will seemed to collide with the wavering shield of her ambivalence. It was a contest in which ambivalence stood little or no chance. Fingers trembling ever so slightly with an excitement and a fear she didn’t want to name, Brenna handed him her key.
Without a word he inserted it in the lock and pushed open the door.
“I’ll build a fire,” he said as he closed the door with a decisiveness that made the creeping warmth in Brenna’s veins flare a little hotter. She watched him move across the room with that easy, catlike stride and then she turned and went toward the kitchen.
A few minutes later she stood staring unseeingly at the teakettle, waiting for the water to boil and listening to the sounds of Ryder constructing the fire. What was she doing? Did she even want to think about it?
An air of inevitability settled on her. It was something that seemed to have been enveloping her for most of the evening but that she had deliberately avoided facing. It was easier to take each event as it occurred even though common sense saw the ultimate conclusion to the pattern that was forming. Brenna poured the tea water over the leaves in the ceramic pot and prepared a tray with cups and saucers.
She found Ryder sprawled on the sofa, staring into the fire as she emerged from the kitchen with her tray. He looked up as she came forward, silvery eyes roving over her with a muted hunger that couldn’t quite be hidden. It was a hunger that found an answering response deep in Brenna, and the cups rattled a little as she set down the tray on the round wicker table.
“To a night of decadent pleasure,” she toasted with a determined lightness as she poured the tea and handed him his cup.
“Philosophy professors don’t usually spend their summer evenings cavorting in gambling dens with writers of sleazy men’s fiction?” Ryder queried dryly as he took the cup.
“I don’t. Not usually,” she stated calmly, lashes dropping as she sipped the soothing brew.
“Come now, surely there have been philosophers who have argued in favor of what is commonly referred to as the good life?” Ryder seemed willing to follow her mood. That surprised Brenna a little. But it fit in with the conflicting signals she had received before from him. She could be absolutely certain one moment that he wanted her and in the next he made it clear that she could set the pace and determine the direction. She didn’t quite understand.
“Oh, there have been several who advocated a life of pleasure, but I’m afraid they had the pleasures of intellectual discovery in mind, not the more worldly ones,” she lectured flippantly. “Even poor, maligned Epicurus was much more concerned with the pleasure of the pursuit of knowledge than the pleasures of the body. His opponents were the ones who made the word ‘epicurean’ a byword for a luxurious lifestyle. Epicurus and his circle of followers were really quite restrained. Even so, I suppose he was a little radical compared to some of the others who advocated a very stoic existence,” she finished speculatively, glancing into the fire.
“Nevertheless,” Ryder persisted softly, “there are philosophical theories that could be used to justify either life in the fast lane or a more cerebral existence?”
“Probably,” Brenna agreed with a small smile.
“And a man trying to decide which path to follow is allowed the choice?”
“There’s always the doctrine of free will,” she acknowledged, amused.
He set down his teacup and removed the one in her hands. “Then I choose to kiss you and the hell with the risks.”
Brenna held her breath, her nerves tingling and alive as he swept her into his arms. She made no protest when his mouth came searchingly down on hers. She wasn’t certain in that moment that she could have made a protest. This was where the evening had been leading, and she knew she wanted to taste a little of what this man had to offer her senses. The urge to do so was
Without a word he inserted it in the lock and pushed open the door.
“I’ll build a fire,” he said as he closed the door with a decisiveness that made the creeping warmth in Brenna’s veins flare a little hotter. She watched him move across the room with that easy, catlike stride and then she turned and went toward the kitchen.
A few minutes later she stood staring unseeingly at the teakettle, waiting for the water to boil and listening to the sounds of Ryder constructing the fire. What was she doing? Did she even want to think about it?
An air of inevitability settled on her. It was something that seemed to have been enveloping her for most of the evening but that she had deliberately avoided facing. It was easier to take each event as it occurred even though common sense saw the ultimate conclusion to the pattern that was forming. Brenna poured the tea water over the leaves in the ceramic pot and prepared a tray with cups and saucers.
She found Ryder sprawled on the sofa, staring into the fire as she emerged from the kitchen with her tray. He looked up as she came forward, silvery eyes roving over her with a muted hunger that couldn’t quite be hidden. It was a hunger that found an answering response deep in Brenna, and the cups rattled a little as she set down the tray on the round wicker table.
“To a night of decadent pleasure,” she toasted with a determined lightness as she poured the tea and handed him his cup.
“Philosophy professors don’t usually spend their summer evenings cavorting in gambling dens with writers of sleazy men’s fiction?” Ryder queried dryly as he took the cup.
“I don’t. Not usually,” she stated calmly, lashes dropping as she sipped the soothing brew.
“Come now, surely there have been philosophers who have argued in favor of what is commonly referred to as the good life?” Ryder seemed willing to follow her mood. That surprised Brenna a little. But it fit in with the conflicting signals she had received before from him. She could be absolutely certain one moment that he wanted her and in the next he made it clear that she could set the pace and determine the direction. She didn’t quite understand.
“Oh, there have been several who advocated a life of pleasure, but I’m afraid they had the pleasures of intellectual discovery in mind, not the more worldly ones,” she lectured flippantly. “Even poor, maligned Epicurus was much more concerned with the pleasure of the pursuit of knowledge than the pleasures of the body. His opponents were the ones who made the word ‘epicurean’ a byword for a luxurious lifestyle. Epicurus and his circle of followers were really quite restrained. Even so, I suppose he was a little radical compared to some of the others who advocated a very stoic existence,” she finished speculatively, glancing into the fire.
“Nevertheless,” Ryder persisted softly, “there are philosophical theories that could be used to justify either life in the fast lane or a more cerebral existence?”
“Probably,” Brenna agreed with a small smile.
“And a man trying to decide which path to follow is allowed the choice?”
“There’s always the doctrine of free will,” she acknowledged, amused.
He set down his teacup and removed the one in her hands. “Then I choose to kiss you and the hell with the risks.”
Brenna held her breath, her nerves tingling and alive as he swept her into his arms. She made no protest when his mouth came searchingly down on hers. She wasn’t certain in that moment that she could have made a protest. This was where the evening had been leading, and she knew she wanted to taste a little of what this man had to offer her senses. The urge to do so was
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