To Distraction (Bastion Club 5)

Hiding a smile, Deverell followed at her heels.

So close that when she abruptly halted halfway across the wide terrace and swung to face him, he nearly mowed her down.

He stopped just in time, with no more than an inch between them, a bare inch separating her silk-clad breasts and his chest.

Looking down, he watched as the ivory mounds revealed by her low-cut bodice swelled and rose. But she didn’t step back. Raising his gaze, first to her lips, fractionally parted, then to her eyes, wide, her gaze disoriented, he realized she’d stopped breathing.

Dazedly, she blinked, then her gaze drifted to his lips.

Every instinct he possessed urged him to slide an arm about her, draw her against him, bend his head, and taste those luscious lips.

And counter her arguments with one of his own.

Chapter 3

But…

Her pulse was racing; he sensed it—a primal knowledge he didn’t think to question. She’d never been this close to a man, any man intent on wooing her. Seducing her. He’d already accepted that the latter would precede the former; as she’d so stridently stated, she was twenty-five.

And highly, extremely—more than he’d ever known any woman to be—sensually aware of him. A highly passionate woman unawakened, she’d fallen into his grasp, and she would be his.

She was all but quivering; he felt an overwhelming urge to soothe as well as seize her.

Slamming a mental door on such distracting feelings, he forced himself to take her hand, suspended in midair to one side, and gently ease her back; stepping back from her was beyond him. His body was screening her from the drawing room. She was still dazed. He closed his fingers more firmly about hers. “Phoebe? What was it you wished to say to me?”

Years of dissembling allowed him to keep his tone even, to eradicate all trace of the primitive emotions riding him.

She blinked, then blinked again. Then she blushed and took another step back. He retained his hold on her hand, preventing her from moving too far away.

“I, ah…” She drew in a huge breath and fixed her eyes on his. “I wanted to inform you that…that I truly have no ambition whatever to be any man’s wife, and if you have any sensitivity whatever, you won’t press me further on that score.”

Phoebe stared into his eyes and wondered where those words had come from; they certainly hadn’t been the tirade she’d intended to heap on his head. But that had been before she’d turned and found him so close, looked up and discovered his lips so near…felt him near, felt his heat down the entire front of her body, sensed the maleness of his hard frame as a beckoning temptation.

Her heart was still thudding in her throat.

She’d wanted him to kiss her.

The realization was so stunning she wasn’t the least surprised it had frozen her mind. But…

She had to get away, escape…somehow break free of the mesmerizing spell he and his eyes and his fascinating lips had cast over her. Blinking, she realized her gaze had once more lowered to those disturbingly sensual lips. Jerking her eyes up, she discovered he seemed to have a similar fascination; his gaze had settled on her lips.

They throbbed. Instinctively, she licked them.

His eyes briefly closed, then opened and trapped hers.

“If that’s the case…” His voice was a dark whisper in the night. “If you truly feel no inclination to be any man’s wife, then perhaps…”

She couldn’t see the color of his eyes, but she could tell they’d darkened. Mesmerized, she watched as he lifted the hand he still held, turning her fingers. His eyes locked with hers, he lowered his head, raised her wrist to his lips, and pressed a kiss—hot and shockingly ardent—to the sensitive inner face.

His lips burned like a brand. She sucked in a breath, felt the world spin, then settle as he lifted his head.

“Don’t answer—not now.” His voice was deep, dark, rippling through her. “Think about it.”

Her brain wasn’t functioning, not at all. As if sensing that, his lips twisted, then he turned and, setting her hand on his sleeve, guided her toward the drawing room. “We should go in.”

They had; Deverell had returned her to Edith as the tea trolley had been wheeled in, then he’d remained by her side while the cups had been dispensed and the customary ritual observed. Between him, Edith, Audrey, and Mr. Philips, the conversation had flowed; she hadn’t had to do more than nod.

As usual, Edith had elected to retire in the wake of the tea trolley. Phoebe had insisted on seeing her aunt to her bedchamber, then she’d cravenly slipped away to her own.