A Forbidden Passion: No Longer Forbidden? / The Man She Loves To Hate / A Wicked Persuasion. CATHERINE GEORGE
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She became aware of a slow burn inside her, like a fuse that had been lit and was taking its time creeping toward the cache of gunpowder.
“I want you, Rowan.” Her sunglasses slid down her shoulder into her lap as his fingers combed her hair over her ear. “I’ve wanted you for a long time. And knowing you want me too means I have no reason to keep my distance any longer. It’s only a matter of time before we satisfy our curiosity.”
“Curiosity?” she repeated, her heart trip-hammering as she processed that he’d wanted her for a long time. “You make it sound so …” Unemotional. Of course it was pure physical desire for him. It still managed to pierce her with a sweet shot of excitement.
Blinking to ease the sting in her eyes, she shrugged, fighting the urge to turn her lips into his wrist, where his warm hand cupped the side of her head. God help her if she revealed she was motivated by something far more tender than basic earthly appetites.
As a bit of self-protection, she murmured, “You make it sound like you just want to get to the bottom of this.”
She waited a beat before she gave him the limpid, ingénue blink that would tell him she knew exactly what a double-entendre she’d just delivered.
It only took a stunned second before he tipped back his head in a hearty laugh—a rare full-bodied sound that melted her heart. Thanks, Mum, she thought with a caustic nod of acknowldgement to the woman who’d taught her the valuable art of flirting. Cassandra had always used it aggressively, to bring a man in line with her wants, whereas Rowan wielded it for defense. But at least it was in her repertoire of skills.
“Well, it would go a long way to easing the tension between us, wouldn’t it?” Nic mused as he released her to gun the engine and pull away.
The wind whipped Rowan’s hair into her eyes. She slouched into the sheepskin collar of her jacket, but it was more like sinking into the miasma of thrilling emotions filling her. Nic wanted her.
It shouldn’t make her tremble like she was six and it was Christmas morning—not when it came with warnings of painful consequences—but all her sexual awareness as a woman was wrapped up in this man. Her adolescent hormones had first been stirred by his solitary masculine figure striding from the surf. As she had matured all her searches for a mate had been a search for Nic’s attributes in another man. Of all the kisses she’d experienced none had been topped by the brief, savage touch of Nic’s lips on the beach that night two years ago.
Until yesterday.
Peeling a tendril of hair from her eyes, she replaced her sunglasses and then found Nic’s in the glove box. He slid them on with the silently efficient way he did everything else. Adeptly. With confidence. With a proprietorial attitude as if he owned the road, knew each curve and how to manipulate it.
Good grief, he didn’t have to seduce her. She was doing it for him!
It must be the pending anniversary, she concluded with pensive insight. She’d always had a crush on Nic, but her emotions were exaggerated right now, making her more sensitive and quick to react to any offer of intimacy. She was moving into a state of closure, one that was going to have many fronts if Nic really did expel her from Rosedale and tear it down. Her entire life was being compressed and squeezed through the eye of a needle. Hardly anything of the old life would come with her. Out of desperation she was reaching for anything and everything to hang on to, including Nic.
Especially Nic.
A stuttering sigh ripped through her chest, hidden by the drone of the engine and the rush of the wind. She glanced at him to see if he was tracking her inner struggle.
He kept his attention on the road, his profile starkly beautiful in its intensity, his cheeks still shiny from his morning shave, his mouth the only thing about him that seemed to relax. She longed to trace his mouth with her fingertips.
Maybe she needed to give herself to him in order to get over him once and for all.
Her stomach swooped and her head grew light. The thought of sex with him scared the hell out of her, but her shudder wasn’t all trepidation. It was also a delicious betrayal of anticipation. She wanted him.
She forced her hands to uncurl on her thighs, aware that she was kidding herself if she thought sleeping with him would help her get over him. She wanted to go to bed with Nic because deep down she thought maybe, somehow, it would make him like her. All night she had tossed and turned, tormented by the mistakes she’d made that had led him to look down on her. She wanted to make up with him. Sleep with him. He was the only man she’d ever wanted to sleep with. That was what it came down to.
But she was a virgin.
And he didn’t want anything from the experience but to satisfy his curiosity. He wanted to rock her world and then drop out of it.
Those rather pertinent details filled her with serious misgivings about sliding into bed with him. What would he say? Would it be good? Or awkward and disappointing? Would they be able to part with a sense of closure? Or would it be relief on his side and a mortifying memory for her that tortured her forever?
Would he even want her? Or would he lose interest once he realized she wasn’t a sex symbol like her mother?
The fluttering tents of the outdoor market came into view. Nic pulled into the parking lot that was always crowded in the middle of summer, but sparsely occupied today. They drew attention—not just because of the flashy car and the quiet time of year, but because locals knew who they were. It made for a poignant hour of shopping as they fielded questions about the called-off search.
Her Greek was passable, Nic’s impeccable, so she let him talk even though what he said took her aback.
“No, we’re not planning anything except a follow-up retrospective in select publications and international programs.”
Rowan had come to Rosedale thinking to mark the anniversary privately, but if the plan was now to put a final stamp of acceptance on their loss something more definitive was needed: a memorial service and a proper laying to rest.
She was about to bring it up with Nic, but he turned and pressed his hand to the middle of her back, steering her toward the pastry stall. It was a fairly innocuous bit of handling, but she felt as though his chilled fingers reached through the layers of leather and fabric to caress her bare spine. All thought left her beyond an awareness of the cottony scent of his shirt and the muskier warmth near his throat.
He glanced down to see why she’d frozen in her tracks and a moment of electrified tension grew around them like a force field. Nic didn’t move, but he seemed to grow bigger, becoming more intimidating and more of a threat to her self-possession. Her heart started to pound hard in her chest. He was only being Nic—sex-god with a hot physique and a way of looking at her as though he knew exactly how completely her senses came alive the second she was near him.
“You’re getting curious about me,” he accused in a husky scold.
She couldn’t help it, despite her qualms. Her palms grew damp and she lowered her gaze to the nearly invisible golden hairs lying flat against the warm skin of his chest where it was exposed by his open collar.
This was a disconcerting experience, being pursued and wanting back. Saying no had always been easy because she had never felt drawn to the men who propositioned her. Suddenly she was susceptible to her own inner weakness and that scared her.
“There’s curiosity and there’s high-risk behavior,” she managed to toss out, retreating a hasty step as a nervous lump formed in her throat. “I’m actually quite choosy. More than you, if the rotation of women on your arm is anything to go by.” She kept her tone slightly jaded so he wouldn’t guess how genuinely put out and intimidated she was by the extent of his experience.
As she pretended to deliberate between French éclairs and honey-soaked baklava, he came up behind her and requested, “Two of each,” from the heavyset baker.
Rowan never allowed herself those sorts