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His Miranda might be sexually inexperienced, but she was smart, attracted to him, aware of the possibilities in agreeing to share this room and would kill him for making decisions for her. He’d learned enough of her past to know her decision-making included a dash of impulsiveness.

“Don’t trust yourself,” she purred, while gripping the lapels of her robe tightly in one hand.

“Enough.” He rested his hands on his side of the bed, before advancing on hands and knees across the empty acres of space. He prowled towards her—his hands sinking into the thick softness of the eiderdown—letting her glimpse the savage lust surging through him, sure her swagger would evaporate when he called her bluff. She was adorable, and he’d promised himself in the lobby that if she agreed to stay, he wouldn’t lay a finger on her.Didn’t stop a bloke from taking precautions. “Nothing’s going to happen between us. We’re seeking refuge from a storm.”

“Which storm?” She repeated his words, her hoarse whisper and the pink tongue running over her top lip tripping a switch in his brain, straining good intentions.

She held his gaze—a long sultry challenge while she eased her throat with a sip of wine. With the glass held as a shield between them, Hamish bore witness to the tremble in her fingers. Close enough to see her hold the wine for an infinitesimal moment in her mouth, before she swallowed hard, her eyes smoky now with provocation.

“Youaredaring me.” Kneeling beside her, Hamish took the glass from her hand. Raising it to his lips, he ran his tongue around the rim, savouring her taste. “Lovely flavour.”

A moan escaped her. Unconscious—he was sure—like the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the slight dilation of her nostrils, the flare in her eyes. A pagan fire. Hamish took his time replacing the glass on her bedside table, reaching forward, his left hand beside her right hip for balance, while his right stretched forward to set down the glass. Deliberately he brushed his arm across her belly, drawing encouragement when her fingers clutched the bedclothes, as if needing the fabric between her fingers or she’d grab him.

“I’ll just put it down for you,” he said.

* * *

LELA CURLED HER FINGERSmore tightly into the eiderdown, wanting to wipe the smug expression off his face. Pleased with himself because he’d reduced her to a quivering mass with the lightest of touches, because he’d demonstrated his complete command of the situation. His primal purr rolled over her, creating a haze before her eyes, a mist of lust.

A smugly honourable man and his reasonableness ignited her passion. Scrambling to her knees, she made a private vow to shatter his self-control. She grabbed his head with both hands, pulled him towards her and kissed him. Hard—fast—then drew back to look at him, panting with the boldness of her action. Adrenalin roared through her with the power of knowingly dancing with danger.

“You’re playing with fire.”

“Burn, baby, burn,” she breathed, blowing cool air onto his heated face.

Something shifted in his eyes, the hunter returned, and his hands dropped to her hips to drag her closer. This time he lunged, and the surprise of it, the wildness of it delighted her.

Threading her fingers through his too-long locks, she was free to revel in the thickness of his hair. His scent was fresh and clean, lemongrass with hints of pepper and something woody. The undercurrent of soap tantalised, a reminder of the real beneath the romance. Tremors skated through her, easing then rising in demand to the rhythms his fingers danced up her spine. His mouth softened and coaxed, and Lela yearned and yielded. The ragged sounds of her capitulation filled the room.

His hands were everywhere, stroking her through the heavy fabric of the robe, until she chafed at her limitations. Unbelting his robe, she nudged it off his shoulders, tugging until it fell discarded on the bed. A T-shirt as paper-thin as the one he’d lent her hugged his body.

“Wait,” he groaned. “I didn’t ...”

Her hands traced the worn cotton. Entwined in the flimsy fabric, the solid weight of his chest pulsated beneath her fingertips.

“You want me.” The knowledge filled her with joy.

“Yeah.” His chest rose and fell while he sucked in harsh breaths. “I wasn’t sure you were ready for this.” His hands circled her wrists, holding them still. “Wait. Be sure, Miranda?”

“I’m sure. I’ve dated, had an almost-lover when I was eighteen.” She was afraid to breathe, afraid Hamish would change his mind. “School graduation party. A nice boy, fun to be with, gentle. He’d always been kind to me. That night we both knew there might be more, wanted more.

“Listen.” Lela read the hesitation on his face, and flattened her hands against his chest, needing to explain. “I was wearing a new dress. A magic night. Stolen kisses behind the school hall, a few fumbles. He wasn’t any more experienced than I. He touched my breasts, caressed and kissed them, made me understand what being a woman meant.”

“Lela, you don’t need to tell me this.” He held her away from him.

“Youhaveto understand. We talked about it on the way home. A polite kiss goodnight in case anyone was watching. Meet again. He knew a place.”

“You were being watched.” He guessed.

“Papa. He was furious. I’d closed the door, lent back against it, a stupid smile on my face, and Papa erupted. Accused me of betraying the family, gave me an ultimatum. I could say goodbye to the boyfriend or move out.”

“Your father was—is—unreasonable,” he said harshly.

“Sophie was seven. I couldn’t leave her. I promised myself I’d live by my father’s rules until Sophie was eighteen.”

“Her age doesn’t matter anymore.”

“He was afraid.” Lela curled her hands into fists. “I knew that. If I’d called him on that ultimatum, it could have destroyed our family. I wasn’t prepared to do that. Peter’s aunt said no one deserved to be punished for youth and love. I couldn’t punish him because he was struggling to find a way to deal with Mama’s death and Mari’s so soon afterwards. He still hasn’t let go of some of his confusion and anger.”