Lips That Touch Mine (32 page)

Ignore him! Think about the
shot.

She squinted, but her head felt light. Was it
the wine? Was that why she was pulsing with desire for the man
leaning against the table? Or was she finally being honest with
herself for the first time in her life? Could she risk a bit of
safety for a taste of passion?

Yes.

She wanted a lover.

She wanted
Boyd
to be her lover.

She laid the stick on the table without
taking her shot. "I need to check my shoulder. May I use your water
closet?"

Concern filled his eyes. "Would you rather I
took you home?"

"I'd like to finish our game," she said,
hoping she was convincing. If she had her way, they wouldn't finish
the billiard game tonight.

He clasped her elbow and turned her toward a
staircase that led to the second floor. "We'll need to go upstairs.
Trust me. You don't want to use the water closet down here."

Sailor leapt to his feet, but Boyd waved him
back before the dog could follow them.

Upstairs, he closed his apartment door behind
them. "Wait here while I light a lantern."

He struck a match, and the little blaze lit
up his handsome face, giving him a golden, princely glow, marking
all the angles she coveted to touch—that she
would
touch.
Slowly the room around them filled with light.

The kitchen walls were painted a warm buff
color and topped with ornamental moldings and walnut wainscoting
that matched the sideboard and cupboards. A small four-plate
cookstove sat in the corner, and a tea table with two Windsor
bow-back armchairs bordered a tall window. A small corner hutch,
devoid of dishes, completed the kitchen furnishings. Clean and
spare, the room was somehow welcoming.

This was his home, the place where he took
off his mask. Being in his private space was like being inside his
skin, and her stomach fluttered with excitement. Would she finally
see the intimate, secret side of him tonight?

"Did you build this?" she managed to say
soberly, though her head still felt light.

"Addison Edwards had his boys build the
cupboards."

"I didn't realize he had sons."

"He doesn't. I was referring to his hired
help." He picked up the lantern and guided her out of the
kitchen.

The parlor was a dark, manly-looking room
with pine wallboards painted forest green. Sturdy hickory armchairs
and a camel-back sofa were upholstered in a green damask fabric.
But the red carpet with a saucy green and yellow pattern made her
head spin.

She shifted her gaze to the dark mahogany
mantel above the fireplace, and tried to remember how many glasses
of wine she had.

Oblivious to her spinning head, Boyd set the
lantern on a hickory coffee table, then lit another lantern at the
end of the sofa. "The water closet is in there." He nodded toward a
door off the parlor. "Take one of the lanterns with you."

She fumbled with the tiny buttons that closed
the bodice of her velvet dress. "My fingers don't seem to want to
cooperate. Would you help me remove my corsage?"

Wariness stole into his eyes, but he moved to
stand in front of her. She lowered her arms to her side, giving him
access to the tiny pearl buttons, to herself.

His artist's hands were nimble, but too
efficient, as if he didn't trust himself to be near her. After he
opened the buttons along her bodice and wrists, she turned her back
to him, pretending a modesty she didn't feel. He peeled the fabric
over her shoulders, then cupped his palms over her bare, upper
arms. Gooseflesh speckled her skin as he drew his warm hands down
her arms, pushing the soft material to her wrists.

His warm breath caressed her neck.

She longed to lean back in his arms, but he
tugged the sleeves over her hands and stepped away. He draped the
top section of her dress over the arm of the sofa. "There's a
mirror above the basin," he said, his voice low and gritty.

Until now, she had considered honor a virtue,
but the vein of integrity keeping him from making love to her was
becoming a major obstacle to her plan of seducing him. How could he
act so deliberate and controlled? Was he so used to undressing
women that it didn't arouse his ardor? She panicked, almost afraid
to think what she was thinking.

She ducked into the spacious, and
surprisingly clean, water closet. The instant she closed the door,
she set the lantern on the cabinet and pressed her hand to her
pounding heart. He couldn't be rejecting her. He had just told her
he wanted her. He'd said he wanted to make love to her. And he'd
flirted with her shamelessly almost from the moment they met. Was
he waiting for a sign from her? She asked him to unbutton her
dress. What more of an invitation did he need?

