Opening her senses, she drank in, soaked up, every little pleasure-the weight of him pressing her to the floor, his hips pinning hers as he drove repetitively deep within her, his chest heavy against her aching breasts-a delicious ache she’d all but forgotten-his lips still locked over hers, his mouth still feasting on hers, his tongue mimicking his possession of her in a flagrantly erotic way.

With joyous greed she grasped every chance to let her rejected, shriveled, almost moribund passionate soul milk all it could from the encounter, all it could of what he and circumstance had conspired to deny her for twelve long years.

All his thirst for revenge and her dramatic temper had today, between them, unwittingly unleashed.

So she strove for no control; she simply wanted.

She made no effort to guide or direct; she simply urged him on. Urged him to ride her as hard as he would, as deeply as he wished, amazed to discover that he seemed as desperate, as driven, as she.

To revisit all they’d had. To touch the heat, the incredible flaming peak, again.

To at the end, all flushed skin and damp flesh, hands grasping, locking, fingers clenched, lungs so tight they burned, lips fused, mouths melded, blind and desperate searching for release, let desire wield its whip and drive them the last little way, to crest the peak together.

To together soar over the edge and into the void.

To fracture and fall, in passion’s embrace to let pleasure claim them.

To shatter them, and fill them.

With a golden glory she hadn’t felt for so long it made her weep.

Spent, he slumped upon her. She could feel his heart still racing, pounding in his chest, feel the tempo echo where they joined.

She drew a slow, shallow breath, then raised a hand, wiped the tear that had slid from beneath her lashes, paused. Then, hesitantly, driven by an urge she had no wish to name, she raised her hand to his hair and, tentatively, caressed. When he settled under the caress, her heart contracted. She continued, gently ruffling his hair, just as she used to.

A quiet, tender minute ticked past. His heartbeat gradually slowed; his breathing eased.

She wasn’t sure if what she felt was her parched heart shattering, or if the sensation in her chest was of that same parched heart, refreshed by the last moments, slowly swelling, returning to life.

The latter was unwise, and would most likely prove self-destructive, at the very least exquisitely hurtful. He hadn’t loved her, not as she loved him, and never had, no matter what she’d thought. It would be foolish beyond permission to imagine that had changed, especially given how he now thought of her.

Regardless, she could control her heart no more than she’d been able to control the passion of the last minutes.

Any more than she’d been able to control it all those years ago.

Finally, he stirred, withdrew and moved off her-only to slump heavily on his back alongside. Luckily, the silk rug was large.

Reaching down with one hand, she flicked her skirts down over her knees, not out of any sense of modesty-with him she had none-but because, with passion fading, the air felt cool.

They lay side by side staring up at the ceiling.

When he gave no sign of breaking the silence, she decided that, as his hostess, it fell to her to do so.

“That wasn’t supposed to happen.” Her voice was low, sultry-even more raspy than it usually was.

Christian felt more than heard the words, as if they were some damnable caress, stroking down his chest and lower. Inside, not outside; not stroking his skin but his very nerves.

Nerves she’d-they’d-just sated to an extent he hadn’t recalled as possible.

He felt her sidelong glance, knew she was waiting for him to make some response, but…he simply couldn’t find the words. Could barely find his brain, let alone assemble sufficient wit to have a coherent conversation.

Especially not with the scent of jasmine everywhere around him.

The physical vortex they’d created had been wild enough-mind-bending, senses-scrambling, shattering enough. But the emotional whirlpool it had left behind was…at least for now, more than he could cope with.

He felt battered, raked raw.

Her hand in his hair, gently stroking as she always had before, had shaken him to the depths of his soul.

Regardless, he knew he had to regroup, at least enough to take his leave.

She’d been studying his profile. She definitely seemed more well-grounded than he. From the corner of his eye he saw her lips quirk-recognized the fleeting smile as one of smug, feminine satisfaction.

Before he could summon the will to react, it faded. Her expression grew closed, shuttered.

He turned to look at her as she looked away.

And pushed herself to a sitting position.

She started to rebutton her bodice. “No one has ever claimed a Vaux failed to honor an obligation.” She glanced at him, briefly met his eyes. “I don’t imagine any Allardyce would either.”

