Whitney, My Love (36 page)

"In the fust place," Whitney retorted, drawing a long,
suffocated breath while trying to calm herself, "Paul Sevarin is a
gentleman, which you are not! And, as a gentleman, he would never dream of
kissing me the way you do. He-"

Clayton's mouth twisted in sardonic amusement. "Wouldn't
he indeed? Apparently, I've been giving Sevarin more credit than he
deserves."

Whitney's palm positively itched to slap that
self-satisfied, mocking grin off his face. Why bother arguing with him, she
told herself furiously, when he would only twist her words around until they
suited him! Of course she'd responded to the wild, forbidden passions
Clayton so skillfully aroused within her. What gently reared, unsuspecting
female wouldn't be momentarily carried away by the newness of his practiced
caresses?

Gently reared, unsuspecting females! Why, half the most
sophisticated flirts in Europe had apparently fallen victim to his skill at
lovemaking! Compared to them, she was a mere babe in arms!

"What?" Clayton chuckled maddeningly. "No arguments?"

If she'd had a knife at that moment, Whitney would have
plunged it into his chest. Instead she chose the only means available to her
to retaliate. Looking at him with just the right degree of amused scorn, she
said, "If I do respond to you, there's a very simple explanation for it, but
you aren't going to like it. The truth is, I find your intimate caresses not
only sordid but boring! The only way I can endure them is by pretending
you're Paul and-don't!" she cried out in panic and pain as his hands
tightened punishingly on her upper arms.

With a vicious jerk, he brought her crashing against his
chest. Whitney's head snapped back from the impact, and she saw his eyes
glittering down at her like shards of ice. Her throat muscles constricted,
choking her frantic apology. "I-I didn't mean it! I-"

Ruthlessly, his mouth swooped down, slanting punishingly
back and forth over her lips until they parted from the sheer, cruel
pressure. When she tried to tear her mouth away, his hand clamped the back
of her head, holding her against the bruising assault of his mouth. Tears of
pain sprang to her eyes, and still the agonizing, endless kiss continued.

"Lie to anyone you please," he growled savagely into her
mouth. "But never again lie to me! Do you understand?" His arm tightened
sharply, underlining the warning and cutting off her breath at the same
time.

Wildly, Whitney struggled, trying to draw enough air
into her lungs to tell him yes! Her ribs felt as if they were being cracked;
he was suffocating her and growing more enraged at her helpless, involuntary
silence. She forced her hand up along his chest, futilely trying to wedge
some space between them, until her fingers finally encountered the male lips
locked fiercely to hers.

She didn't realize it was the unintentional tenderness
of laying her hand against his face that made him release her so abruptly.
All she knew was that she could finally draw great, gulping breaths of air
into her aching lungs.

"I bow to your better judgment," he drawled with icy
contempt. "That was both 'sordid' and 'boring.' In fact, I would be hard put
to decide which of us found it more distasteful."

Irrationally, Whitney was stung. She stiffened her
spine, meeting his cold gaze with as much proud defiance as she could
muster. "I don't suppose you found it distasteful and disgusting enough to
consider letting me go?"

What Clayton felt was not disgust, it was fury! Her
announcement that when he was kissing her, she pretended he was Sevarin, had
so incensed Clayton mat he actually considered yanking her into the pavilion
and taking her right there on the floor. Since the day she'd returned to
England, he'd been tolerating her rebelliousness and overlooking her temper.
On the floor of the pavilion, she would learn the folly of pushing him too
far. Unfortunately, she would also learn to hate him with a virulence that
might sustain her for years.

With deliberate insolence, Clayton inspected her
slender, voluptuous form and her classic profile with its flawless
camellia-like skin; the color on her cheekbones was heightening because she
knew he was looking at her. The sun shown on her mahogany-brown hair,
gilding it with red-gold. She looked incredibly beautiful in that dusky pink
gown, framed by the wide sweep of emerald lawns behind hen a single,
breathtaking rose blooming in a garden of green. But for once, her vivid
beauty annoyed, instead of pleased, him, particularly because she was now
blithely examining her manicure as if he didn't exist.