The mirror flashed her own conflicted
expression back at her. She leaned toward the glass and peeked at
the one-inch gash marking the crest of her shoulder. The slash of
dark red blemished her skin, but it wasn't that bad, and it wasn't
bleeding, thank goodness.

What if he changed his mind? She was as
committed and as ready as she would ever be. She couldn't lose this
opportunity. Somehow, she must force him to see her, to forget
everything but her for this one night.

She turned away and unbuttoned the waist of
her skirt and petticoats. They fell to the floor in a puddle of
lace and velvet. She stepped free of the yards of fabric, then bent
down to remove her stockings.

The room tilted.

She braced her hand on the basin stand to
steady herself. Was she drunk? Was that why she was peeling off her
clothes in Boyd's water closet? Suddenly, her actions seemed
illogical, reckless, irresponsible, absurd. What was she
thinking?

Boyd wasn't Abe—and Claire wasn't her
grandmother. She was a lonely widow who'd had too much wine. She
would regret this tomorrow. She...oh, Lord, that wasn't true.

She must do this.
She must!
If she
turned coward now, she would never forgive herself for passing up
her one chance for a grand passion. She would never be free if she
didn't exorcize Jack from her memory and embrace a new man, a new
life—her own life.

It had to be tonight.

She rolled down her stockings, stripped them
off her feet, and dropped them on the floor in a wrinkled heap.

Years of depending on herself allowed her to
struggle out of her corset. It fell to the floor with the rest of
her garments, and she took her first full breath since dressing
that morning.

Shivering, she stood in her chemise and lace
drawers, suddenly afraid of how Boyd would see her, how he would
react to her outrageous behavior.

Would he find her too wanton?

Of course he would. How could he not?

But would he reject her for her
wantonness?

She was dressed in her unmentionables, and
bent on seducing him. What else could her behavior be called but
wanton?

Daring.

Stupid.

Adventurous.

A gamble.

Back and forth her mind rushed, questioning
and weighing the rewards and repercussions of her actions until she
clenched her fists to her temples. Her racing heart could not
endure this a moment longer. For better or for worse, she was going
out there. She would storm his senses before he could think, before
the serious, noble side of him demanded he act with honor. She
wanted the charmer, the rake, the man who had been seducing her for
weeks.
That
man would make love to her.

With her stomach cartwheeling, she wrenched
open the door and stepped into the parlor.

o0o

Boyd looked up from the carving he'd been
fiddling with and pricked the tiny point of his knife straight into
his thumb. Before him stood Claire Ashier, the widow he wanted to
seduce, the woman he wanted to protect. She was ethereal and
glowing in her lacy white chemise and drawers. Silky, golden hair
draped her narrow shoulders and breasts, lifting and falling with
each panting breath from her parted lips. Her stormy blue eyes,
filled with questions and doubts, were fixed on him.

"What the..." He cleared the squeak from his
voice, but could barely force words from his tight throat. "What
are you doing?"

She crossed the carpet and sat beside him on
the sofa. "I'm ready to give you that sinful kiss," she
whispered.

His knife and wood carving fell to the
floor.

"Tonight," she said. "If you want me."

If he wanted her? Manic laughter welled up
inside him. He wanted her so much he was shaking like a schoolboy
in a brothel. He wanted her from the first time he'd seen her
standing on her porch. That evening she tried to scare him by
pointing her revolver at him, but she only intrigued him. Tonight,
though, he knew real danger. Her bare skin and lacy garments were a
weapon he couldn't defend himself against. Her nearly naked body
was a lure from which he could not turn away.

She angled her body toward him, her long,
bare, incredibly gorgeous legs stretched out beside his. "Do you
want me?"

God, yes.
He wanted to devour
her.

He gripped her arms and held her away from
him. "Any man alive would want you."

"I don't want any man. I want you."

