The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (The Cynster Sisters Duo 2)

“Ha!” She swung away and paced—two steps across the marble floor, then back again—then she halted and, increasingly militant, confronted him anew. “So why?” Again she spread her arms in appeal. “Tell me why—exactly why—you’re so set on disrupting my bid for Randolph’s attention.”

“I’ve already told you—Rand is not the man for you.” I am. But she would need to come to that realization on her own. In her own time, in her own way. He understood strong characters—like her, like him; they didn’t accept others interfering in their lives, and in personal matters didn’t readily accept the assessments of others as correct. Neither he nor she would be led. It wasn’t a matter of trust, but more one of inviolable self-determination. In that respect, he understood her well, so would give her time—understood the value of giving her time—to reach the right conclusion on her own.

She stared at him for a long moment, then, “Aargh!” The sound resonated with feminine frustration. “It’s not up to you to decree that!”

“In the circumstances, I believe it is.”

“But it’s not. Ryder—”

On a silent sigh, he uncrossed his legs and stood. It was the only way to bring this interlude to an end. His innate sense of time was informing him that the ball was winding down; he needed to get her back into the ballroom before she was missed.

And he wasn’t prepared to open his mouth and inform her of his intentions. The challenge—the one she presented him with—was to win her without declaring his hand. If he baldly told her he wished to marry her . . . he wasn’t a coxcomb, but no one in the ton would disagree that he was a beyond-excellent catch. If he told her, and she then decided to accept him, he might never know what her feelings toward him truly were—might never know why she’d agreed. At present he had no notion of what she felt for him—whether she felt anything at all beyond irritation and exasperation, whether she might ever feel for him something beyond the transitory desire he knew he could evoke.

But even worse, what if he told her of his intentions and she jibbed?

No—better, much wiser, and a lot safer to soften her up first.

Speaking of which . . . straightening to his full height, he took the half step required to bring them close—close enough that she had to tip her head back to look up at him, leaving him towering over her.

He could have used the position to intimidate, but standing this close to her, intimidation was far from his mind.

It wasn’t in hers, either; she gazed up at him, the silvery blush of moonlight washing over her cheeks, her expression holding a certain semiblankness he recognized all too well.

She was in no way immune to him, to his sensual aura.

To the allure he was a past master at wielding.

The moment shivered with illicit potential. With his gaze, he traced the delicate curve of her cheek and jaw; his fingertips tingled. Because he could, returning his gaze to her eyes, he raised a hand and, with the pad of one finger, traced the tempting alabaster curve.

He watched her eyes flare, heard the hitch in her already shallow breathing. And wished the light was sufficient for him to see more, to be able to read her awakening desire.

Her lips, rosy and ripe, parted. Softened in instinctive, reactive invitation.

He could kiss her now—could commence her seduction here, in this moment.

Temptation whispered, more potent than he’d expected. His mouth all but watered with the urge to take hers.

But he wasn’t ranked among the ton’s greatest lovers because he didn’t understand what seduction truly was.

Seduction wasn’t about tempting a lady to surrender to her lover’s desire.

It was all about inducing her to surrender to her own.

She had to want him.

She had to come to him.

And she would.

To him, for him, with her especially, it had to be that way.

He needed her to want him every bit as much as he was starting to realize he might come to desire her.

Drawing breath, he mentally stepped back from the brink he’d brought them to.

Lowering his hand, he closed his fingers about her elbow. “Come.” Gently, he turned her to the steps. “I’ll escort you back inside.”

She drew in a sharp, slightly shaky breath, considered him for an instant—no doubt debating whether to protest his caress . . . or leave it lying unacknowledged between them. He wasn’t surprised when she chose the latter option. Eyes narrowing, she nevertheless allowed him to steady her down the steps, then he released her and, head rising, she fell in beside him.