Miss Stone, Clayton decided coldly, was in dire need of
a lesson. He considered her spiteful inquiry as to whether he had found the
last kiss distasteful enough to let her go home, and an idea took shape.
He'd let her go home all right, but before he did, he was going to teach her
that his passion was a gift to be shared and enjoyed-a gift that he could
give or withhold, when and if he pleased. First he was going to make her
kiss him, and then, when he had her desire fully aroused, he would simply
disentangle himself from her arms and walk away.

As if there had been no interval of several minutes
since she'd snapped the question at him, Clayton answered it. "As a matter
of fact, you're wrong. With the proper incentive, I would let you go."

Whitney's head snapped around, her heart leaping with
elation, even though her common sense warned her that he was too
high-handed, and too confident, to give up the idea of marrying her and let
her go. "What sort of incentive did you have in mind?" she asked cautiously.

"I want a kiss from you. A goodbye kiss to take the
chill off our parting. And if it is good enough, I'll let you go. It's as
simple as that."

"I'm not certain I believe you. Why should you suddenly
decide to let me go?"

"Let's say that these last few . . . unrewarding . . .
minutes have convinced me of the wisdom of the idea. On the other hand"-he
shrugged indifferently-"my generosity is not without a price."

A price? Whitney thought joyously. Why, it was no price
at all! To be free of this betrothal she'd be willing to kiss his horse! "I
am to kiss you goodbye, nothing more?" she said, watching him very, very
closely, while she restated the terms of the bargain. "And you are giving me
your word that in return, you will let me go?"

He nodded curtly. "Yes. In fact, I won't even accompany
you home. I'll have my man drive you." Impatiently, he added, "Well, have we
a bargain?"

"Yes!" Whitney said quickly, lest he change his mind.

They were standing almost within arm's reach, but
instead of reaching for her, as Whitney expected, he leaned his shoulder
against the pavilion wall, folded his arms across his chest, and said, "As
you can see, I am completely at your disposal."

Whitney blinked at him. "What do you mean?"

"I-mean that the next move is yours."

"Mine?" she gasped. Dear God! Did he intend for her to
take the initiative? She stared uncertainly at his arrogant features and
mocking gray eyes. That was precisely what he meant for her to do. And how
tike him to take this last, final, petty revenge! The breeze ruffled his
dark brown hair as he glanced tranquilly up at the trees overhead, then
serenely contemplated the azure sky. Leaning lazily against the pavilion
with his arms crossed over his chest, he looked so insufferably arrogant
that she positively yearned to give him a swift kick in the shin, and the
devil fly with his bargain!

Without warning, he straightened as if he were tired of
waiting and were about to call the bargain off.

"Wait!" Whitney stammered quickly. "I-I-" She gaped at
him in angry consternation, feeling unutterably self-conscious. "It's just
that I-"

"-don't know how to begin?" he finished sardonically.
"Permit me to suggest that you take a step closer."

Drowning in resentful embarrassment, Whitney complied.

"Very good," he mocked. "Now, if you will put your lips
on mine, you can get it over with."

Whitney expelled her breath in a long, humiliated rush,
glowered at him, and clutching his rust-colored jacket by the lapels, she
levered herself up high enough to reach his mouth and pressed a chaste kiss
on his tips. Then she stepped back, poised for flight to blissful freedom.

"If that's the way you kiss Sevarin, I can understand
why it's taken you all this time to bring him to the point of offering," he
remarked with lazy cynicism. "If that maidenly peck is your best effort, I'm
afraid the bargain is off."

"Well!" Whitney burst out indignantly, plunking her
hands on her hips and giving him a murderous look. "I can't help it when you
just stand there without so much as moving a muscle to cooperate."

"Perhaps you're right. On the other hand, you're
supposed to inspire me to cooperate."

"Oh shut up!" she snapped with blazing eyes. "You just
do your part. I'll do mine!"

"I'll do no more than follow your lead," he warned
coolly. "And I have no intention of trying to teach you what you should have
learned already. I have better things to do with my time than play tutor to
a tiresomely naive schoolroom miss."

