can discuss marriage." She turned away, swiped up her chemise. "Now, if you please, you may take me back to the masquerade."

He narrowed his eyes. "Amanda."

He argued, and swore, then argued some more.

It did no good. And by then she was dressed.

Shrugging into his coat, he followed her downstairs. Jules appeared from the kitchen; Martin flung him an order to have the carriage brought around. Jules retreated. Martin stalked down the hall to the front door where his par

amour waited, head high, all but tapping her toe.

He stopped directly before her; towering over her, he glared down into her defiant face. "Why?"

She didn't pretend to misunderstand. She met his gaze directly, appeared to consider how best to explain. "I told you before, I want more. There's something only you can give me, but unless and until you agree to do so, I will not agree to marry you."

"What is this thing?" He managed not to roar, but the bellow vibrated in his voice.

"That," she replied, her tone turning glacial, "is what

you"-she jabbed his chest-"have to discover! I'm only assuming you have what I need. If you don't…"

Her gaze suddenly unfocused, she drew back, turned her head away. "If you don't, then you haven't, and that will be that."

He gritted his teeth, then opened his lips-probably on unwise words-

Hooves clattered outside and she swung to the door, putting up the hood of her domino. "I wish to return to the masquerade, my lord."

He closed his eyes for one instant, reshackled his temper, then reached out and wrenched the door wide. "As you please, my lady."