Shadows At Sunset - Anne Stuart [91]
“You really do think I’m a shit, don’t you?”
“Yes. No. I’m not sure,” she said honestly.
“If you feel that way about me why in God’s name do you want to go to bed with me?” He’d moved closer to the bed, watching her with an obvious mixture of irritation and interest.
“Because you’re wicked and selfish and bad to the bone, and I’m tired of being good and noble. You’ve been sniffing around me like I’m a bitch in heat—I’m offering myself to you.” She tried to sound infinitely practical. Considering that he was looming over her in the shadowed room, and she had the unfortunate habit of reacting to him like an adolescent in the throes of first passion, she was doing a good job. He made her heart pound, her stomach knot, her breasts ache and her skin prickle, all without touching her. And she really, really wanted him to touch her.
“Charmingly put. And what if my motives are entirely evil? What if I’ve been trying to get you into bed for nefarious purposes that have nothing to do with you?”
She blinked. “I assumed that was the case. I don’t tend to drive men wild with passion—you must have some ulterior motive.”
“And you want to sleep with me, anyway?” He’d come up to the edge of the bed, and she looked at him, keeping her gaze calm and steady. The only problem was that her lips were trembling when she tried to smile, and she certainly didn’t want to frown at him.
He’d changed since he’d brought her back. He was wearing an old pair of jeans and a T-shirt, not his usual style. He looked a lot less civilized without his linen and cotton and Armani. A lot more dangerous.
And a lot more gorgeous.
“Ice-cream sundaes aren’t good for you, either. They make you fat, they raise your cholesterol and clog your arteries. That doesn’t mean people don’t have them.” She heard their prosaic conversation almost from a distance. As if she were one of the ghosts, listening, watching, removed from it all.
“So you want me to sleep with you. Knowing I’m leaving, you want a nice, old-fashioned one-night stand? Not your style, Jilly. Why?”
“I’m trying to change my style.” She had a sudden, horrifying thought. What if he didn’t really want her? What if all his looks, his talk, his kisses and touches were part of a game, part of whatever mysterious agenda he had? What if now that he’d decided to leave he had no interest in her? The possibility made her both cold and hot with shame, made her want to run. “Maybe this was a bad idea,” she mumbled, moving toward the end of the bed. “Just forget it.”
He moved quickly, kneeling on the bed and catching her wrist, pulling her back. “Oh, no, I think it’s an excellent idea,” he said. “And I don’t think you get to change your mind.” He shoved the suitcase off the bed, and it hit the marble floor with a bang, startling Roofus, who’d found a comfortable spot to snooze in a far corner. He lifted his massive head, woofed softly, then went back to sleep.
It suddenly felt a lot more real, his hand on her arm, holding her there. He was very strong—he had to be, to carry a woman of her stature up the winding stairs—and she knew a brief moment of fear. “And if I want to leave?” Her voice shook; there was no way she could disguise it.
“You won’t,” he said. And he kissed her, cupping her face with one hand, kissing her with a deep and long and wet kiss, so that she was shaking, drowning.
He slid down on the bed, taking her with him, and she sprawled beside him on the too soft mattress. He was so hot, so strong, so solid beneath her, and it was both frightening and arousing. He stripped off her T-shirt, over her head before she realized what he was doing, and then he reached for the waistband of her jeans. She put her hands on his, to stop him, but he calmly ignored