Hot Picks: Exotic Propositions. Кейт Хьюит

his defences, to break that blank mask and find the man living, breathing, wanting underneath. ‘Did you take lessons when you were a child?’

      ‘No.’ Lukas eased the cover over the keys. ‘I taught myself.’

      Rhiannon gasped in surprise; she couldn’t help it. Anyone who played like that had to have natural talent, but to teach himself…? He must have been a prodigy.

      ‘You’re surprised,’ Lukas remarked with a sharp little laugh. ‘No doubt you think such a cold, restrained man shouldn’t be able to play beautiful music.’

      ‘Lukas…’ Rhiannon didn’t know what to say—hadn’t expected him to remember her words from earlier. Hadn’t thought they might hurt him. ‘I always wanted to learn to play the piano,’ she admitted.

      ‘Did you have lessons?’

      She shook her head, a sudden lump in her throat. She thought of the dusty piano in the front room of her parents’ house, never touched, never played. It had been strictly off-limits to her.

      Lukas watched her for a moment, his eyes dark, fathomless, then he slid over on the piano bench and lifted the cover up again. ‘Come here.’

      ‘Wh…what?’

      He patted the seat next to him. ‘Your first lesson.’

      Surprised, touched, Rhiannon moved forward. She sat next to him, thigh to thigh, creating a spark of awareness deep within her.

      ‘Here.’ He placed her hands on the keys, then laid his own hands gently on top. ‘This is an E.’ He plucked one note, moving her own fingers. ‘And this is a D.’ He continued playing notes, moving her fingers, until Rhiannon recognised the tune.

      ‘“Mary Had A Little Lamb”!’

      He smiled, a flash of whiteness. ‘You need to start somewhere.’

      ‘Yes…’ She was suddenly achingly conscious of his hands on hers, the closeness of their bodies, the intimacy of the moment. Her heart began to thud, desire pooled in her middle, and she could only sit there helpless. Shameless.

      ‘Why did you come down here?’ Lukas asked, breaking the moment.

      ‘I was hungry,’ Rhiannon admitted. ‘I didn’t eat much at dinner, and then I heard…’

      ‘Then you should go to the kitchen.’ He rose from the piano bench. ‘I’ll show you the way.’

      She followed him into the wide, friendly room at the back of the villa, its stainless steel counter-tops and appliances softened by the colourful prints on the wall and the scrubbed pine table.

      Lukas opened the refrigerator. ‘What would you like?’ he asked over his shoulder. ‘Bread, salad, or…?’ His smile glinted with sudden mischief as he brought out a plate. ‘The nectar of the gods?’

      He proffered a tray holding a large slice of baklava, the traditional Greek dessert, dripping with nuts and honey. Rhiannon’s mouth watered.

      ‘Definitely the nectar,’ she said, and, smiling as if he had expected no less, Lukas cut her a generous slice.

      She’d thought he would give it to her on a plate, with a fork. Instead he offered it to her from his own hand, lifting the filo pastry to her lips for her to take a bite.

      There was a challenge in his eyes, heady, seductive, and the atmosphere changed. Just as it had before, the simple exchange turned into something potent, filled with possibilities both wonderful and terrifying.

      No. This time she would not play his game. He wanted her to literally eat from his hand, and she would not do it. She knew how this ended—had experienced it before—with him thrusting her away.

      She wasn’t going to give herself the chance to be rejected. Again.

      ‘Thank you.’ She took the baklava from his hand and took a bite.

      Lukas watched, one hip braced against the counter-top, his eyes following her movements as she self-consciously tried to eat the dessert.

      Baklava was not an easy thing to eat at the best of times, and it was incredibly difficult when you had a spectator. Rhiannon was conscious of the flakes of pastry on her lips, the drip of honey on her chin.

      Lukas reached out, touched the drip on her chin and licked his thumb. ‘Sweet.’

      ‘Don’t.’

      He raised his eyebrows, his gaze still heavy lidded, and waited.

      ‘Don’t,’ she repeated, her voice a raw whisper. She set the baklava on the counter, wiped the honey from her mouth. ‘You don’t even want to. You don’t even like me…’

      Lukas’s eyes flared with startled awareness. ‘Why do you think I don’t like you?’ he murmured, and before Rhiannon could protest he was drawing her to him, his hands cupping her face, her head tilted back to meet his own regretful gaze. ‘I fight with myself every day,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to want you because of me, not because of you. Never because of you.’ His lips were inches from hers. ‘You drive me wild, Rhiannon. When I’m near you I can’t think. I can only…’ his voice came out in a jagged rasping of sound ‘…want.’

      Rhiannon swayed towards him. She could feel the heat from his body, the desire pulsing through him, drawing her dangerously nearer.

      No one had ever wanted her because of who she was, and yet here was Lukas wanting her. Wanting her.

      Even if he didn’t want to. Suddenly that didn’t matter. All that she could get her head—her heart—around was that Lukas wanted her. And for that moment, with their bodies so close, yet not touching, his hands gentle on her face, it was enough.

      She closed that last tempting inch, brushed her lips against his. His hands slipped up to tangle in her hair, to bring her even closer. Her arms went around him, revelling in the hardness of his chest, his shoulders, as he moulded her to him.

      ‘Rhiannon…’ he breathed against her lips. ‘Rhiannon…I want you…’

      She smiled against his mouth. ‘You don’t want anything.’

      ‘I want you,’ he repeated, almost savagely, and deepened the kiss. Rhiannon knew there was regret in his voice, and there was self-condemnation, but she didn’t care. It was all too sweet, too wonderful, too consuming.

      Her head fell back as she surrendered to the ministrations of his mouth, his tongue, his hands.

      ‘You taste sweet,’ he murmured against her skin, and she smiled.

      ‘I was eating honey.’

      ‘No, sweeter.’ He was trailing kisses down her throat, his hands reaching under her tee-shirt to skim over her breasts, his thumbs teasing the sensitive nipples to aching peaks.

      Rhiannon arched, moaned. She couldn’t help it. She’d never felt so alive—every sense, every nerve ending humming, throbbing to life.

      Lukas took her buttocks in his hands and hoisted her easily onto the counter-top. Her legs wrapped around him as a matter of instinct, pulled him closer, felt his hardness at the joining of her legs, and gasped at the contact. Gasped with pleasure.

      Somehow they were on top of the counter, tangled legs, bodies pressed together, his hand creeping up her thigh, nudging her old pyjama shorts aside to tease the damp curls at her femininity.

      Rhiannon gasped at the intimate intrusion, the novel feeling of someone touching her where she’d never been touched before.

      ‘All right?’ Lukas murmured, looking down at her, his pupils dilated with desire, his face flushed with heat, his finger still teasing, nudging her knowingly, turning her to liquid heat.

      Rhiannon opened her mouth to reply. She was about to say yes, of course she was all right. She was more than all right. Then, quite suddenly, she wasn’t.

      Suddenly