A Rogue of One's Own

Tristan shifted in his chair, color tinging his high cheekbones. Tiny flames of vindication licked amid her loathing, and she brushed her hair back over her shoulder, the flick of her wrist mimicking his, mocking him.

His gaze was on her face as he patted his left thigh. “Take a seat,” he said, his voice very soft.

She froze, all sense of triumph dissipating. “That is not necessary.”

His smile was a little cruel. “You would sit on vastly more intimate parts of me very soon if you took the offer.”

If? Took?

“Fine.”

She stepped between his legs, stiffly turned her back to him, and sat.

His left arm immediately slipped around her waist, his hold light, but the gesture alone was deeply possessive.

She stared ahead at the wall, dimly aware of a wooden cabinet, busily patterned wallpaper, outdated sconces.

The alien, muscled power of a male thigh beneath hers registered even through layers of fabric. It made her body so weak, she could not have struggled had she tried.

Tristan leaned closer, bringing his chest against her back.

“Why are you here, Lucie?”

His breath touched the sensitive side of her neck. His chest was warm and hard like a sun-soaked brick wall against her shoulder blades. Goose bumps prickled down her arms. You would sit on vastly more intimate parts of me very soon.

“I am taking the deal,” she managed. “You said it was a standing offer.”

He made a noise, half scoff, half growl. “Do you want me, then?”

The gruff question was disorienting. The wall, the cabinets, the sconces, were swaying before her eyes.

“I want you far away from London Print.”

His free hand delved into her hair at the back of her head. She tensed, but his touch was careful. Confusingly careful. He let a lock slide through his fingers, and then another, slowly, as though he were studying each pale strand before releasing it again, and a different tension entered her. She clamped her knees together to quell the urge to move. Her scalp was warming from the minute tugs of his fingers intimately combing through her hair, and the heat filtered down her nape, sank heavily into her breasts, low into her belly, down to her toes.

She gasped when his thumb grazed her bared nape.

His lips moved softly against the shell of her ear. “My dear, it is a simple question: do you want me in your bed, or not?”

She gritted her teeth. “Anything to get rid of you.”

“I see.”

He slid his fingers from her neck, down her arm to her wrist. The warm pressure of his hand flattened her palm against the inside of his right thigh, and he guided her up. And up.

Sparks flashed across her vision, knowing where he was going.

She made a tiny noise in her throat.

His pause was infinitesimal. Then he moved her hand over him.

Heat poured through her. Her breathing was the loudest sound in the room. She was touching a man’s part, an astoundingly hard, hot, and heavy part that briefly made her wonder: how? How would it . . . work?

She tried to pull away. “Let go.”

He did, but it was too late. Now she knew. This was the stark reality of the deal, leaving no illusion, nowhere to hide. She would never be able to undo this, once it was done.

“Are you so vain as to want to be wanted for yourself?” she bit out. “But of course you are.”

“The bravest woman I know, so evasive.” His tone had turned conversational, as though he had not just splayed her fingers over his rampant arousal. “Why can you not answer me?”

Her palm was still burning with the feel of him. She made a fist. “The answer is simple: you leave me no choice.”

“Is that what you must tell yourself to get your fill?” he murmured. “The permission you need to lie with a man like me—that you had no choice? Very well.” He pulled her flush against him and buried his face in the crook of her neck. “Lucie, Lucie. I shall include you in every meeting at London Print whether it pertains to your interests or not. I shall sign off whatever you wish unless it will damage our revenue. No more games in the offices, on my honor. What say you now?”

Her heart was battering against her ribs, against his constraining forearm. He was reading her with his body, nosing her skin and breathing her in, like an animal taking scent, and it scattered her wits to the four winds.

She turned her head to face him. The emotion in the depths of his eyes was glowing hot like embers.

“Honor, you?” she said. “No. I think you are trying to dissuade me. You are trying to repel me because you wish to keep control of the company after all, and you’d rather not rescind your offer like a fickle coward.”

