pressing her back against his chest. “Look how they’ve marked Cartagena,” she murmured, and then she turned, managing to twist herself into his embrace with her eyes, sparkling emerald, staring into his.
The heat between them became combustible.
It was all that she planned, and yet the shock of his kiss was staggering … frightening … all-consuming fire. She felt his tongue plundering her mouth, his mouth bruising hers, his hands splaying on her back, her ribs, her hips, her breasts, his thumbs working against her nipples, creating peaks that stood against the thin fabric of her halter dress.
It was wonderful, it was terrifying. She could do little but hold on to his shoulders, shivering, wanting it to go on, wanting it to stop so that she could breathe, trying to understand the ache that burned where his hips pressed against hers, teaching her that desire was real, alive, insistent.
A moment’s panic engulfed her and she tried to draw away. He held tight, crushing her, then apparently found control. And when he pulled away he was angry. With himself. With her. “You’re playing games you don’t know how to play, Catherine. And I don’t want any part of them. I think too much of your father.”
“My father?” Cat murmured stupidly, and then a flood of humiliation washed over her like a tidal wave. She had attempted to seduce him, like a tart, and then failed miserably. Her nervous withdrawal had clearly alerted him to her inexperience, and he had found her sadly lacking.
“Cat,” he said quietly, his anger abating. “You’re a very beautiful girl. But I don’t think you really know what you want.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Cat declared. “I’m a college graduate, Mr. Miller. Not a naive teen-ager.”
Clay sighed. “Honey, you’ve definitely got all the right stuff, you just don’t know what to do with it.”
She was going to burst into tears, but she couldn’t. She really didn’t know what she was doing, she just had to hurt him. She brought her hand across his cheek with all the strength she could muster, savoring the sound of the sharp retort. “You cocky bastard!” she hissed. And then what she had done shamed her, but it was too late. She saw the brown eyes darken to that incredible jet, his left cheek swell, the welt on his tense face red.
Praying she wouldn’t panic and run hysterically, Cat spun around to flee. She didn’t return to the party but discarded her heels in the sand and ran to the docks, her chest heaving. She reached the end, where the tranquil azure of the harbor had become as dark as the jet of his eyes in the moonless night. Exhausted, she fell to her knees, staring sightlessly into the black water.
If she’d had any breath, her scream would have rent the night as she felt herself plucked from the dock and into strong arms. As it was, the sound was no more than a gasp.
She was staring into liquid black again. It wasn’t the ocean. It was Clay’s eyes. Dazzling, dazzling jet. He was angry again, an icy anger that was partly reckless revenge, partly cold control.
“If you want to play games, Miss Windemere, I think you should learn how. I suppose I can be as good a teacher as any. Any protests? This was your idea.”
Protests? She couldn’t even speak. She could feel his raw, unleashed power. It was a surge, a relentless tide. She said nothing, but continued to stare into his eyes.
His looked away and walked swiftly down the dock and without pause for balance leapt into his cruiser with her in his arms. She was set down unceremoniously within the ragtag cabin. With dry, semi-controlled rage, he stuffed a paper cup of wine into her hand. “Relax, Miss Windemere,” he told her. “We won’t go far.”
He left her. She felt the hum of the engines; they were under way. And all she could do was sit and stare at the cup.
As he had said, they didn’t go far. The sound of the anchor hitting the water made her jump. She came from her dazed state to survey
The heat between them became combustible.
It was all that she planned, and yet the shock of his kiss was staggering … frightening … all-consuming fire. She felt his tongue plundering her mouth, his mouth bruising hers, his hands splaying on her back, her ribs, her hips, her breasts, his thumbs working against her nipples, creating peaks that stood against the thin fabric of her halter dress.
It was wonderful, it was terrifying. She could do little but hold on to his shoulders, shivering, wanting it to go on, wanting it to stop so that she could breathe, trying to understand the ache that burned where his hips pressed against hers, teaching her that desire was real, alive, insistent.
A moment’s panic engulfed her and she tried to draw away. He held tight, crushing her, then apparently found control. And when he pulled away he was angry. With himself. With her. “You’re playing games you don’t know how to play, Catherine. And I don’t want any part of them. I think too much of your father.”
“My father?” Cat murmured stupidly, and then a flood of humiliation washed over her like a tidal wave. She had attempted to seduce him, like a tart, and then failed miserably. Her nervous withdrawal had clearly alerted him to her inexperience, and he had found her sadly lacking.
“Cat,” he said quietly, his anger abating. “You’re a very beautiful girl. But I don’t think you really know what you want.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Cat declared. “I’m a college graduate, Mr. Miller. Not a naive teen-ager.”
Clay sighed. “Honey, you’ve definitely got all the right stuff, you just don’t know what to do with it.”
She was going to burst into tears, but she couldn’t. She really didn’t know what she was doing, she just had to hurt him. She brought her hand across his cheek with all the strength she could muster, savoring the sound of the sharp retort. “You cocky bastard!” she hissed. And then what she had done shamed her, but it was too late. She saw the brown eyes darken to that incredible jet, his left cheek swell, the welt on his tense face red.
Praying she wouldn’t panic and run hysterically, Cat spun around to flee. She didn’t return to the party but discarded her heels in the sand and ran to the docks, her chest heaving. She reached the end, where the tranquil azure of the harbor had become as dark as the jet of his eyes in the moonless night. Exhausted, she fell to her knees, staring sightlessly into the black water.
If she’d had any breath, her scream would have rent the night as she felt herself plucked from the dock and into strong arms. As it was, the sound was no more than a gasp.
She was staring into liquid black again. It wasn’t the ocean. It was Clay’s eyes. Dazzling, dazzling jet. He was angry again, an icy anger that was partly reckless revenge, partly cold control.
“If you want to play games, Miss Windemere, I think you should learn how. I suppose I can be as good a teacher as any. Any protests? This was your idea.”
Protests? She couldn’t even speak. She could feel his raw, unleashed power. It was a surge, a relentless tide. She said nothing, but continued to stare into his eyes.
His looked away and walked swiftly down the dock and without pause for balance leapt into his cruiser with her in his arms. She was set down unceremoniously within the ragtag cabin. With dry, semi-controlled rage, he stuffed a paper cup of wine into her hand. “Relax, Miss Windemere,” he told her. “We won’t go far.”
He left her. She felt the hum of the engines; they were under way. And all she could do was sit and stare at the cup.
As he had said, they didn’t go far. The sound of the anchor hitting the water made her jump. She came from her dazed state to survey
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