Diana Palmer - Fire and Ice

She studied his black tie. “No.”

“I’ll take care of you,” he said in a strange, soft tone that brought her eyes up to his involuntarily.

She was caught in that deep brown web again and a dark sweetness filled her.

“Come with me,” he murmured softly.

She tried to speak, but her breath caught. He was hypnotizing her, he was…

“I don’t have a choice…do I?” she whispered unsteadily.

“No,” he murmured absently. His eyes dropped to her soft, parted lips. “I haven’t wanted a woman’s mouth so much since my souped-up Chevy days,” he said so that only she could hear him.

“That I wouldn’t believe on a bet,” she said, trying to make light of it when her pulse was jumping like a frightened rabbit.

“Wouldn’t you?” He moved a step closer and her eyes dilated wildly. She’d already had a taste of his strength and it scared her. She didn’t want to find out if that sensuous, faintly cruel mouth was as expert as it looked.

“You’d hurt…” she said without thinking. She couldn’t think.

His eyes flashed down at hers and there was a matching wildness in them. “God, yes, I would,” he muttered under his breath. “And you’d fight me like a wildcat, wouldn’t you?”

She nodded slowly, unable to break the silver thread that bound them together. “Tooth and nail.”

“For the first few minutes,” he amended, letting his eyes drop slowly, boldly, over her body before they slid back up to meet her own. “After that…”

She cleared her throat. “I have an appointment Friday….”

“Break it,” he said curtly. “I meant what I said. If you back out, Jan doesn’t come, either.”

She searched his dark eyes, confused, uncertain. “Will you at least listen to me if I come?”

“Yes,” he said, and she knew he meant it.

“Then I’ll do it.”

His lifted his chin slightly. “I won’t promise more than I can deliver, Margie.”

“I never thought you would,” she said with a smile.

He studied her again, his gaze lingering on the bodice. “Maybe I was wrong about one thing,” he murmured.

“What?” she asked.

“The padded bra,” he whispered.

She ground her teeth together to keep from slapping him, but the color in her cheeks was unpreventable.

“You’re outrageous!” she told him.

“Righteous indignation?” he asked mockingly. “Ruffled modesty? I thought you were a liberated woman.”

“You make me feel about thirteen,” she slung at him, and then felt like sinking into the floor for admitting such a thing to such a man.

“Do I really?” he taunted.

“Good night, Mr. Van Dyne,” she muttered, turning.

“No parting kiss?” he asked with dark insolence.

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