She looked at the lake and sighed. “And therefore more satisfying.”

He eyed her profile. He wasn’t entirely certain why he’d told her so much, but the telling had only reinforced his sense of obligation. He owed so much to so many-to Flick most of all, but also to Demon and the Cynsters in general. When he’d been in trouble, they’d freely and openly given him the aid he’d needed to reclaim his life. Through them, he’d made friends, acquaintances, and connections that he valued immensely, that were fundamentally important to who he now was.

Others had given him a great deal when he’d been in need.

Now Pris Dalling, and whoever she was protecting, needed help; he couldn’t walk away, couldn’t not offer his aid in turn.

“I told you about my past so you’d understand that, if you or whoever you’re protecting has become embroiled in any illicit scheme and are finding it difficult to break free, then I, of all people, will understand.” He waited until she turned her head and faced him, he sensed reluctantly. “If they’re in trouble and need help, I’m prepared to give it, but in order to do so, you’ll have to tell me who they are and what’s going on.”

Holding his gaze, Pris found herself facing the crux of her problem. She knew in her heart Rus would never willingly have become embroiled in any illicit scheme, but why hadn’t he come forward and reported what ever it was he’d learned? Why was he hiding?

She didn’t know; until she did…grimacing, she looked back at the lake. “I can’t tell you.”

Despite her best efforts, the words rang with real reluctance; despite her loyalty to Rus, the urge to grasp the hand Dillon held out was surprisingly strong-especially after that incident with Harkness, compounded by Cromarty’s appearance that evening.

Since sighting Rus on the night he’d tried to break into the Jockey Club, she’d learned nothing more of his whereabouts. And with Harkness stalking the Heath and Cromarty swaggering about the ballrooms, her ability to search was becoming restricted.

She needed help, but…

Dillon moved, drawing his hands from his pockets and shifting to face her.

He was regrouping to press her further; she struck before he could, offense being infinitely preferable to defense, especially where he was concerned. She looked at him, let their gazes clash and lock-suddenly very aware of him, large, dark and dangerous, one muscled arm draped along the sofa’s back. “I need to know the implications of what I’m telling you before I do. If you’ll tell me what’s in the register…?”

He held her gaze for a heartbeat, then inflexibly replied, “I can’t.”

Where the compulsion came from she didn’t know-part aggression, part rising fear, and partly that wild and reckless craving for excitement and thrills that was as intrinsic a part of her as it was of him.

“Perhaps I can persuade you…?” The words fell from her lips, sultry and low.

Before he could react, raising her hands to frame his face, she leaned forward and kissed him.

8

Pris wanted nothing more than to distract him, and herself. To set aside her escalating troubles and for just a few minutes be herself. To soothe her restless soul with just a taste of the wild and reckless.

He tasted of both, of a dark flaring need that tempted and taunted, that teased her with a promise of illicit and dangerous pleasures, of atavistic delights beyond her ken.

His lips met hers without hesitation, returning the pressure, but no more; he took what she offered, but made no demands, left her to make the running as if aloofly sitting back to see how far she would go-how serious she was about persuading him.

Not in her wildest imaginings did she think she could, certainly not like this. Her wish to see the register wasn’t the reason she leaned into him, traced his lower lip with the tip of her tongue, boldly entered his mouth when he parted his lips, and tempted him more.

Asked for more. All but pleaded.

He moved; his arm left the back of the sofa and slowly encircled her, then tightened, urging her to him. His other hand rose, fingers splaying to cradle her head as he smoothly slid the reins from her grasp, drew her nearer yet, all but into his lap as he angled his head and took control.

Of the kiss, and all else she would cede to him, but passivity wasn’t her style; she drew a line and held to it, letting him kiss her as he would, show her what he would, but reserving the right to redirect their play if she wished. If she wanted.

Now, this minute, she wanted him. Wanted to feel his tongue stroking hers, wanted to experience again the hot tide of wanton desire he so readily called forth. His lips moved on hers, demanding, definitely commanding, yet still unurgent, still effortlessly, arrogantly, controlled.

She met each questing stroke of his tongue, dueled, retreated, allowed him to explore, then grasping his head tightly between her hands, boldly returned the plea sure.