Whitney felt as if he'd hit her across the face. With an
effort, she bit back a vengeful retort, and forced herself to concentrate on
finding some way to "inspire" this cold, withdrawn man into participating.
And while she was about it, she wouldn't mind throwing his taunts about
"tutoring a schoolgirl" and "maidenly pecks" right in his teeth! Bending her
head, she tried to imagine herself as a bold temptress, a courtesan, as wise
in the ways of passion and seduction as he was. Very slowly, she raised
jade-green eyes so full of promise and warmth that when they met Clayton's
she witnessed a momentary crack in his aloof composure.

Emboldened by her success thus far, Whitney slid her
hands inside his jacket, upward along his silk shirt. Beneath her
fingertips, she felt his chest muscles leap reflexively, then draw taut and
hard. He was trying to resist her! Some primeval female instinct told her
that if he had to try to resist her, she must have struck a very responsive
chord, and the realization brought a knowingly seductive half smile to her
lips as her hands glided over his shoulders and up behind his neck. Keeping
her eyes locked to his, she slid her fingers through the soft hair at his
nape, inexorably drawing his face nearer to hers. Tenderly, she brushed her
lips over his mouth ... his smiling mouth! Damn him, he was grinning! And
even though her arms were locked around his neck, his arms were still
diffidently at his sides.

"A definite improvement," he congratulated her
impersonally, "but hardly-"

Outraged pride made Whitney silence this final rejection
with her parted lips. She found him blindly, and lingered endlessly, trying
to force him to respond. His warm breath mingled with hers, his mouth
followed her lead, but the moment she began to draw back, he did the same.
Slowly, her fear of retreating too soon was surpassed by her greater fear of
continuing too long. Her heart was beating in unsteady lurches, and her body
was stirring to life in a most alarming way. Dropping her arms, she stepped
back, and for the first time she realized that Clayton's arms had never been
around her. He hadn't been the least bit affected by the kiss. "I hate you
for this," she whispered, too humiliated to look at his face, which she was
certain would be gleaming with sarcastic amusement.

Clayton was not amused, he was furious. For the first
time in his adult life he had not been able to control his own body's
responses. Her innocent kiss and light caress had sent a tidal wave of
instantaneous lust surging through him, very nearly sweeping away his
restraint. And while he was still struggling for control, she was declaring
her hatred of him.

His jaw tightened and he tipped her chin up. "That was
much better," he said smoothly. "This time will be goodbye."

Goodbye? Whitney thought, immediately forgetting she
hated him. They were saying goodbye. This would be the last time they ever
saw each other.

Whitney gazed up into his recklessly handsome male face
with a nostalgic sensation that bordered on sadness. His was such a
compelling face. A face that could seem almost boyish when the firm jawline
and finely carved mouth were transformed by one of his lazy, devastating
smiles. She liked the aura of calm authority that always surrounded him,
that vibrated in his deep voice and lent purpose to his long, agile strides.
She admired his ability to seem forever at ease and relaxed. He was, she
thought with an inward sigh of regret, all the things a man ought to be.

His mouth was slowly moving closer to hers. "Shall we
continue where you left off?" he suggested softly.

Drawing a long, ragged breath, Whitney lifted her
trembling lips to within an inch of his. Then a half-inch. Her mind screamed
a warning as her emotions reeled crazily and sudden shock waves of longing
racked her.

His mouth came down hard, silencing Whitney's objection
with a demanding insistence that sent a jolt rocketing through her,
exploding along every nerve until she was clinging to him, her arms wrapped
fiercely around his neck.

"Am I boring you?" he taunted, kissing her harder, more
deliberately than before. His tongue plunged suggestively into her mouth.
"Would you describe this as sordid?"

Rage burst in Whitney's breast, enclosing her in a mist
of blind fury. He was lashing her with her own words, coldly and
deliberately humbling her. She dug her fingernails into his wrists, trying
futilely to pry his hands away from her head.

His kiss deepened, devouring her and sending silky
tendrils of desire curling down her spine.

"Are you pretending I'm Sevarin?" he jeered. "Are you?"

Stunned, Whitney let her hands slide from his wrists.
She had actually hurt him with those things she'd said. Somehow Clayton had
always seemed so utterly invulnerable, so completely self-assured, that
she'd never dreamed anything she ever said or did could hurt him. But
evidently she had.