Karen Kendall - Open Invitation?

She made a faint, ladylike noise of either submission or approval, and it drove him wild.

He wanted to see her naked skin, feel the flesh of her thigh, lick the curve of her breast. Tongue her nipple, hear her moan into his ear, plunge a finger inside her.

Dan wanted to penetrate that Audrey Hepburn coolness and take her from the gates of proper to the open field of thrashingly, screamingly improper.

He was scant inches away from closing his hand over her breast when some internal monitor in his brain informed him that it would be a very, very bad idea.

Lilia wasn’t a woman he could push into sex. He had to make her want it as badly as he did. He had to tease her until she couldn’t help herself.

He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did. One wrong move, and he was toast. He pulled away from her and searched for her reaction.

She refused to look him in the eye, but her breathing was fast and uneven, just the way he’d hoped. After a moment she said, “I can’t believe you just did that, Mr. Granger.” And she smoothed an invisible wrinkle out of her immaculate skirt.

“Neither can I. But since I did, do you think you could call me Dan? And maybe, just maybe, I could call you Lilia?”

“I suppose that would be acceptable, now that you’re not going to sue me.”

“I was kidding about that.”

“I know.”

“But you kissed me anyway?”

She tucked her dark hair behind her ears and blushed. “Well, I felt guilty about the chair.”

Dan put his tongue into his cheek and shoved his hands into his pockets. “You sure know how to flatter a guy.”

She dimpled, flashed her gaze upward to his, and then bent to pick up the broken chair. He should have helped her, but he stood mesmerized by the way her skirt pulled across her sweet little hips and highlighted the curves of the most perfect derriere he’d ever seen. It was a shameful waste that she sat on that, and covered it with suits, because it rivaled any ass he’d ever seen twirling around a pole. But it was the untouchable quality of it that mesmerized him.

There wasn’t a panty line on it, either, and Dan’s mouth went dry wondering if that meant what he thought it did.

Miss Manners, commando? Bare to the air? Oh, get a grip, Granger.

Unfortunately that was precisely what he wanted to do: get a good grip. Each of her little cheeks would fit nicely in the palm of his hand. He’d squeeze. He’d stroke. He’d caress and then trail his fingertips inward to brush her intimate folds.

Granger. Do you need to buy the latest issue of Playboy and lock yourself in a bathroom? Christ!

“I, uh. I can try to fix that for you,” he said, gesturing at the chair.

“That’s all right. I’ll take it to a furniture-maker. Are you sure you didn’t hurt your back? Your tailbone?”

“I’m fine. I’ve fallen off a lot of horses, and they tend to be taller than your average dining room chair. Plus a chair don’t drag you by a stirrup or kick you in the head on its way back to the barn.”

“Very true,” agreed Lilia. “They smell better, too.”

“You don’t like the smell of a good, sweaty horse? Mmmm. I love it. Raw and salty and musky. Pungent. Laced with saddle-leather and liniment.” The only smell that comes close is…sex. But he didn’t say it aloud. That might send Miss Manners right over the edge.

She was already staring at him as if he had three heads. “Dan, if you think horses smell good, may I enquire as to what you think smells bad?”

He thought for a second. “Those candle shops, the ones where the fakey-fruit and sickly cinnamon and vomit-vanilla scents all combine to blow the hair right off your head when you walk in the door. Now those places stink to high heaven. I’d rather shovel out a horse stall any day than have to spend two minutes in a place like that.”

Lilia laughed.

He loved it when she laughed: the sound was simultaneously throaty and musical. Her pointed little chin rose, her sleek black hair a shiny curtain along her smooth, pale neck.

Then there were the eyebrows. Lilia London had the most flawlessly groomed, dark, winged eyebrows he’d ever seen. They added to her untouchable look, yet also projected exoticism and a challenging sexuality.

He was curious about her reaction to the kiss. He’d expected her to be flustered by it, shocked, uncomfortable in his presence afterward. Frankly he’d thought that it would put an end to their session today. But it had been a risk he took willingly, just for a taste of her.

“You’re an unusual man, Dan,” she said. “Now, we have a lot to do in two weeks, so let’s set up a schedule. We should start analyzing your wardrobe and replacing items today. My partner Shannon is an image consultant and she will help with that. She’ll take your measurements, get your shoe size and go off shopping on her own. We’ll get a tailor in here to fit everything perfectly. But I want to take you to be fitted for at least one custom suit and, of course, your evening wear. That cannot be off-the-rack for this particular wedding.

“I’m going to strongly suggest that you leave your boots, hat and belt…” her voice trailed off as she stared at it, “behind. Under no circumstances should they go to London with you.”

“Whoa. My boots are the most comfortable footwear I own. In Texas you wear ’em with a suit. I’ve even seen them worn with a tux.”

Lilia closed her eyes and visibly shuddered. “Never, ever wear boots with a suit of any kind. Please. Especially not outside of your home state. You will be the butt of jokes. You will most certainly embarrass your family at an English wedding if you do so.”

Dan sighed. “Well, what’s wrong with my belt? It’s custom-made.”

Her face became devoid of expression. “I strongly advise leaving that here. I’m sure the other guests will remember your name without having to read it over your backside.”

He didn’t particularly care for her dry tone. “It’s a Western tradition. In fact, I’m having two belts made for Claire and her new husband as sorta ‘stocking stuffer’ wedding gifts.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“One’s gonna say ‘bride’ and the other’ll say ‘groom.’ In script, which is real hard for the guy to do.”

Lilia opened her mouth but no sound came out. He guessed that meant she didn’t think the belts were a good idea.

“Of course, I’ll get them something silver as the real gift. I was hoping you’d help me choose.”

She nodded. “I’d be happy to do that. Anyhow, Shannon will help with wardrobe, as I mentioned, while you and I get down to work on polite conversation, correct table manners under all sorts of circumstances and ballroom dancing. You mentioned a steeplechase, I believe? I assume you know how to ride?”

“I was practically born in a saddle.”

“Yes, but have you ridden English style before?”

“Hell, no. Little velvet caps and silly britches aren’t my style. And I use a real man’s saddle.”

“Have you ever taken fences, Dan?”

“Taken ’em? I’ve mended fences.”

A frown marred her smooth forehead. “You do realize that during a steeplechase you’ll be expected to jump over obstacles? Very large obstacles?”

Dan scratched his head. “Yeah. I’ve never figured out that part. Seems dumb to me. Why not just go around ’em?”

“It takes a very good seat and firm hands and lots of practice…”

“I’m not too worried.”

“Riding lessons, English saddle,” Lilia said firmly, writing it down on a monogrammed notepad.

He curled his lip. “You’re not gettin’ me in those bun-hugger pansy pants or a velvet hat.”

She waved a dismissive hand at him and continued to write. “We’ll go see Jean Pierre for some dancing lessons, and then you and I can practice every day… Oh, and we’ll need to schedule a manicure for you.”