The Ideal Bride (Cynster 11)
Taking her elbow, he guided her up the summerhouse’s steps. “Campbell’s experience is sound; I’ll watch him while I’m here and make my own assessment, but with both Camden’s and your imprimatur, it shouldn’t take much effort to set his feet on the next rung.”
Caro laughed, softly cynical. “True, but it does take connections.” Walking across the summerhouse to where open arches with low railings looked out over the lake, she halted, turned, and smiled. “Thank you.”
He hesitated, his blue gaze on her, then walked slowly toward her.
Her lungs locked; with every step he took, the vise clamped about her chest tightened, until she felt light-headed. In the most severely lecturing tones she could muster, she told herself not to be stupid, to simply keep breathing, to hide her silly sensitivity at all costs—how mortifying if he should realize…
This was Michael—he posed no threat to her.
Her senses refused to listen.
To her mounting surprise, the closer he got, the more clearly she could read the intentness in his gaze. Realized with a jolt that he’d dropped his politician’s mask, that he was looking at her as if…
He didn’t stop his prowling advance.
Full realization struck. She felt her eyes widen. Abruptly, she swung around. Gestured to the lake. “It’s a…very pleasant view.”
She’d barely managed to squeeze the words out. She waited, tense, almost quivering.
“Indeed.” The deep murmur stirred the fine hairs at her nape.
Her senses flared; he was like a caressing flame burning at her back. So near. About to reach around and engulf her. Trap her.
Panic struck, full blown.
“Ah”—she stepped quickly to her right, walked to the far side of the next arch—“if you stand over here, you can see down the lake to where the rhododenrons are
in bloom.”
She didn’t dare look his way. “And look!” She pointed. “There’s a family of ducks. There’s”—she paused to count—“twelve ducklings.”
Senses at full stretch, she waited, mentally scanning for movement from her left.
Suddenly realized he’d circled to her right!
“Caro.”
She swallowed a shriek; she was so tense she felt dizzy. He was beside and just behind her; stepping left, she whirled. Her back to the other side of the arch, she stared at him. “What—just what do you think you’re about?”
Given her panic, her wide eyes, manufacturing a scowl was beyond her. Besides, this was Michael….
Beyond her control, puzzlement and a certain hurt filled her eyes.
He’d halted; he stood perfectly still, his blue gaze on her face, searching, studying…the impression she received through the jibbering of her senses was that he was as puzzled as she.
He tilted his head; eyes narrowing, he shifted to face her.
She managed to drag in a breath. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Her tone carried her real question; why was he panicking her, frightening her—destroying the easy if distant, comfortable friendship they had in the past, more or less until now, shared?
His lashes flickered, then he sighed and refocused on her face.
Abruptly, she realized he was as tense as she.
“I was, as it happens, trying to get you to stand still long enough to get my hands on you.”
The answer sent her panic soaring, yet even so she could barely believe her ears. She blinked, managed to summon the icily haughty cloak she desperately needed. “Haven’t you heard? I’m the Merry Widow. I do not, ever, play games of that sort.” Hearing the words, and her firm tone, bolstered her courage; she lifted her chin. “Not with you—not with any man.”