Andrea Kane (17 page)

Anastasia’s breath caught, but she had no time to react before Damen’s mouth swooped down, seized hers in a hot, bone-melting kiss. Demonstrating none of the other morning’s gradual onset, he let the powerful pull between them take over, his lips moving purposefully over hers, his arms rigid as they shifted to her waist, bringing her against him.

“Anastasia.” He said her name, and the sound made shivers go through her. She opened her mouth to respond, and his tongue slid inside, teasing and caressing hers until a low moan escaped her.

Damen tightened his grip, drawing her closer still, kissing her more deeply, his hands moving restlessly up and down her spine.

For a moment, Anastasia gave in, her eyes sliding shut as she sank into the kiss, pleasure drenching her senses as she felt Damen’s warmth, his incredible power, engulf her. She pressed against the solid wall of his chest, felt the silk of his waistcoat against her cheek, the crisp muslin of his shirt collar beneath her fingertips. It was exquisite, this intoxicating feeling that flowed through her, making her limbs go weak and her heart pound like a drum. The sensations were just as they had been two days ago, only stronger, more potent. She could drown in this feeling, her body too alive to protest, her mind too dizzy, too clouded…

Much
too clouded.

That triggered a warning bell—one that screamed its reminder about her decision—and its basis.

Abruptly, Anastasia tensed, planting her hands firmly on Damen’s shoulders and wrenching herself away. “Don’t,” she managed, her breathing shallow. “Please.”

Damen caught at her elbows, his tone and expression raw. “What is it? Why are you pulling away?” He frowned. “Dammit, Anastasia, answer me. Are you upset with me?”

Resolutely, she stepped backward, folding her arms across her breasts—whether for emphasis or emotional support, she wasn’t certain. “I’m not upset with you. I’m upset with me. With us. With the situation.” She inhaled slowly, determined to stand her ground. “Why don’t we pretend this never happened, and just get to the purpose of my visit: signing our partnership papers?”

His eyes narrowed on her face. “I can’t do that. Neither, for that matter, can you. As for the papers, we can’t sign them until Fenshaw gets here. And he’s not due for twenty minutes.”

Anastasia blinked. “Your note said the appointment was at eleven.”

“It said
your
appointment was at eleven. Fenshaw’s is at half after. I wanted some time alone with you.”

Why did that notion elicit a rush of pleasure she couldn’t squelch? “Damen, this is a bad idea,” she informed him, knowing how unconvincing she sounded.

“On the contrary, it’s the best idea I’ve had in ages.” He moved closer again, threaded his fingers through her hair. “What happened to the new style you were trying?” he murmured, sifting strands of burnished copper off her shoulders.

“It failed miserably. By last night I gave it up. I simply can’t keep my hair from toppling to my shoulders, no matter how hard I try.”

“Stop trying.” Damen brought one tress to his lips, savoring its texture. “You weren’t meant to look prim. You were meant to look unaffected, sometimes disheveled, always beautiful—and always unique, the way you looked on horseback.” His forefinger slid beneath her chin, raised it until their gazes locked. “The way you look now, with your lips still moist from mine and your eyes asking me to kiss you again.”

“Damen …” Anastasia had no idea what she was going to say. Her palms were on his lapels, smoothing up the cloth of his blue tailcoat.

“H-m-m?” His lips brushed hers, once, twice, then hovered as he awaited her consent. “One more kiss,” he said, his breath teasing her mouth. “Just one. Then we’ll talk.”

She took an unconscious step closer. “And this kiss will be the last?”

“If you want it to be.”

Her eyes searched his face. “You know I don’t want it to be.”

“Um-hum. And I also know why you believe it should be.” His knuckles caressed her cheek, the side of her neck, the curve of her shoulder, absorbing the tiny shivers his touch elicited. “What you’re thinking—it’s not true, Anastasia,” he said huskily. “I promise you, it’s not. Now stop fighting the inevitable and kiss me.”

“You don’t understand …”

“Yes I do. Now kiss me.”

She gave up. She didn’t have the strength not to. Not when she wanted more than anything to feel the incredible pleasure of his mouth on hers again.

With a breathy sigh, she leaned up, closing the distance between their lips and giving him exactly what they both wanted.

