Velvet Lightning by Kay Hooper

him with certain questions; he had gotten what she required without question or comment, had never once said that an unmarried woman shouldn’t need what she had needed. She would always be grateful to him for that. “I’m fine, Doctor.” Her voice was low, calm.
    “Are you sure?”
    Catherine wanted to laugh suddenly but not with humor. “I’m quite all right. Thank you.”
    He seemed unconvinced but accepted her assurances and returned to the meal. Catherine followed suit. She heard, as if from a great distance, sounds of conversation, heard the high, nervous sound of Lucy’s voice rising above the rest as she flirted coyly with Tyrone.
    She wished the evening were over.
    But it wasn’t, of course. Lettia wanted her guests to relax after dinner. Drinks were produced again. The French doors opening onto the veranda were flung wide, and an invitation entered from the warm night. Catherine wanted to keep an eye on her father but found she was even more concerned with avoiding Tyrone.
    She managed it for more than an hour. She was conscious from time to time of his gaze but refused to meet it. She had taken pains to make certain there was never a chance to speak to him, though she spoke to everyone else at least briefly.
    Much later she would realize that she should have spoken to him casually. It might have changed so much if she had.
    The laughter grew louder and more easy as drinks were consumed, though Catherine was relieved to see that her father was still being good, still drinking only moderately. She herself drank hardly at all and even, finally, set her almost untouched glass aside on a convenient table. She felt a little dizzy with tension and worry, with the faint throbbing yearning of her body. It was made worse by the noise of the crowd, the almost sickeningly sweet scent of perfume.
    She glanced around swiftly and warily, then retreated smoothly from the room. There was a short hallway with several doors opening off it; she chose a room at random and found herself inside George Symington’s study. It was deserted; she closed the door softly behind her and went to stand by the darkened window.
    She didn’t know how long she stood there gazing blindly out at the night. The sounds of the crowd were distant now, and she hardly heard them. She didn’t hear the sound of the door opening and softly closing, or footsteps behind her. But there was, somehow, no surprise at arms slipping around her from behind, pulling her back against a hard male body.
    ‘‘Damn you,” Tyrone said thickly. “Not a glance. Not even one of your cold, haughty stares. What are you trying to do to me, Catherine?”
    With his touch her body came alive. She felt her breasts swell in the hands that slid up to hold them, felt her legs go weak, her heart thud rapidly. Between her thighs was a sudden heavy fullness, a pulsing ache. And she felt the swelling response of his body as he pressed himself against her. Her head fell helplessly back onto his shoulder, and she bit her lip to hold back a moan that half escaped before she could stop it.
    “Don’t,” she whispered. ‘‘Not here. Not now.”
    “Here,” he said. “Now. It’s your fault for ignoring me all evening.” He was exploring the soft flesh of her neck, his lips hot and hard. His hands impatiently brushed aside the lacy shawl, then expertly unfastened the brooch and pulled the shawl free of her, dropping both to the floor.
    “Stop—”
    “I made you angry today, didn’t I? Because I pressed you, because I questioned. But you made me angry as well, Catherine. So I came to this damned party, just to see you again. And then you wouldn’t even look at me. I won’t allow you to be cold with me. With them . . . but not with me.”
    “No.” Catherine was trying to think, to remain calm. “Someone could come in. Tyrone—”
    “I locked the door.” His hands closed over her breasts, squeezing gently. “I want you, Catherine. Now. With half the town in the next