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

Glancing up at his face, she arched her brows invitingly.

Shifting his gaze to the floor, he walked several paces alongside her before saying, “On his deathbed, when I was sitting alone with my father, he asked me to promise I would marry well and continue the line. By that point, he had grown to distrust Lavinia, and he . . .”

When he didn’t continue, she filled in, “He didn’t want her blood in the main line?”

His lips twisted. “Yes. Exactly.”

Connecting the facts . . . she opened her eyes wide. “And that, I suppose, explains why you were in the ballrooms at all, enough to bump into me and realize I was pursuing Randolph.” Reaching the door, she paused and faced him, waiting for him to open it.

Halting, he looked down at her, searched her eyes, her face, then, voice low, said, “It’s exceedingly tempting to leave you believing that, but in the interests of complete honesty, I was hunting you—specifically you—for days before I realized it was Randolph you had misguidedly set your sights upon.”

She tried to keep her eyes from narrowing on his. “Why?” He seemed disposed to answering her questions, and that one ranked at the top of her list.

Without moving, he said, “For the same reasons I gave you on Lady Bracewell’s terrace.”

And just like that she was back on that moonlit terrace with him, standing close enough for her senses to riot, to be overwhelmingly aware of him, of all he was, all that, beneath the fashionable clothes and civilized manners, he had the potential to be . . .

Temptation whispered over and through her. She knew she shouldn’t, yet still she said, “Remind me.”

Challenge, deliberate and clear, rang in the words.

He heard it; one tawny brow faintly arched. “Because I believe we will suit.” His green and gold gaze grew sharper, more intent. “Very well. In many if not all ways.” His voice deepened to a mesmerizing purr. “And because I want you. And for me . . . that’s enough.”

Hunger, desire, passion—all were there, unscreened, in his eyes. Mesmerized in truth, she moistened her lips, found breath enough to evenly state, “Words such as those are not terribly compelling.”

His lips curved; he inclined his head slightly. “As you find it so . . . perhaps we might try actions.”

Then she was in his arms and his lips were on hers, and she inwardly exulted.

She hadn’t even admitted it to herself, but this was what she’d wanted—the most important thing she’d come there that morning to further explore.

Letting her reticule dangle from her wrist, she spread both gloved hands, fingers wide, on his chest. The fine fabric of his coat met her leather-sheathed palms and fingertips, but beneath lay him, solid and hard and immensely intriguing.

Fascinating. H

er senses flared, then raced, reaching and searching, absorbing every last little insight they could.

She’d yielded her mouth from the first; as her senses reeled, overwhelmed by all there was to take in, she grew increasingly aware of his slow, typically lazy—unbelievably possessive—claiming of her lips, her mouth, her tongue.

As if he were branding her in some subtle, addictive way; even as she followed his lead and started to copy and return his undeniably expert caresses, some inkling of just how potent was their allure was blossoming in her brain—

Enough. Ryder artfully drew back and broke the kiss. Holding her easily within one arm, he studied her delicately flushed face, drew satisfaction from the vestige of sensual haze clouding her eyes. “So have I convinced you of my proposition?”

She blinked, twice, faintly frowned. “What proposition is that?”

He couldn’t entirely hide his triumph. “That we will suit—exceptionally well. In many if not all ways.” Even though he wasn’t holding her tight, she had to be able to feel the tangible evidence—proof, if she wished it—of the truth of his statement that he wanted her.

If the sudden consciousness that flooded her expression, the awareness that flared in her eyes, was any guide, she wasn’t likely to question that point again.

But then her gaze, the cornflower blue a fraction more intense, steadied, and she gave a small nod—whether to him or herself he wasn’t sure. “Perhaps. You might be right.”

She eased back and, faintly surprised, he let her go; even though he didn’t like losing her warmth, much less the tantalizingly light touch of her hands on his chest, he reminded himself, his instincts, that there would be plenty of time for more, later.

That it was wiser not to push for more yet. Strategy, tactics; better she come to him.

As she just had.

He watched her step back, shake her skirts straight, take her reticule in one hand, and felt a definite spike of satisfaction; not only had he met her immediate challenge more than adequately but his strategy of how best to deal with her was also bearing fruit. If he played his sensual cards correctly, she would come to him, and then he would have her without having to admit to anything more binding than desire.