The Perfect Lover (Cynster 10)

The thought of that happening made him inwardly, grimly, laugh.

Reaching the crest of the rise, she continued over and on—and only then realized he was following her. She threw him a black glance, then stopped and waited, swinging to face him as he halted before her.

Her eyes like shards of dark flint, she glared at him. “You are not going to follow me all the way back to the Hall.”

Portia didn’t ask what he thought he was doing; they both knew. They’d last seen each other at Christmas, seven months before, but only distantly, surrounded by the combined hordes of their families. He hadn’t had a chance then to get on her nerves, something that, ever since she’d turned fourteen, he’d seemed absolutely devoted to doing, if possible every time they met.

His gaze locked on hers. Something—temper? decision?—flashed behind the deceptively soft blue of his eyes. Then his lips firmed; he stepped around her with his usual fluid grace, unnerving in a man so large, and continued on down the path.

She whirled, watched. He didn’t go far but stopped a step beyond the fork where the footpath to the village led down to the lane below.

Turning, he met her gaze. “You’re right. I’m not.” He waved down the path.

She looked in that direction. A curricle—his curricle—stood in the lane.

“Your carriage awaits.”

Lifting her gaze, she met his. Directly. He was blocking the path to the Hall—quite deliberately.

“I was intending to walk back.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Change your mind.”

His tone—sheer male arrogance laced with a challenge she hadn’t previously encountered and couldn’t place—sent a peculiar shiver through her. There was no overt aggression in his stance, yet she didn’t for a moment doubt he could, and would, stop her if she tried to get past him.

Temper, wild willfulness—her customary response to intimidatory tactics, especially from him—flooded her, yet this time there were other, powerful and distracting emotions in the mix. She stood perfectly still, her gaze level and locked in silent combat with his, the familiar struggle for supremacy, yet . . .

Something had changed.

In him.

And in her.

Was it simply age—how long had it been since they’d last crossed wills like this? Three years? More? Regardless, the field had altered; the battle was no longer the same. Something was fundamentally different; she sensed in him a bolder, more blatantly predatory streak, a flash of steel beneath his elegance, as if with the years his mask was wearing thin.

She’d always known him for what he was . . .

Her vow echoed in her head. She mentally shook aside the distraction, yet still she heard . . . recognized the challenge.

Couldn’t resist.

Head rising, she walked forward, every bit as deliberate as he.

The watchfulness in his eyes condensed, until his attention was focused exclusively on her. Another tingle of sensation slithered down her spine. Halting before him, she held his gaze.

What did he see? Now she was looking, trying to see past his guard only to discover she could not—odd, for they’d never sought to hide their mutual dismissiveness—what was it he was hiding? What was the reason behind the veiled threat emanating from him?

To her surprise, she wanted to know.

She drew a deliberate breath, evenly stated, “Very well.”

Surprise lit his eyes, swiftly superceded by suspicion; she pivoted and looked down, stepping onto the path to the village, hiding her smile. Just so he wouldn’t imagine he’d won, she coolly added, “As it happens, one of my shoes is pinching.”

She’d taken only one more step when she sensed him shift, then he was sweeping down on her, moving far too fast.

Her senses leapt. Uncertain, she slowed—

He didn’t halt; he bent, and scooped her up in his arms.