A beat passed, and his hand pressed more firmly on hers, a second. “Sorry.” That rough voice again.
“Don’t be. I’m not.”
He snorted.
“I’m not. I didn’t want the complication…but that was what I told myself. Really, I didn’t like any of them well enough to pay any mind to their winks and bad pickup lines. None of them caught my eye.”
She felt the way his pulse kicked at that, and smiled against the curve of his pectoral. “Someone’s flattered.”
“No,” he lied.
“Also, those fancy men were so impossiblydull. My God. All they could talk about was their Jags, and their new polo ponies, and summers on the Amalfi coast. Stock options, and charity balls. Blah blah. And then you finally get them into bed, and it was like shagging a lamppost: all stiff and unfeeling. One, two, three, then, ‘Brilliant, same time next week?’”
His chuckle started as a rumble in his chest, vibrating through her, and left his lips low and rusty, pricking goosebumps all across her skin.
“I’m telling you,” she continued, “a man who’s never wanted for anything sure does want for a little prowess and finesse between the sheets. And that’s to say nothing of passion, which is one territory the Brits never wanted to conquer.”
His chuckles turned to outright laughter, which was rough, and uncool, and boyish, and wonderful, unheard until this moment. She wanted to capture it in a bottle; put a cork in the top and keep it sealed away, her own private store of it for when she felt low.
Sadly, he smothered it with a hand and evened out his breathing through what felt like an old force of habit. When he had control of himself again – much to her dismay – he said, “What about Ingles? Greg? He’s not a Brit.” As though a switch had been flipped, his tone soured. “You gonna give him a chance? See if he’s a lamppost?”
“Definitely not.”
“He’s handsome. Rich. You could take him to fancy parties.”
“Do youwant meto give him a chance?”
He didn’t answer.
“I’m not interested in him. Though, while we’re on the subject of Greg, Idohave a meeting with him tomorrow.”
He stiffened again.
“He and I are having lunch with Blaire Blanchard and Milo Conrad, to ease their concerns about my involvement with the gala. Which is rubbish, but necessary, I’m afraid.”
The tension had not eased in him, in fact seemed to have intensified, his whole frame taut against her.
She pushed up on her elbow again, so she could see his face, which had gone carefully smooth and disinterested, save his eyes, which gave away his sudden unhappiness.
Oh, darling. She’d been wanting to touch his face, and this time, she let herself. Laid her fingertips along his prickly five o’clock shadow, pressed her thumb to the point of his chin. Marveled at the way his jaw flexed, throat bobbing as he swallowed, eyes widening with surprise. He’d saidtendermockingly before, and that was because this poor boy was unaccustomed to tenderness; better to mock than to yearn. Better to dismiss than to want.
“Toly. I’m not interested in Greg.”
Again, he swallowed, Adam’s apple jerking, throat clicking loud in the quiet of the bedroom. “So?” he said, finally. “It’s not my business if you are.”
She smiled, and felt him try not to squirm. “But do youwantit to be your business?”
He frowned, and she knew him well enough by this point to know that meant he was fighting ayes.
Ian’s words from earlier returned to her, his urging to just invite him up like a date, rather than have him slink around like a shameful secret. And, barring their current predicament, whycouldn’tshe invite him up? Why couldn’t they make a proper go of it?
Because of the face he was making now.
Because she’d never so much as considered herself paired with a Lean Dog.
Superficial obstacles – but obstacles all the same. Raven had never been one for trying to battle her way over, under, through those sorts of barriers when it came to romance. Her work and family kept her busy, her career surer and more profitable than the affections of a man.
It terrified her, now, the way she wanted to try.