Damen took over, penetrating and devouring her mouth in hungry, relentless possession. His arms locked around her like steel bands, and he drew her up on tiptoe, crushing her body to his in a way that made her blatantly aware of his hardening contours.

“Don’t pull away,” he muttered against her lips. “Just lose yourself. For a minute. That’s all I ask.”

Ask? He didn’t need to ask. Anastasia was already complying, molding her body instinctively to his, twining her arms about his neck as their tongues melded, parted, melded again.

With a rough, appreciative sound, Damen relinquished another modicum of control, his hand gliding around to find and cup her breast. His thumb found her already hardened nipple, rubbing it sensuously through her gown, sending skyrockets of sensation shooting through her.

“Damen …” She gasped his name, every nerve ending in her body centered beneath this new, incredibly spectacular sensation. His only answer was a harsh groan, a tremor racking his body as he pressed more urgently against her, his thumb continuing its motion—faster, more voracious.

Long minutes passed, time and the world held at bay, the kiss, the embrace, blazing hotter, growing more abandoned.

Abruptly, with what was clearly a herculean effort, Damen yanked up his head, dragged his hand away from Anastasia’s breast. He planted both hands on the safety of her waist, gripping her tightly as if to anchor not only her but himself. Neither of them spoke, just stared at each other, their breathing labored, uneven.

“Anastasia,” Damen managed at last, her name a hoarse, awed caress. “Ending that was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.” His gaze sharpened, delved inside her. “But the kiss is all I ended. Make sure you understand that. Everything else between us is just beginning.”

Pangs of guilt and worry intruded on the moment. “It can’t.”

An astute look. “Because of Breanna. Or rather, Breanna and me. And whatever it is you perceive about us.”

She started. “You
do
know.”

“I told you I knew. I also told you you’re wrong.”

“If you’d already guessed the reason for my aloofness, why did you question me?”

“Because I wanted to make sure there wasn’t something else bothering you—something more than the foolish conclusions you’d jumped to. I saw my answer in your eyes.”

Anastasia sighed, still reeling from the impact of their embrace. “What you saw there was real; I’m not denying that. I wanted you to kiss me. But that does nothing to change what can and cannot be.”

Damen’s jaw set. “Don’t you think
I
should have some input into that decision? Or have you already sent me marching down the aisle with your cousin?”

Confusion knotted Anastasia’s stomach, and she broke Damen’s grasp, turned away. “I’m not planning your life, Damen. That was done before I arrived.”

“By your uncle,” he supplied.

“Or by fate.”

“Fate?” Damen made a frustrated sound, gripping Anastasia’s shoulders and whirling her around to face him. “I’d say fate is playing a much bigger hand in fanning the flames that burn between you and me, than in pushing me toward Breanna.”

That
Anastasia couldn’t deny. “I’m not saying you’re in love with Breanna. Nor, for that matter, is she in love with you. But you do enjoy being in each other’s company. That was obvious at the ball. And given time …”

“Given time, she and I would be nothing more than good acquaintances who like and respect each other,” Damen finished. “Just as we are now. And, before you ask, that would have been the case whether or not you returned to England.”

“How can you be so sure?”

A wry grin tugged at Damen’s lips. “If you’d given me the chance to tell you about my insights into you and your cousin, you’d know why. That was one of the unfulfilled terms of our racing bet, remember?”

Anastasia felt her lips curve in return. “I remember.” She inclined her head, studying Damen’s expression. “Very well. Share your insights with me.”

“All right. I’ll begin with my assessment of you.” Damen’s fingers caressed her shoulders, his touch warming her skin through the fine muslin of her gown. “You, Lady Anastasia Colby, are a strong-willed, intelligent, spirited nonconformist. You’re always the leader, never the follower. You believe in yourself, in your ideas and your principles, and you believe life was meant to be savored, not nibbled at. You have keen instincts, a quick mind, and an independent nature. You also—as you’re first discovering—have a rush of untapped passion just waiting to burst free.” Damen’s gaze fell to her mouth. “And I unlock that rush of passion in you. Just as you do in me.”

Anastasia swallowed. “I think I’ve just been called a bluestocking,” she managed weakly. “A bluestocking and a wanton.”

“I think you’ve just been called breathtaking,” Damen replied. “Breathtaking, enticing, and so beautiful you bring a man to his knees.” He lowered his head, brushed her lips with his. “All of which you are.” Another whisper of a kiss. “Shall I continue?”

