If You Deceive - Cole Kresley - Страница 7

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Her demeanor was surprisingly composed, her brilliant blue eyes calmly measuring behind her mask, as if a six-and-a-half-foot-tall Highlander accosting her in a darkened room made for sex was commonplace.

Up close, Ethan could see that she was probably no more than twenty, but she was possessed of herself—and even more impossibly lovely than he'd believed when she'd passed him on the street outside.

"And what is your intent?" she asked. Her breaths might have shallowed at his undisguised attention, especially when his gaze dropped to flicker over her breasts. She was slim, too much so for his customary taste, but her small breasts were expertly displayed, her cleavage plump above her tight bodice. He wanted to rip off his mask and rub his face against that creamy flesh.

"My intent is to"—have a woman beneath me for the first time in three years—"kiss you."

"You'll have to get yourkisses "—she stressed the word as if she doubted that was all he wanted—"from one of the hundreds of courtesans out there."

"Doona want them." When his gaze had met hers in the crowd and her pink lips had parted, Ethan had been stunned to find himself swiftly growing hard as stone. Now as he leaned his face in closer to her hair—a mass of white-blond curls, swept up to bare her neck—he smelled her light flowery scent and shot harder, his shaft straining hotly against his trousers. He savored the rare feeling, wanting to groan at the unexpected pleasure. "I followed you in here from the street."

"Why?" Her tone was straightforward, and he silently thanked her for not being coquettish.

"I saw you outside under a streetlight. I liked the way you smiled."

"And you just happened to have this with you?" She reached up, skimming her fingertips along the edge of his mask, but he caught her wrist, lowering it before releasing her.

"I liberated it from a passing patron when I saw you enter." The drop of his mask fluttered above his upper lip, and he'd quickly determined that no one could discern the extent of his scarred visage when courtesans had sought his attention in the crowd filling the Hive. When they'd hindered his progress, he'd been tempted to lift his mask to frighten them away.

"Truly?" Her lips slid into that mysterious half grin, and the need to see the rest of her face burned in him. "So the entire time I saw you searching the crowd, you were looking forme ?" Her accent was unusual—English upper class mixed with a tinge of French.

"Aye, for you," he said. "You were watching me from your vantage?"

"Raptly," she said, again straightforward, again surprising him.

The idea of her noticing him gave him an odd sense of gratification. "You're no' from London, are you?" When she shook her head, he asked, "Why are you here?"

"Do you want the truth or an answer fit for a masquerade?"

"Truth."

"I've come to England to search for a rich husband," she said.

"No' unusual," he replied. "At least you have the ballocks to admit it."

"I have a proposal waiting in the wings at home," she said, then frowned. "Though I had hopednot to fall back on that one."

"How is your hunt going?"

"Not as well as I'd wished," she said. "A few discountable proposals."

"Discountable? Why?"

"Whenever I ask them to qualify themselves, they back off."

"Is that so?" he asked, and when she nodded solemnly, he felt a completely unfamiliar tug at his lips. "And how would a man qualify himself to you?"

"By giving me a token that would actually be dear to him, like an expensive ring or a pair of matched bays, or something along those lines."

"You've given this a lot of thought."

"I think of nothing else," she said so softly that he scarcely heard her. Then she added, "I did almost secure one. A truly good man." Her blond brows drew together as she clearly mused about him. "There might still be the slimmest hope with that one."

For the first time in his life and at the age of thirty-three, Ethan felt the unmistakable heat of jealousy.

What the bloody hell is wrong with me?"Then should you no' be working tonight on securing him?" he asked, his voice colder.

She blinked up at him. "Oh. Well, the man I mentioned went out for the evening. I'm his sister's houseguest, so I'm accompanying her tonight."

That generation of Weylands had only one male—Quin. Ethan ground his teeth. Quin had always been a favorite with the ladies.

She sighed. "Ca ne fait rien. It doesn't matter." Her voice was growing a bit slurred.

"No, it does no'." The hell she'd besecuring Quin. Ethan would have to see her around London continually as their paths crossed—and if tonight was any indication, he'd have to continually cuckold Quin. "Forget him. He's no' here and I am."

She gazed up at him and tilted her head. "Take off your mask."

"That defeats the purpose of a masquerade, does it no'?" If he removed it, she would stop looking up at him with a growing curiosity glinting in her eyes, and instead, stare in horror. "I can enjoy you just as well with our masks on."

"And what makes you think I'd allow you to 'enjoy' me?" A flirtatious note had eased into her voice, so subtly he might have missed it. Not coquettish—but amused, intrigued.

She was playing, enjoying herself, but she had no idea what she toyed with. "I've a sense for these things." He brushed the backs of his fingers below the sapphire silk of her mask, down her cheek, and she allowed it. "Tonight you're aching for a man."

At that, she glanced away. "You might be right, Scot," she said casually, then faced him once more. Her voice a purr, she asked, "But areyou the man I await…where I ache?"

He felt on the verge of grinning. Ach, he liked this excitement. This bandying. He liked that she flirted with him, even knowing she didn't plan to go further. Why hadn't a man like himself been attending masquerades every bloody week?

"I am that man." He took her by her tiny waist and lifted her onto the table along the wall.

"Scot, put me down!" she cried, but he could tell she was excited, well past intrigued now. "Why did you do that?"

"I want to be face-to-face with you when I kiss you for the first time."

Finally, his words drew a small gasp from her lips. "Are you always so arrogant?"

"Aye, always." He wedged his hips between her legs.

"You need to let me down," she said, even as she hesitantly ran her fingertip over his arm—as if she'd struggled not to but hadn't been able to help herself. "I've no time or use for handsome rakes with smooth words."

His lips did curl then, pulling on the tight skin of his face, forcing him to recall that he didn't smile—and that he was no longer handsome. "How do you know what I look like? This mask covers most of my face."

"You have a powerful body and a seductive smile. Gorgeous eyes," she said in a breathy voice that made his shaft throb. "You said you've a sense for certain things—well, I appreciate handsome men. An aficionada, if you will. There's a reason I spied you out tonight."

"Is that so?" When she nodded, he said, "Tell me your name."

"That defeats the purpose of a masquerade, does it not?" she answered, repeating his words. She placed her gloved hand on his chest and let it rest there, as if she couldn't decide if she should push him away or clutch his shirt and draw him to her. He caught her hand, rucking the glove up to bare her wrist, then placed a kiss on her satiny skin there.

She shivered, tugging her hand back until he released it. "Look at you, Scot. You're a practiced seducer, if I've ever seen one."

"Practiced?" For the last decade, his flirtations hadn't been practiced—they'd been nonexistent. And before that, he'd never needed to seduce.

Impulse had made him kiss her hand.

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