Undaunted. Diana Palmer

“Just be still,” he said quietly. “I want to see you. This is the only way I have, now.”

      Guilt made her lie still in his arms as his fingers traced her eyebrows, her forehead, her high cheekbones and straight nose. They lingered on her rounded chin and her soft, bow-shaped mouth. From there they went down to her throat and stilled on the pulse that was surely visible as well as if he’d been able to see it. Her heartbeat was almost shaking her and she had to fight to get in a breath of air.

      “You’re nervous,” he said softly.

      She bit her lip. “Yes.”

      “No need. I’m curious. Surely you did this with your ex-fiancé?” he chided.

      She pushed gently against his chest. Her fingers tingled in contact with the hard, warm muscle. “What I did with him is not your business, Mr. Sinclair,” she said uneasily. If he could have seen it, her face was flaming red.

      He didn’t like her assertion that it wasn’t his business.

      “I’m just curious,” he said sarcastically. “Did that religious thing tie you in knots when you slept with him?”

      “Religion is all I’ve had most of my life, Mr. Sinclair. Please don’t ridicule me because I believe in something more powerful than human beings.”

      She was so devout. But he’d never felt closer to anyone. The thought shocked him. She was an employee. She was a glorified typist. She had no knowledge of sophisticated living, of men, of the world. Or did she? He’d had too much of women who pretended innocence and were more experienced than he was.

      He traced her soft mouth and felt her teeth on the full lower lip. “Stop that,” he said, tugging at it.

      She swallowed and drew in a shaky breath. The feel of him was like a narcotic on her senses. He smelled of soap and the faint, lingering scent of aftershave or cologne. He was muscular without being blatant, and as his chest rose and fell, it seemed to her that his own breathing was none too steady.

      “Are you on the pill?” he asked suddenly.

      She pushed at him, growing frantic when she couldn’t move out of the cage of his arms.

      He laughed. “All right,” he said. “Calm down. I get the idea. First you fall in love, then you get in a committed relationship, then you have sex.”

      She almost corrected him, that nothing short of a wedding ring was going to get her into any man’s bed, until he laughed again. “It’s not funny,” she muttered angrily.

      He took a long breath. There was a lingering smile, but no more amusement. “You fight for your ideals, don’t you, young Emma?” he mused. “I don’t agree with them. But I respect you for them.”

      “Thanks. Can I get up, now that we’ve agreed that I’m living in the past?”

      His fingers traced her soft mouth, feeling its helpless response. The house was very quiet. The only sounds were her quick breathing, and the furious beat of his own heart. The medicine had relaxed him a little as it took the pain away. Perhaps it had relaxed him too much.

      “I’m hungry, Emma,” he whispered, bending slowly to her lips. “I want to see how you taste.”

      The last word was almost a groan as he found her mouth with his and possessed it with a tenderness he hadn’t felt since Winona. He could feel Emma’s uncertainty as his mouth teased hers, explored it softly, parted her lips and moved against them with slow, sweet sensuality.

      Emma wanted to fight. But it was like a drug. He was tender, and methodical. He didn’t rush. He didn’t demand. He enticed. He coaxed.

      Her lips were parting on their own now, following his as they lifted and tempted her, taunted her. He laughed, deep in his throat, at her sudden yielding. So much for her high moral tone. She was as hungry for this as he was. He drew in a quick breath as he felt her hands flatten in the hair over his muscular chest, and reacted to it helplessly. It had been years since he’d been so quickly aroused with a woman.

      He wanted to drag her against him and let her feel his hunger, but he hesitated. Even if she was only doing lip service to her morals, he didn’t want to dampen the hunger she was beginning to reveal. He caught her upper lip in both of his and tasted it underneath with his tongue, brushing and lifting. He felt her hands on his upper arms now, her nails digging in involuntarily as she lifted toward him.

      His hands slid under her back, under the robe, and he eased down against her, the pressure of his chest even through her gown causing odd, sweet sensations all over her untried body.

      One big, strong hand came around to toy with the cotton under her arm. She caught it with a tiny gasp, because even through her robe and gown, his touch was electrifying. But his mouth covered hers again and her fingers relaxed more and more until they moved away. She didn’t want to stop him, anyway. He was making her body sing. He smoothed his fingers over her rib cage, his thumb brushing just the side of her firm breast and making her quiver. He slid it around, over her hips, down to cover her flat stomach.

      Why should he suddenly think of babies? His own breath caught against her mouth. A child. He groaned. His mouth became suddenly insistent, demanding. He moved down against her.

      Through the gown and robe, she could feel his chest rubbing against her pert little breasts, brushing his chest, arousing him. His hips brushed hers and she felt the changing contours of his body.

      A sound worked its way out of her throat and up into his mouth. He recognized it for what it was.

      So did she. Even as she heard herself moan, she knew she had to stop him. This could never happen. He was a man who had disposable lovers. She was the woman who’d blinded him. She couldn’t—didn’t—dare let this go any further.

      Her hands pressed hard against his chest and she drew her mouth from under his, not without a little shudder of anguish. “Please,” she whispered brokenly. “Please don’t...!

      He lifted his head. Odd, that he had a sudden image of white roses and lace flash in his mind.

      He moved away from her and fought to catch his breath. It was hard to let her go, because she tasted like heady wine.

      He felt her begin to relax as he lifted himself away from her. But his fingers still moved on her rib cage, very slowly, teasing near her breast. He felt her reaction to even that innocent touch. She wanted him. She might not be ready for intimacy, but she wouldn’t resist long, if he insisted. He was sure of it.

      Emma was torn between what her body wanted and what she knew she had to do. His touch kindled a hunger that was totally unfamiliar. New. It wasn’t the lure of sex, either. It was something more, something sweeter.

      He drew in a last, steadying breath. “You’re very slender, Emma,” he said softly. “How much do you weigh?”

      She laughed. “A hundred and ten,” she said, surprised.

      “You’re tall.”

      “Well, not so very. Just five feet and six inches.”

      His hand lifted, reluctantly, and found her hair. It was braided down her back. He smiled. “You don’t let it loose at night?”

      “It tangles.”

      “I suppose so. What color is it?”

      “Blond. Pale blond.”

      “And your eyes?”

      She smiled. “They’re brown. Dark brown.”

      “An interesting combination.”

      “I’m not pretty,” she added quietly. “I have regular features, but they’re not beautiful. Nothing like...” She bit her tongue. She was going to say, like that woman who’d cooked him a soufflé once that he complained about. She’d been beautiful. But the woman he’d hated, who’d blinded him, had remembered that. The woman she was pretending to be wouldn’t have known