The Temptation of Your Touch by Teresa Medeiros Page B

stirring his body and his soul. He longed to capture her slender wrist in his hand, to bring those fingertips to his mouth and kiss them one by one as a prelude to tasting the softness of her lips.
    Determined to do just that, he reached for her. But his hand closed on empty air. He opened his eyes and gazed up into the shadows gathered beneath the canopy of the unfamiliar bed, finding himself exactly as he had expected to.
    Alone.
    How was it that such a simple dream could seem more vivid and real to him than the waking fog he’d been wading through in recent months? Even if he willed himself to do so, he didn’t think he would be able to forget it.
    It might have been easier to do so if he weren’t still fully aroused and aching for a woman’s touch on some far more provocative spot than his brow.
    Despite the cool façade he presented to the world, Max’s appetites were stronger and more driving than those of most men. That was exactly why he had vowed never to lose control of them. If his brother had taught him anything, it was just how much damage a man could do when he selfishly indulged his lusts without stopping to count the cost to those around him.
    Of course, Max hadn’t exactly lived as a monk, either. He had always been too much of a gentleman to pay for his pleasures, but he was not above satisfying his baser needs with some discreet widow looking for a bliss more transitory than matrimonial.
    All of that had ended when Clarinda had finally accepted his suit. Temptations were far less difficult to resist when he was anticipating sharing a marriage bed with the woman he had adored for most of his life. He had been confident marriage toClarinda would fulfill his every desire, both emotional and carnal.
    Bloody fool, he thought, kicking away the tangle of bedclothes and throwing his long legs over the side of the bed. As he emerged from the bed curtains, shoving them aside as he did so, the damp chill hanging in the air struck his overheated flesh like a dash of icy water.
    The fire the surly little footman had laid still languished on the grate, its soft glow bathing the ancient mahogany armoire crouched in the corner and the tray of nearly untouched food on the Pembroke table. After the tray had been delivered, Max had discovered he was too exhausted to eat after all. He had listlessly pushed the bland bits of beef and potato around on the plate until tossing down his fork in disgust and taking himself off to bed.
    An unexpected draft played over the crisp hairs furring his naked chest. With its chill caress stirring gooseflesh wherever it touched, Max slowly turned his head to find the French windows leading to the balcony standing wide open, as if to invite in whatever the night had in store for him.

Chapter Seven
    T H E LACE PANELS ADORNING the French windows fluttered in the breeze like a bride’s tattered veil. Max’s scowl deepened along with his bewilderment. Those windows had been closed when he had retreated behind the musty velvet curtains of the bed. He would be willing to swear his life on it.
    He reached to the foot of the bed to retrieve his dressing gown, thankful he’d had the foresight to pack it in his portmanteau since the rest of his baggage wouldn’t be arriving until morning. Knotting the robe’s silk belt around his waist, he rose and padded over to the windows.
    The rain had stopped but the moon was still huddled behind a towering bank of clouds, leaving the night beyond the balcony shrouded in darkness. Thinking that perhaps the windows had blown open, Max examined both the latches and theirmoorings. They seemed perfectly sound, but that didn’t mean they were strong enough to withstand a particularly violent gust of wind.
    Accepting the irrefutable logic of his own deduction, he reached to close the windows and return the night to its proper place. But before he could, an unexpected scent drifted to his nose. A scent quite distinct from the clean fragrance of the rain and the