On a Wild Night (Cynster 8)

Wanted him to be hers, linked to her and her alone with a chain strong enough to withstand whatever pressures life brought to bear.

Knew in her heart what she would give to forge that chain.

Realized it would have to be created link by link. Episode by episode; interlude by interlude. Kiss by kiss.

Desire was a drug, its addiction potent. He stole her breath, held her mind and senses captive. His slow, achingly thorough exploration, the lazy, compelling conquest left her mentally reeling, emotionally bound.

She'd been right-this was what she wanted, what she needed to be all she'd been created to be.

If she told him, she'd lose him. If her actions became overt, he'd pull back, leave her and slide back into the shadows. The occasional sharp glance he'd thrown her were warnings; she had to walk a line between naive encouragement and deliberate sensual beckoning without a single stumble. She had to tempt him further while keeping her intentions veiled so he couldn't be sure she was luring him on. The ultimate game given his experience, given his steadfast reticence.

She kissed him back boldly but briefly, enough to evoke a reaction, to tug him an iota deeper into the game. Desire flared, heated and sultry, contained behind the wall of his will. Crack by crack, she would demolish that wall. She let her lips soften, tempted his to harden, tempted him to take just a fraction more. Clung, fingers sinking in reaction when he did. He was sensuality incarnate, each languid caress an invocation of pleasure. Her fingers threaded through his silky hair as inside she felt herself melt.

His hands tensed, flexed on her back; she sensed the war he waged to keep them from wandering. She considered trying to tip the scales-realized her inexperience would give her game away.

He won his inner battle too easily for her liking. Time to try another tack.

She drew away, gently broke the kiss-hid her triumph at the brief instant that passed before his arms eased and let her do so. As her senses returned, she heard voices outside. They both turned, listening, then she stepped back, out of his arms.

She cast about for some quip to cover her retreat, to disguise her hope that it would evoke his desire for something denied.

"Excitement enough?"

The deep words and their underlying challenge had her lifting her head. He was no more than a shadow looming close in the dark. She let her lips curve with a haughty confidence she hoped he could see. "The night's young."

Her tone struck the perfect note, low, warm yet even.

It was the tilt of her head that ruffled Martin's surface, an elementally feminine gesture of defiance that sparked an instantaneous reaction. One he ruthlessly quelled.

She looked toward the Walk. "Shall we return to the booth?"

He reached for her hand. "We won't be returning." When she glanced at him, surprised, he murmured, "The night's young."

And he'd been a fool for thinking that cramming two of her adventures into one night would be a good idea. More of her "excitement" was not going to be easy to withstand. Yet he would. Leading her down the temple steps, he glanced at her. "You said you wished to see the stars in the Thames."

The anticipation that lit her face was a joy to behold. "A boat? From here?"

It had been a long time since he'd been with a woman who could conjure such innocent delight. His lips curved in a genuine, entirely spontaneous smile. "The Water Gate's this way."

He led her further up the Dark Walk, then across to the gate opening onto the riverbank, steadfastly refusing to dwell on the difficulties that doubtless lay before him. During his years in India, he'd survived his fair share of life-and-death encounters; one hour floating down the Thames with Amanda Cynster could hardly be that dangerous.

From the Water Gate to the stone quays where a plethora of river craft waited was but a few steps. The pleasure craft he'd hired waited, bobbing gently, a pair of brawny oarsmen slumped over the oars, the owner standing by the tiller. The latter spotted him, straightened and saluted. The oarsmen stirred, nodding respectfully as Martin stepped down to the deck. He held out a hand to Amanda; eyes huge, she eagerly descended.

"M'lady." The owner bowed low.

Amanda inclined her head, then glanced at Dexter. He gestured to the curtain cutting off the front two-thirds of the deck. The owner hurried to lift one side. She walked through. And stopped. Looked around. Offered mute thanks to fate for her assistance.

Dexter ducked through the curtain behind her; the heavy material fell closed, shutting them off from the watermen, leaving them in a private world.

A world composed of a narrow path leading around the railings. Fixed in the prow, a wickerwork basket held a platter of fruit, a bowl of nuts, two glasses and an open bottle of wine. The rest of the space was taken up by a thick pallet on a wooden base, covered by a plain black cloth. Piled atop was a mound of cushions encased in brightly colored Indian silk.

The deck of the pleasure craft looked exactly as she'd always imagined such a notorious venue would look-a setting for seduction. Lowering her hood, she glanced back at Dexter.

He looked down at her face, studied her eyes. The deck rocked as the vessel pushed off from the quay; his fingers closed about her elbow. "Come. Sit down."

He handed her to the couch; she sat and found it as comfortable as it looked. He sat beside her, angling against the cushions. "Does it live up to expectations?"

She smiled. "Thus far." Sliding back, she let herself sink against the silk-sheathed mound. She looked up at the stars. And said nothing more.