Bodice closed, she swung her legs beneath her and got to her feet. She shook out her skirts, then met his eyes again.

Her lips had thinned. “Consider what just occurred as a significant payment against our account.” She straightened, and looked haughtily down at him. “Now you have to prove yourself worthy of your hire.”

The look in her eyes told him very clearly that she’d correctly divined, and was totally unimpressed by, his ill-formed intention of using her payment to exact some convoluted revenge.

One fine brow slowly arched; he was fairly certain she could, even now, read the few thoughts his brain had managed to assemble. He’d forgotten just how well she knew him.

“I’ll find Justin.” His voice came out as a resigned growl.

That infernal brow of hers arched higher. “Good.” With a crisp nod, she half turned toward the door. “You can see yourself out.”

When he made no further comment-in his present state unnecessary speech was beyond him-she merely raised both brows, swung on her heel and swept out of the room.

Leaving him lying in disarray on her fabulous silk rug.

He waited until he heard the door click behind her, then he groaned and sat up. Upright wasn’t much of an improvement; he still felt…stunned, blindsided, reeling.

He knew what he’d intended-just a kiss, a taunting, teasing one that would have left her wanting and reminded her of what she’d turned her back on.

He knew what had happened-she’d seized his intention and turned it back on him, and with typical Vaux disregard for safety had unleashed a maelstrom that had plunged them both back into the past.

Back into each other, and not just physically.

He knew what had occurred, even now could recall each stunning instant with startling clarity-feel her taking him in, even feel her hands on his overheated skin, burning him, branding him.

What he didn’t know was why.

And even less did he know what it meant.

She-they-between them had taken a step back through time, as if the intervening years hadn’t mattered. As if all that had happened in those years didn’t truly exist, not on the same plane.

As if all that had occurred in those years hadn’t affected what lay between them.

He didn’t understand how that could be so. She’d walked away from her promise to wait for him and happily married another man. When he’d returned briefly to assume his title after his father’s death, he’d heard that her marriage to Randall was widely regarded as a love match-there being no other explanation for a lady of Letitia’s birth and family circumstances marrying so far beneath her.

Yet tonight, on the exquisite green and gold silk rug in her parlor, they’d plunged into the past-and it-every moment, every touch, every gasp-had been exactly as it had been before.

If anything, even more intense than before.

Even to that moment afterward when she’d gently tumbled his hair.

Everything had been the same-yet given what had happened between then and now, how could that be?

Mentally shaking his head, he got to his feet and righted his clothes.

Then he headed for the door, dousing the candles as he went. The front hall was in darkness. He opened the front door, set the latch to lock behind him, and stepped out into the balmy night.

Walking home through the darkness helped clear his head.

By the time he reached his front door, he’d clarified at least two points.

While he didn’t understand what had happened, he intended to find out.

And although he’d intended the price for his services to be nothing more than, at the most, a fleeting liaison, he’d changed his mind.

Now, he wanted a great deal more.

Chapter 4

Exactly what he now wanted of Letitia Randall née Vaux was a point Christian hadn’t yet decided. The following morning, he put that matter-defining his prize-aside, and concentrated instead on winning it.

He and Tristan met at the club. Over breakfast, they reviewed all they’d been able to glean over the past days concerning Justin Vaux.

“He’s twenty-six-no longer a wet-behind-the-ears whelp.” Pushing his empty plate away, Tristan sat back. “From all I could gather, he’s viewed by his friends as a curiously sober sort. ‘A reliable man,’ to quote one.”

“Aside from his temper, presumably,” Christian dryly replied.

Tristan inclined his head. “Oddly, however, while everyone acknowledged it-his temper’s existence-it didn’t seem to feature in, to influence or color in any real way, their experience of him.”

Christian snorted. “The Vaux are largely frauds.” When Tristan looked his query, he elaborated, “They do have tempers-histrionic and dramatic ones. Ones that rely on the tongue for expression.” He considered, then said, “One should perhaps remember that while the Vaux have never been warriors, they’ve always been valued by the most powerful in the land-for their tongues. They’ve been diplomats, envoys, all manner of messengers and ambassadors. Most of the males in the senior line have served in that capacity at one time or another.”