Page 50 of Whispers

“What’re you trying to prove?”

The question pierced through her consciousness, and when she raised her eyes to his, she saw that he was no longer mocking her, just curious and, from the dilation of his pupils she guessed, he was as sexually aware of her as she was of him.

“Nothing. I don’t have to prove anything.”

“But you want to.” He lifted his hands and grabbed the post behind her, pinning her within the span of his arms, but not touching any part of her.

“Yes.”

“Why? So your old man will quit spouting off about not having any sons?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice breathy with the lie. Of course she wanted to prove to Dutch Holland that she was as good as any son he might have sired.

“Or because you want to compete in a man’s world?”

“I just want to be the best that I can.”

“And to that end you’ll deny yourself any simple pleasures.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know that you eat carefully, exercise regularly by doing calisthenics in your room, read whatever you think will expand your mind, and try your damnedest to prove that you’re everything Dutch should want in a child.”

“How do you know—”

“I’ve been watching you, too.”

Her throat closed, and she wondered if he’d peered through her windows at night, seen her look at her body, touch her breasts and smooth her hands down her abdomen while wondering what a man’s touch would feel like. “You had no right—”

“No, just a desire. The same as yours.”

“I don’t have any de—”

“Don’t lie.”

He was too near; the stables too close and tight. “Get out of my way.”

“If you’re ever going to be worth your salt as a lawyer, you’re going to have to learn how to handle people as well as insults and arguments. Even compliments upon occasion.” His gaze lowered to her breasts rising and falling rapidly beneath her shirt.

“Oh, I get it,” she mocked, unable to keep the sting out of her words. “This was a test. So now you’re my teacher.”

“Just making conversation.”

His eyes centered on her mouth for a heart-stopping second, and something inside her, a part of her that was warm and vital and wanting, responded. She loathed him and yet was attracted to him on a level that she didn’t want to admit existed. “Make conversation with someone who’s interested.”

“You’re interested.”

“I don’t think so.”

His smile said he didn’t believe her. He stepped aside and, as she tried to pass, grabbed hold of her wrist. With a quick tug he spun her around and suddenly all those rock-hard muscles surrounded her. She couldn’t move, could barely breathe, and her heart was knocking so frantically in her chest she was afraid she might pass out.

“Don’t—”

His lips crashed down on hers in a kiss that was hard and punishing and ripped the breath from her lungs. She struggled but knew the effort was useless. Her rational mind swore and screamed silently to be set free while that wanton unknown womanly part of her that was just emerging wanted desperately to kiss back, to explore, to feel the excitement of pure, unfettered sex.

His hands were big and strong, his body hot and sweating, and he smelled of male and sawdust. He groaned deep in the back of his throat, and his tongue rimmed her lips to part them easily.

“You’re interested,” he repeated into her open mouth as he released her. “When you’re woman enough to admit it, call me.”