Page 45 of The Trouble with Tigers
Jesus, she smelled good, and she stood close enough her perfect breasts practically brushed his forearms. Something hot and primal filled his veins. Irritated beyond measure—with himself or her, he could not say—he realized he either needed to kiss her or blast her. Very well.
He drew a mind-clearing breath. “It’s crossed my mind to wonder if…”
Blessedly, the tapping stopped.
“…If you might not think it would be easier if the engagement weren't a sham.”
Her unblinking green eyes narrowed. An image of a feral cat came to mind. “Go on.”
“I only want to keep things from turning ugly later, Kitty.”
The tip of her pink tongue darted out to touch on her upper lip. “Let me see if I understand you correctly.” She aimed a patently false smile at him. “You want to make sure I know you don’t wish to marry me.”
“Ah…” He wouldn’t have put it quitethatbluntly.
“Allow me to ease your mind, my lord. I don’t wish to marry you. Indeed, you are the very last sort of man I wish to marry.”
He was impressed. She’d managed to communicate her ire without raising her voice above a whisper.
His mouth curved up at the corners. “Really?”
“Really.”
“You sound serious—as if you’ve given the matter thought. You’ve utterly relieved my mind.”
“My life is complete.”
Cheeky chit. He laughed aloud. “It’s none of my business, I know. But, out of curiosity—what are you looking for in a husband?”
Flames leaped in her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, and he prepared for a thorough set-down.
“Good evening, Ezekiel, Lady Christine,” said his aunt from the doorway.
Kitty’s mouth snapped shut.
“Good evening, Aunt Lill. Looking elegant as always.”
Kitty shot him one last glare before aiming an angelic smile at his aunt.
The parlor clock chimed eight.
“Ladies, may I escort you in to dinner?”
Chapter Eleven
Kitty stood at the window in her grandfather’s study, staring out at the fierce storm. Someone had snuffed the candles and the only light in the room came from the moon, its glow eking through the thick clouds in fits and starts.
Lightning shattered the darkness, illuminating the wind ravaged yew trees outside—and the distorted reflection of Garrick’s face in the windowpane. Behind her. Almost upon her.
She spun around. Another flash of light, combined with an earsplitting crack of thunder, revealed she’d reacted too late.
She tried to run, but Garrick hooked the tip of his boot behind her ankle. She toppled helplessly to the ground, with Garrick landing atop her.
She wanted to fight, to kick and scratch her way out from beneath him, but she couldn’t move. Why couldn’t she move?
Even knowing the futility, well aware the two of them were alone in the house, she drew a breath and screamed with all her might.
As if she’d offended the gods, an answering clap of thunder sounded. Again and again.
