Masque of Betrayal by Andrea Kane

hand, saw her breath coming a bit faster, and it took all his control not to stand up and drag her into his arms. “Your name is lyrical and captivating and elegant. It suits you.”
    “It is French. My mother chose it.” Jacqui could barely concentrate past the heat of his touch.
    Dane traced the smooth skin of her knuckles. “Your mother has excellent taste. Is she of French descent?” He raised his dark brows as a sudden thought occurred to him. “Was that the reason for your impassioned plea on France’s behalf last Friday?”
    Jacqui shook her head. “Au contraire, monsieur. My mother was French Canadian … from Quebec. Her people were hardly sympathetic toward France. Even the English were preferable to them. No, sir, my beliefs are my own.”
    “You said ‘was.’ Is your mother no longer alive?”
    A shadow of sadness crossed her lovely face. “My mother died ten years ago,” she replied shortly.
    “I’m sorry, Jacqueline.”
    He sounded sorry, too, his deep, resonant voice filled with something curiously akin to compassion.
    For the first time, Jacqui raised her eyes to Dane’s, wondering at his reaction and simultaneously hoping that, by focusing on anything but their joined hands, she could break the sensual spell he had cast. It was a mistake. The moment her hesitant gaze met the tenderness of his, the tingling sensation in her body intensified and a warm, heavy ache began deep inside her.
    It spread like a narcotic, demanding control of her body, and she fought the feeling. Not because it was unpleasant, for, in truth, it was wildly exciting. But because it was overwhelming and left her vulnerable and unsure. She would tolerate neither.
    “Come here.”
    Dane’s fingers tightened on hers as he stood, and before Jacqui could even think to protest, he had drawn her against him, lifting her face so close to his that she could feel his breath on her lips, inhale his masculine scent.
    “I’ve wanted to know the taste of your mouth from the first moment I saw you,” he murmured huskily, gliding his fingers through her hair.
    Jacqui’s heart gave an involuntary leap.
    “It’s what you want as well, Jacqueline.” He slid his hand beneath her heavy silken mane, lightly stroking the nape of her neck. Jacqui’s eyes slid closed and she made a soft sound of pleasure and protest, unconsciously leaning into his touch. “Tell me,” Dane commanded. She stared up at him slumberously, her eyes registering confusion and apprehension and untried sensuality. “I want to hear you say the words,” he whispered, tightening his grip in a definitive gesture. “This has to be both of us. Tell me this is where you want to be. In my arms. Against my body. With my mouth on yours. Jacqueline,” he breathed, running his hands across her shoulders, his thumbs skimming her throat where her pulse beat frantically, “tell me to kiss you. Tell me … and I will.”
    Physical pleasure stormed Jacqui’s senses, the skin where he’d touched her alive and tingling. Exhilaration warred with uncertainty, and control was cast to the wind. She stared up at him helplessly, knowing, as the keen silver of his eyes darkened to a deep, smoky gray, that he understood exactly what was happening to her. And yet he waited. Breathing became difficult and speaking impossible.
    “Jacqueline …” he whispered again.
    “Yes …” she managed, unable to say more.
    But Dane was relentless. “Yes … what?” He cradled her head in his hands, tugging her closer.
    “Yes … kiss me.”
    Her words were swallowed by his mouth as it covered hers, possessing her in a kiss that was unlike anything she had ever experienced, or even imagined. Dane molded his lips to hers, moving against her mouth with deliberate, insistent pressure until she parted her lips to the more intimate penetration of his tongue. He delved into the sweetness of her mouth with deep, rhythmic strokes, felt her small hands glide up his shirt and wrap around his neck,