A heartbeat of a pause.

“With my insights,” Damen clarified.

“Oh.” Why did she have to sound so disappointed? Probably because she was. “Yes—go on.”

The glitter in Damen’s eyes said he knew precisely what she was thinking, and that he shared her hunger. “Now for Breanna,” he said, his lips hovering just above hers. “Breanna is like a beautiful flower: sweet, vivid, always pleasing to the eye, every petal perfectly in place. She’s delicate, yes, but she’s stronger than she appears to be—
if
she’s cared for.
When
she’s cared for,” Damen amended. “Which she will be—by the right man.” He framed Anastasia’s face between his palms. “I’m not that man, Anastasia. I never will be. Breanna and I just aren’t right for each other—not now, not ever.”

Anastasia wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Does Uncle George know that?”

“No. He doesn’t
want
to know that. And I’ve been reluctant to tell him—probably for the same reason you are.”

She hesitated, then blurted out, “How well do you know my uncle—on a personal basis?”

Damen considered the question. “Not well. But the way a man conducts himself in business tells you a lot about the way he conducts his life.”

“Business
is
Uncle George’s life,” Anastasia replied bitterly. “Business and the money it generates.”

“I’d be a nice source of income, wouldn’t I?” Seeing the startled look on Anastasia’s face, Damen quirked a brow. “Did you think I was so arrogant—and naive—as to believe your uncle wanted me for his son-in-law because of my outstanding character and kind heart?”

Anastasia’s lips twitched. “I suppose not.”

“My suspicions are that he’s not faring as well financially as he would have liked. Frankly, he just doesn’t have either your grandfather’s business acumen or your father’s innovativeness and flair with people.”

“Are you saying he’s having monetary problems?”

Damen shrugged. “I only know as much as George lets me know. Colby and Sons is doing fine. But as for your uncle’s private investments—those he doesn’t conduct through me—I have no idea. Still, it would certainly explain his eagerness for Breanna and I to wed.”

Anastasia’s laugh was humorless. “You don’t know my uncle. He doesn’t need a reason to crave money and power. He could be the second richest man on earth, and he’d still battle for first place. And you: the head of the House of Lockewood, rich, titled, renowned everywhere and by everyone; you’re an asset that’s far too desirable to let slip through his fingers—whether or not he’s short of funds.” She averted her gaze, her expression drawn with worry. “Uncle George is such a cold, hard man. My only fear is that…”

“You think he’ll take out his anger on Breanna? That he’ll blame her for not winning me over, so to speak?”

A chill permeated Anastasia’s heart. “I don’t know. Nor do I know just how severe a form that anger might take. But I don’t want to find out.”

“At some point, we’ll have to.”

“Perhaps by then, Breanna will have met someone else—someone even wealthier and more influential than you.” Anastasia sighed. “I don’t suppose your scores of contacts could arrange that, could they?”

Damen gave a rueful chuckle. “They could summon extraordinary gentlemen from all four corners of the globe. But they couldn’t ensure that one of those men would be right for Breanna.”

“No, I suppose not.”

Gently, Damen tilted up her chin. “Would you feel better if I spoke to your uncle? I could take full responsibility for not pursuing Breanna.”

Anastasia’s inner chill intensified. “And then do what, pursue me instead?” A hard shake of her head. “That would be the worst possible course to take. Rejecting Uncle George’s daughter, then showing an interest in his brother’s? You have no idea of the reaction you’d trigger. I shudder to think.” She chewed her lip, chose her next words carefully. “The resentment Uncle George feels for Papa—for all three of us: Papa, Mama, and me—runs deep.”

Again, Damen’s eyes narrowed. “And you don’t want to discuss why.”

“No. I don’t. But please, Damen, I need your word that you won’t say anything to my uncle—not about what you don’t feel for Breanna or what you might be feeling for me.

“I can’t do that. Not when I fully intend to see you again. Not just once, but over and over.” Damen’s voice grew husky, and he threaded his fingers through her hair, that hot light flaring in his eyes. “We can’t ignore what’s happening between us. I
won’t
ignore it.”

A shiver ran through her. “Nor can I. But we’ll have to be discreet about seeing each other. We’ll have to say we’re meeting just to discuss my inheritance.”