What a Lady Craves by Ashlyn Macnamara Page B

her father. Her independence, on the other hand … All she needed was to maintain her employment, either here or elsewhere, and she might enjoy relative freedom. At least she might determine her future to the extent any woman was allowed, decide whether she stayed with one employer orleft to find another.
    She made to push past him, but he reached for her elbow, his grip warm and insistent. Firm as the rest of him.
    “Where are you going?”
    “If you’ll excuse me,” she repeated, “I should like to get away from you.” She stared pointedly at his armband. “Seems after all this time, you ought to be perfectly willing to let me go.”
    He stepped back but still maintained the hold on her. How his fingers burned through her sleeve. “What’s this now?”
    She yanked away from his grip. “Nothing.” She would not let him see the pain he’d caused her. Would
not.
It served no purpose.
    He stepped in front of her, blocking the corridor. “This is not nothing. What is the matter?”
    Tears pricked at her eyes. Oh, dear Lord. He’d said that so softly, so caringly—just like the man she remembered. The man he’d been before he left. She studied the breadth of his shoulders, his feet, the wall beyond, the ceiling. Anything to keep from looking into his eyes.
    “Can you not guess?” The words came out small and wavering, unsure of themselves, unsure of what they could express to him without letting him in too far. The closer she let him get, the more open, the more vulnerable she’d be to renewed pain. And she’d vowed long ago not to let any man hurt her again.
    He set both hands on her arms, his fingers wrapping around them, drawing her close enough for her to scent the exotic spice that surrounded him. “Is this about what I’ve done?”
    “No.” She lied, because if he cared at all how badly he’d hurt her, he wouldn’t have done so in the first place. If he’d truly loved her, he would have found a way back to her. He would not have permitted another woman to turn his head.
    He placed a hand under her chin and forced her to meet his gaze. She lowered her eyelids. Damn him. If he insisted, she would show him just how stubborn she could be. In the past, she hadn’t allowed him to see this side of her. It wasn’t ladylike. It wasn’t demure. It wasn’t the way to attract a suitor, according to her mother. No, she must be soft and pleasant and cheerful at all times. She must be accomplished. She must make the most of her looks.
    She was none of those things now. She refused to behave that way simply for the sake of pleasing a man. She’d learned her lesson.
    “I don’t believe that.” His whisper might have been a shout for all it reverberated throughher being.
    She opened her eyes to turn the full force of her glare on him. So much for the demure little miss. “Believe what you will. I do not particularly give a fig.”
    Lord, the way he was looking at her. She recalled that barely contained passion in his gaze, and it awakened an answering spark in her belly. Like the wick of a candle catching, a burning uncoiled within. But she would ignore the growing flames that threatened to lick at the walls of her resolve. She had to. That or let her annoyance take hold before desire blazed out of control.
    “I’d apologize, if I thought it would do any good.”
    Oh, this was rich. “You’re assuming it matters to me. As I’ve already informed you, it does not.”
    “I think that it does.” His lips hovered close enough that she could nearly taste each honeyed word that rolled off his tongue.
    With a toss of her head, she made him back up. Childish of her, perhaps, but there it was. A tendril of hair came loose from her coiffure and hung in front of her eye. With one hand, she swiped at it, while she continued to glare at him. Eyes not leaving hers for so much as a second, he stepped closer, crowded her, his presence a tangible force that pushed her against the wall.
    The corridor in this