Sensed, then, just for an instant-a second of hesitation when she felt his control momentarily crack, and she saw past it-what he hid behind his sophisticated façade.

Something not sophisticated at all. Something primal, powerful, and predatory, something with teeth and claws and burning eyes, a desire so wild, so reckless and passionate that, if let free, unrestrained, it possessed power enough to shake both their worlds.

The ultimate temptation for the wild and reckless.

The ultimate sin for those who couldn’t resist the lure.

She saw, craved. Hungered. She reached for it, without hesitation sank into him, drew him deep into her mouth, and with lips and tongue invited.

Dillon inwardly cursed, and resisted. He’d intended calling her bluff, nothing more. Intended letting her masquerade as the femme fatale she pretended to be-he knew it was a pose-to let her play out her hand and learn she couldn’t win…

He’d forgotten how susceptible he was. Not to her, herself-the simple appreciation for a female body he could and would have easily controlled-but to the passion she evoked and sent racing down his veins, to the sheer unadulterated lust that, with her in his arms, fogged his brain.

He tried to ignore it, battled to block it out-and failed. Heat swirled through him, rose like a tidal wave he couldn’t hope to hold back. In desperation, he gripped her waist and tried to ease her back, to create space between their heating bodies, preferably to break the kiss-an engagement that was rushing down an increasingly slippery slope to raging, mindless need.

She wouldn’t have it, simply wouldn’t be denied; she came up on her knees, clamped her hands on his shoulders, and used her leveraged weight to wedge him into the sofa’s corner. The angled sides restricted him; she compounded his problems by sinking more definitely, more enticingly against him, and letting her hands roam.

Under his coat, over his chest, opening and brushing aside his waistcoat, sweeping wide, then down to grip his sides while her tongue played havoc with his senses, and the soft weight of her firm feminine curves, supple and giving, beckoned and lured…that prowling, predatory side of him he barely recognized, yet knew to be him. That facet of him she so effortlessly provoked into being.

He fought to catch his mental breath, to get a firm grip on his wits if not his senses. Metaphorically girding his loins, he gathered his will and tried his level best to sit up and move her back-

She felt his muscles bunching, countered his move.

He raised his shoulders free of the corner, only to have her determinedly bear him down, fractionally to the side and around so that his back hit the raised arm of the sofa. The shuffle of female limbs screened by fine silk over and between his thighs, the shushing shift of her skirts as she twitched them and wriggled, totally distracted him.

Then somehow he was leaning back against the sofa’s padded arm, his legs angled across the seat, with her poised over him, in his arms, straddling him, her warmth seeping through the cloth of his trousers as she settled over his hips.

His mind, his wits, his senses reeled, struggling to assimilate every aspect, every contact.

Her lips had never left his; now they firmed, and she brazenly engaged him, flagrantly incited, sirenlike, sinuously shifting over him…

Was she really as innocent as he’d thought?

Before he could accumulate sufficient wit to attempt an answer, she blew all chance of rational thought from his brain.

At his waist, her small hands gripped his shirt, tugged it free of his waistband, then slid beneath.

Her touch-the feel of her small, warm, intensely feminine hands pressing avidly, greedily to his already heated skin-seared like a brand.

And incinerated every civilized safeguard he possessed, shredded his vaunted control, and blew the tattered remnants away.

He reacted. Caught her head, palmed her nape, and ravenously kissed her back, but it was no longer the he who usually was, but a merged entity, a seamless melding of the dangerous predatory male and the cool, clever, experienced gentleman.

The primitive and possessive, and the arrogant and demanding.

He was lost, and so was she. Some distant, disconnected part of his mind knew it, but was helpless to act, to access sufficient will or strength to pull them both free.

Of the completely ungovernable, totally irresistible tide of passion that roared into being and captured them both.

Swept them into a sea of desire and hot, urgent yearning. Onto a plane where for both of them nothing mattered beyond the next heated touch, the next explicit caress.

Her desperate fingers fumbled with his cravat; he groped blindly with one hand, trapped the swinging end of the braid that anchored her cape at her neck, and wrenched it free.