Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)

He fumbled in his mind for his prepared speech. Science is about answers. It raises us above those who do not question.

But before he could start, Gareth made a colossal mistake: He looked into Madame Esmerelda’s eyes. He’d thought she was black-eyed as a Ggypsy. But from eighteen inches away, with the candle so close to her face, he realized her eyes were in fact a very dark blue.

With that simple observation, the blood drained from his brain. Gareth’s structured defense of scientific thinking washed from his head. Instead, he took a step toward her. He let the veil drop from his eyes, let her see the inferno raging inside him.

She sucked in air. “Why do you say I’m wrong?” Her voice quavered on the last word.

“I’m not an automaton.” The words came from some vital place deep inside him—his solar plexus, perhaps, rather than his uncooperative brain.

Gareth took another step closer. She continued to hold his gaze, as incapable of looking away as he. The white vapor of her breath swirled in the cold night air. Its cadence kept time with the rise and fall of her chest. He could taste every one of her exhalations, sweetness coalescing against his mouth.

It was an act of self-preservation to reach out and pinch the candle flame. To stop the flow of sensual images before they seared themselves permanently into his flesh. The wick sizzled and the light died between his wet fingers. Her eyes disappeared into the navy darkness of nighttime.

It didn’t help. He could still smell her. He could taste the honey of her breath on the tip of his tongue. And the distant streetlamp cast enough illumination for him to see when she licked her lips. Heat seared him.

“I’m not made of wood.” Gareth reached out again. This time, his hand grazed the warm flesh of her cheek. And still the silly woman didn’t jerk away. She didn’t even flinch when he tilted her chin up. Instead, her lips parted in soft, subtle invitation.

The thought of her mouth against his snuffed what little guttering intellect remained to him. Her flesh seemed to sizzle beneath his fingertips. He lowered his head until her lips were a tantalizing inch from his.

“Most of all,” Gareth said, his voice husky, “I’ll be damned if I let you call me dispassionate.”

CHAPTER THREE

JENNY EXPERIENCED ONE SECOND of blinding clarity before Lord Blakely’s lips touched hers. Madame Esmerelda would have stepped away the moment he extinguished her candle. Madame Esmerelda would never let herself be rooted in one spot with hunger.

With five minutes to think it through, she’d have pushed him away. Her disguise depended on it. But she had one second, and so her reasoning took on an entirely different cast. The heat of his breath against her lip. The spark that shot through her when his hand, ungloved and still wet from the rain, grazed her cheek.

Mostly, though, something vitally feminine deep inside her chest insisted she stay, a bud yearning to unfold after years of lies and denial. Madame Esmerelda wouldn’t have cared. But the pretense of Madame Esmerelda had eroded every bit of real human contact from Jenny’s life for years. Jenny was tired of not caring.

Jenny stayed.

She did more than stay. She stepped into Lord Blakely’s rough embrace and lifted on tiptoes. He didn’t evince the least surprise at her brazenness. Instead, his hands settled on her hips and he pulled her up into his kiss.

For all the carefully controlled power in the strong arms holding her, his mouth descended on hers with surprising gentleness. His lips brushed hers, sweet and lingering. A soft, sensual nip, and then another. Beguiling. As if there were nothing he’d rather do than sample her breath, taste her lips.

He was slow but not hesitant. He coaxed her to give up her every secret, and Jenny was beyond artifice. Every sensation—the sweep of his tongue against her bottom lip, the light brush of her ni**les against his chest, the clamp of his hands around her waist—reverberated through her aching body.

She opened her mouth. He entered, as confident as an advancing army. His tongue captured hers, and everything warm and womanly in Jenny welled up in response.

Without breaking the kiss, he pushed forward inside her rooms. Three steps, and her back met the rough surface of her entry wall, his lips and tongue teasing her. His hands tightened, each finger branding her hips through her dressing-gown.

Jenny wanted everything she had denied herself these last long years. She wanted every last scrap of femininity she had hidden behind the voluminous yards of her garish Gypsy costume. She wanted to touch him, experience flesh pressed against flesh. If only for this moment, she wanted to believe herself safe and secure. It was idiotic beyond all comprehension for her to indulge that fantasy with any person, let alone this man.

But she did.

Lord Blakely pulled away. He swiveled briefly, casually flicking her door shut with one hand. The sharp click of its closing awoke Jenny from her dream.