He could hardly believe this was the same
Claire who mere weeks ago had refused to let him touch her foot. "I
shouldn't have allowed you to drink so much wine."

"You didn't allow me to do anything," she
said. "I'm capable of making my own decisions, and I've decided I
want you."

She leaned forward and kissed him, fusing
their mouths together with such heat, his mind reeled like a
runaway tire hoop. She lifted her knee across his lap, fitting
herself more tightly against him, killing him, killing his
willpower, killing every thought but those of her.

He roamed his hands over her body, sculpting
her rounded bottom beneath his palms, pulling her around to
straddle his hips, promising himself he would stop soon.

He kissed her tenderly. She took the kiss
deeper, pushing him to respond until his breath came in gasps
against her cheek.

She arched her neck, offering her smooth
white throat to his mouth. He tasted her, sucked and kissed and
nibbled until she lifted his palm to her breast.

He groaned, believing he'd betrayed her with
the wine. "We need to stop."

"We don't." She tugged her chemise up over
her waist, over the full globes of her creamy taut breasts, over
her head until she had fully bared her torso.

God in heaven, she was beyond beautiful,
surpassing every dream he'd ever had. Hunger gnawed at him as he
looked at her. She was no virgin. She knew what she was doing, what
she was asking for.

"My imagination didn't do you justice." He
stroked his thumbs across the hardened peaks of her dusty brown
nipples, knowing he should stop, that she deserved more than a
tumble on his sofa. She'd been hurt by her husband. He didn't want
to add to her heartache.

She threaded her fingers in his hair and
kissed his neck, her tongue swirling over his skin.

He needed to get her out of his arms, out of
his house.

She raised her head, her eyes glassy from the
wine, or passion, or both. Which gave him pause, which lured him
on.

"Make love to me," she whispered.

She rocked her hips against his groin and
sent his heartbeat ricocheting through his chest like a bullet in a
canyon.

His body melted, then hardened, then ached
like holy hell.

Her face was flushed and her hair flowed
across her shoulders in waves of gold. She was too perfect. She had
no idea what she was doing to him, of the inferno raging inside. He
gripped her wrists to stop her from unbuttoning his shirt. "I'm
burning, Claire. It's going to consume both of us if we don't
stop."

"Let it burn," she said, her eyes fierce, her
breath hot against his jaw. "Let our passion scorch the walls."

"I can't. I don't have anything to protect
you from getting pregnant."

"I can't conceive." She rolled her hips
against him, sending a stream of heat burning through his
groin.

He gritted his teeth, shaking from the battle
raging between his desire and his conscience. He gripped her arms
and forced her to look at him. "Are you certain?"

"Yes." She covered his mouth with her own,
pressed her bare breasts into his palms. Like an insistent wind,
she curled around him, caressing him, bending him to her will until
a groan of surrender tore free and he pulled her down beside him on
the sofa.

Desire rolled through Boyd, boiling his
blood, melting his will, burning away his resistance.

Claire moaned into his mouth as he moved his
fingers over her, slipped them inside her drawers, stroking her
until she was as wild and greedy as he felt. She fumbled with the
buttons on his trousers, caressing his hardness where it strained
against the cotton fabric. She freed him, then closed her fingers
around his turgid heat.

He groaned low in his throat, knowing he was
lost, knowing she'd just sealed their fate. He gripped her hand and
stopped her before she pushed him over the edge.

He reared back on his knees and shoved his
trousers down over his hips. She untied her drawers, and he pulled
them down her long legs and over her bare feet.

"Hurry," she whispered.

He slid between her white thighs, entering
her with a groan, satisfying the wrenching need pounding through
his body. She gasped and lifted her hips, pressing her breasts
against his chest.

"Oh, Boyd...it's so good," she said, her head
thrown back, throat arched to his seeking mouth.

"Let go," he whispered into her hair as his
own body begged for release. He kissed her neck, her breasts, her
mouth as he rolled his hips between her thighs. She clutched his
shoulders and cried out.