be carried too far.
Maybe because his thoughts were back home in Texas and he was feeling a little bit overconfident, it was a few seconds before he noticed the intensity of Leila’s silence. By the time he did, and snapped his attention back into focus on her, it was too late. He thought it must feel something like this, the first moment after stepping into quicksand—a disquieting, sinking sensation, but not yet sure whether he ought to panic or not.
When had she come to be standing so close to him? The sea breeze carried her scent to him, sweet and faintly spicy. The word “exotic” came to his mind. But then, everything about her was exotic. Was that why she seemed so exciting to him? The fact that she was different from every other woman he’d ever met?
Don’t even think about it. She’s absolutely off-limits.
Or was it simply that she was forbidden fruit? Off-limits. Inaccessible. Except that, at this moment, at least, he knew she was entirely accessible…to him.
To think like that was insane. And insanely dangerous. He was dealing with a tiger out of her cage, nothing less.
Except that she didn’t look much like a tiger at the moment, or anything even remotely dangerous. She looked soft and warm and sweet, more like ripe summer than forbidden fruit. Torchlight touched off golden sparks in the ornaments in her hair and in her eyes. Gazing into them, he felt again the peculiar sensation of not-quite-dizziness, as if his world, his center of gravity, had tilted on its axis. Clutching for something commonplace and familiar, he took a quick, desperate puff of his all-but-forgotten cheroot.
Her whisper came like an extension of the breeze…or his own sigh. For one brief moment he wasn’t certain whether it was her voice he was hearing, or merely the echoes of his own thoughts.
“Do you want to kiss me, Mr. Gallagher?”
Cade almost swallowed his cigar. Do you want to kiss me?
What on God’s green earth could he say to that? Jolted cruelly back to reality, his mind whirred like a computer through countless impossibilities, distilled finally down to two: Lie and tell her he didn’t, which would be unconscionably cruel; or tell her the truth, which would most likely land him in more trouble than he cared to think about.
It was probably gut instinct that made him do neither of those things, but instead try to laugh his way out of it. To make light of it. A joke.
Tossing his cigar over the balustrade with an exaggerated, almost violent motion, he snaked one arm around her waist. The other he hooked across her back at shoulder-blade height, and laying her against it, arched his body over hers in broad parody of some old silent movie clip he’d seen recently, he couldn’t recall exactly where—The Academy Awards, maybe?—about an Arab sheik in flowing robes and headdress seducing a wild-eyed maiden in a tassel-draped tent.
“Kees you?” he intoned in a ludicrous and excruciatingly awful mishmash of several different accents—he had no idea where he’d gotten that from. “Oh-ho-ho, mademoiselle…”
Startled eyes gazed up at him. He felt a sensation of falling, as if the ground beneath his feet had dropped away.
What mow? He had no idea what he was supposed to say next. That was the trouble with those silent movies, he thought. They were silent. Short on dialogue, long on action. And he was pretty sure he did know what action was supposed to come next.
Don’t do that. You can’t. You’d be crazy to do that.
Then came the smallest of sounds…the soft rush of an exhalation. Her breath was sweet and faintly wine-scented, so close he felt the stirring of it on his own skin. So near to his…her lips parted. Slowly, slowly her eyes closed.
Lord help me, he thought, and lowered his mouth to hers.
He had an impression of warmth and softness, of sweetness and innocence. Of purity. It occurred to him to wonder whether his might even be the first lips to ever have touched hers, and the thought both excited and shamed him. Is that what it’s all about? he wondered. Is that why I want her so much? Nothing to do with exotic beauty and forbidden fruit, only the thirst of the conqueror for undefiled lands to claim as his own.
His thirst was in danger of blossoming into fullblown lust.
He felt the flutterings of her instinctive resistance. If only he hadn’t! If only she’d responded openly, brazenly to his kiss, he might have been able to keep it as he’d intended it to be—blatantly mocking—and end it there. But that tiny faltering, that faint gasp of virginal hesitation… It stirred some primitive masculine response deep within him, so that her hesitation affected him not as a warning, but as a challenge. And an embrace meant only to lighten the mood and diffuse dangerous emotions became instead a seduction.
Instead of releasing her, his fingers stroked sensuous circles over the tightened muscles in her back and waist. Instead of pulling away from her, he gently absorbed her lips’ quiverings and delicately soothed them with the warmth of his own mouth. And felt her relax…melt into his embrace …as he’d somehow known she would.
He shifted her slightly, to a more comfortable, more natural position, and felt her body align with his as if it had been custom-made for that purpose, a soft and supple warmth. He lightly sipped her wine-flavored mouth, and only then discovered—too late—that he was famished for the unique taste of her, that he craved her with every fiber of his being.
Tiny lightbursts of warning exploded inside his brain. Reserves of strength summoned from God knew where made it possible for him to tear his mouth from hers—for a moment, no more. He released a sound like the moaning of wind in old trees and buried his face in the graceful curve of her neck. Then…gently, carefully at first, he brushed his lips against the skin there, velvety soft and sweetly scented as rose petals.
The sound she made was breathy and frightened, but he felt the uniquely feminine, seeking arch of her body, and the hot rush of blood through his in automatic masculine response. With a growl of triumph, unthinking he brought his mouth back to hers. Still gently but inexorably now as water finding its own course, his mouth began to follow the shapes and contours of hers…his tongue found its way to the soft inside. She whimpered.
How can this be? Leila thought. I cannot breathe, my heart is racing so. I feel as if I am drowning…dying…and yet I cannot stop myself—don’t want to stop myself—or him. If I am dying, then this must be heaven, because I don’t want it to stop…ever.
Her skin felt hot and prickly all over, from the roots of her hair to the soles of her feet. And yet…she shivered. Her head—her heart—felt light as air, lighter than butterflies and wind-carried chaff, yet her body felt weighted, too heavy to move.
His body was a hard, unyielding weight against her breasts, breasts that had become so sensitive she could feel every ridge and fold of his jacket, the warp and woof of the cloth. Even the rub of her own clothing seemed an intolerable abrasion.
Panting, she tore her mouth free of his and arched her throat, offering that to him instead. And how had she known to do such a thing? Even as she wondered, she felt the press of his lips against the pounding of her pulse, and mounting pressure…and terrifying weakness.
And then the pressure was gone. From a great distance came a raw, anguished sound, and the weight lifted from her breasts. Her throat and lips felt cold, and throbbed with her racing pulse. Swamped with dizziness, afraid she might fall, she clung with
