Another part was insatiably curious.
And curiosity was, and always had been, her besetting sin.
Usually, her curiosities were intellectual rather than physical, notable exceptions being waltzing and skating, but Adair stirred a curiosity that was altogether more complex.
She was fascinated by all she was learning of his endeavors, of how he conducted investigations and interacted with Stokes and the police. Through no one but him could she learn of such things—and on that front there was much more she’d yet to learn. While such matters were primarily intellectual, there was a physical side, too; walking the edge of danger when they’d infiltrated the East End in disguise had been exhilarating.
So there were positives to their association, many reasons she wished to continue it, quite aside from rescuing her missing boys.
But it was curiosity of a different sort that fed the ambivalence she felt over him, prompting her to cut off all personal interaction despite her real and burgeoning fascination.
And that was even more out of character. She never backed away from challenging situations, and one part of her, the stronger, dominant, willful part of her, didn’t want to back away now.
Reaching the end of the short gallery, she kicked her skirts about and paced back, wrapped in shadows and out of sight of the revelers below.
She’d thought at length over what he inspired in her, what he provoked. Itwasa form of curiosity, which was why she’d felt so comfortable exploring it, why she’d instinctively pursued it.
Emotional curiosity. Something she’d felt for no other soul, certainly for no man. Fascination with such a subject was, unquestionably, an intellectual exercise, yet for her, with him, it also possessed a definite physical side, a sensual side, one she couldn’t deny, and—witness her continuing reaction to every little touch—patently couldn’t avoid.
And therein lay the crux of her problem.
Unless she was reading the signs entirely wrongly, he wanted her—desired her—in a definitely physical way.
Other men had, or had said they had, but perversely she’d never been the least bit curious about them. But Barnaby Adair made her curious and fascinated, made her wonder about things she’d long ago deemed boring and had dismissed as entirely beneath her notice.
She was noticing now. And that was so strange she didn’t know how to react—how to take charge and satisfy her fascination, how to find the answers to her multiplying questionssafely. Without losing sight of that other reality and risking her future—her ability to continue to exercise her will and lead an independent life. She’d always intended to and still did; nothing whatever had changed on that front.
Halting by the railing, still safely wrapped in gloom, she looked out over the sea of heads and frowned. How long would she need to pace about up there, getting nowhere?
On the thought, a now familiar prickling awareness swept her nape, then spread southward. On a gasp, she whirled, and found a dark, mysterious, dangerous figure directly behind her.
A jolt of anticipation streaked through her. Her heart beat fast, then faster.
She opened her lips to berate him for startling her; before she could get a word out, he seized her waist and swung her around, away from the railing, into deeper shadow.
He stepped closer, hauled her into his arms.
Into a kiss that stole her breath.
Stole her wits.
Fiercely possessive, in no way tentative, he gathered her into his arms. Like steel, they banded her back, pressing her to him. His lips moved commandingly on hers. Hers had already been parted on the protest she’d never uttered; he’d taken advantage and laid claim to her mouth, to her senses.
To sensation, a weapon he wielded with consummate mastery, distracting her, beguiling her, seducing her.
And there was more, this time—more to feel, more to sense, more to learn. More heat, more scintillating pleasure, of a sort that sent thrilling little sparks dancing down her veins to settle beneath her skin, to ignite and burn.
Creating a host of little fires that spread and coalesced, and warmed her.
Heated her.
Until she surrendered to the growing heat, and him, and kissed him back.
She didn’t understand why she so wanted to, what drove her to spear her fingers into his silky hair and plunge into a duel of kiss and retreat, of tangling tongues and voracious lips, of pleasure that bloomed and spread and filled her—and him.
She couldn’t, in the distant recess of her mind that still functioned, that hadn’t yet been suborned into the expanding pleasure of the kiss, comprehend why she felt such a surge of satisfaction at knowing—simply knowing in her soul—that her kiss, and she, brought him pleasure.
Why should that matter to her? It never had with any other man.