His smile was dark. “Think of me what you must. But understand that I’d rather be damned than shag you unless you want it for acceptable reasons—and the only acceptable reason is lust. Pure, plain lust.”

She felt molten and hot, and the realization that it could be lust made her spring to her feet. She nearly took a tumble because Tristan had released her with no resistance at all.

She spun back round to him and found his expression had cooled.

“I was rattled when I made the offer,” he said. “You had provoked me, with your righteous raving about my uselessness, all while you were making lustful eyes at my chest.”

She blanched. “You are a wretch.”

He raised a shoulder in a shrug. “Well, yes. I gather it is part of my appeal.”

She stared at him, how unruffled he appeared now, how he was not even attempting to cover the prominent bulge at the front of his trousers, and the mad thought flashed how very badly she wanted to see him on his knees.

But first . . . oh, it took effort to look him in the eye.

“Assume I want you,” she said. “Assume I want you. I still want my shares, as offered.”

Tristan stilled.

He slid an indecipherable glance over her, a number of emotions chasing behind his eyes.

“Go,” he said, and abruptly came to his feet. “Go home. Now.”

A peculiar outrage crashed through her. “Why?” she demanded.

“So you can cool your hot head, and think again.”

He was looming over her, and she glared up in his face, not moving an inch. “You started this, my lord. Do not change the terms now. I am expecting you at my house, tonight. Eleven o’clock would suit me.”

He hesitated. “Very well,” he then said tightly. “But leave now.”

He moved, forcing her to take a step back, and another, lest she wanted to be snug against him. He had paled a shade beneath his tan, she now saw. There was an unfamiliar tension around his mouth, and the tendons in his neck stood out. He was, she realized in a part of her mind separate from the bizarre situation, in an agony of sorts which he only contained with difficulty.

He was also bodily herding her toward the door.

She turned to take her leave but glanced back over her shoulder. “You must be discreet at all costs—take the small alleyway between my house and the house to its left. Then step over the wall enclosing my backyard. I shall let you in through the kitchen door.”

He muttered a curse under his breath. “When you change your mind, do not come to the door. Do not open that door. And I shall take my leave.”

“I shan’t—”

“Go,” he said hoarsely. “Unless you wish for me to sample the goods right here on my desk.”

“You are very crude.” Her hand on the key, she turned back once more. “We need an agreement that you will give the shares to me.”

“Of course.” He shot her a sardonic glance. “A contract, perhaps? Do you wish for me to summon my lawyer now, to record you as my mistress—to be paid in company shares for services rendered?”

“I need certainty that you will keep your word.”

He was silent for a moment.

“May the powers that be strike me down if I don’t,” he then said roughly, and, perhaps foolishly, it made her nod and leave his office, her knees still trembling as though they had carried her through battle when this had only been the beginning of it.

* * *

Long hours later, when the narrow sickle of a moon had risen over Oxford and the cries of little owls drifted across University Park, Tristan reflected that he did not appreciate the irony of the situation. And there was fine irony indeed in being on his way to the house of a woman he had long dreamt of seducing, only to tell her no. To tell himself no. Once the immediate temptation had stormed from his office this morning, the sense of triumph over her surrender had not come; he had been too aroused from the feel of her in his lap, and once that had abated, it had been clear that he could not have her as long as she wanted her shares.

He slowed at the corner to Norham Gardens. The night was innocent, the air still and mild, smelling faintly of wood smoke and flowers. The bright haze of the Milky Way arched across the sky. If he were to go through with his offer, he would take the encounter to a secluded spot outside. But he would not.

There were options to keep control over an income without equal co-ownership of London Print, but those options were tedious and risky, given that he would be abroad and unable to keep an eye on matters. He could, of course, bed her, and keep his shares anyway. It was a safe guess she would then try her utmost to ruin the success of his books, and she would succeed, at the latest during his absence. She would probably do the same if he failed to show in person tonight to tell her no. She might want him, but she quite loathed that she did; thus, rejecting her now would elicit emotions he would have to take to his face. Therefore, there was a very rational explanation indeed why he now stood in front of her address in the deep of night.