Page 19 of Masquerade

She sensed a hesitation in him, as if he’d been taken unaware by the power of their kiss. “More,” she begged, and trembled hearing her own plea.

His arms enfolded her, one settling in the middle of her back, the other low, pressing her breast to thigh against his body. Above the wash of sensations flooding her was the thunder of his heart against hers. His racing beat emboldened her to explore as she pleased, nuzzling against his throat, revelling in the warmth of his skin. His angular cheekbones were smooth to touch, yet she tasted strength. She traced his jaw and the cleft in his chin with her fingers, then her lips. Each taste sharpened her desire for more. He let her lead, accepting her butterfly touches and her nibbles while his hands rested on her hips. His patience was another revelation.

With a growl, he changed the tempo, and she was ready. He urged her mouth back to his, his tongue stroking hers in a rush to possess. Backing her up against a shelf, he rested his weight against her, letting her feel his arousal. Her blood pounded in her head. The urge to mate roared through her with stunning force. She lifted her knee to skim the outside of his thigh, pressing even closer. His hand slid up her stockinged leg to cup her backside. She gasped as heat coiled in her pelvis.

He broke away, breathing heavily, his eyes matching the colour of his charcoal-coloured suit.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled his regret, releasing her too fast for tenderness.

Kate stumbled, looking away to hide her embarrassment, still trapped by the bright, raw need he’d roused in her. Self-conscious, she straightened her skirt and tugged her sweater down, her hands fluttering while her senses remained swamped by him.

“Fantasies are a trap.” He turned his back on her. “They’re not real.” He was sucking in air loudly enough for her to hear each ragged breath.

“We started off talking about romance.” She wasn’t sure what had happened between them, except that now he wanted to deny its power. She’d be wise to follow his lead. “Romances are part-fantasy, part-dream about finding love.”

“Fantasy, dream, it doesn’t much matter.” He repudiated their fragile bond. “Romantic love is an illusion.”

My illusion. Her grandfather’s response when he’d found her reading romance was to explain the best marriages were transactional, best equated to the business of buying and selling. The coldness of his assessment and how it reflected on her parents’ marriage still had the power to hurt.

“Shared by millions.” Tears, she refused to shed, stung the back of her eyes.

“We were talking about books.” He swung back to her. “Fiction is make-believe. A chance to escape from the real world for a few hours. And a lot of bloody good writers provide an escape.” He pushed a hand through his hair.

“A book didn’t kiss me,” she snapped, stung by his clinical reasoning.

“At the risk of offending you further”—he jammed his hands in his pockets, probably desperate to keep them out of trouble—“I shouldn’t have pounced.”

“Why would I be offended?” She hunched a shoulder.

“We’re going to be working together.” He looked like a man who’d been kissed into confusion.

“You don’t want to work with me either.”

“That’s because you’re beautiful.” He sighed. “I’d say I never mix business with pleasure except what we shared was pure pleasure.”

He’d said Ms. Dowdy was beautiful. Aloud, and he seemed less than happy with the admission. As if he’d had no control over the words. Getting involved with him on anything other than a professional level would be lunacy. Edit that thought—getting involved with him was lunacy full stop.

“Okay. We’ll file our kiss in the mistake, not-to-be-repeated column.” Although if the hero in Kate’s current book kissed like Liam she’d file it under dangerous.

“That easy?”

The sudden scrunching of his forehead told her he didn’t like the idea she’d dismissed ten minutes of mindless passion as a kiss. She hadn’t, but it would be better for their working relationship if she did.

“You’re a loner,” she stated. “So am I. I recognise that trait in you.” A relationship was impossible. “You have to share yourself in a relationship.” She wasn’t prepared to risk sharing again. Liam wouldn’t even share himself with his brother.

“I don’t like lies.” He pushed back. “You’d never have told me it was you on the billboard if I hadn’t guessed.”

“You’re right. However, one person’s lie can be another person’s self-preservation.” Later she’d think about how hating lies and deception fit with rejecting romantic love and being a loner.

“That’s a cop-out,” he whipped back.

“If you’re so black and white in your assessments, why didn’t you tell George I’m the billboard model?” Maybe her gratitude for his silence had been premature?

“Because you were as blindsided as I was to discover this campaign’s not going to end in a fortnight.” His answer was honest and too insightful for comfort.

“Perceptive of you.” She huffed out a breath. Or maybe his years in the law had honed his skill at reading guilt and lies. “I have my reasons for sitting in for Anna.”

“And you didn’t think I could do perception.” He cocked his head to one side, studying her.

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