Rake Most Likely to Thrill. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.

       Chapter Three

      She was the kind of woman men crossed rooms for, or piazzas in this case, and she was headed directly for him. Archer couldn’t say he didn’t see her coming. How could he not see a woman like that; all those shiny black curls cascading down her back, the almond-shaped eyes that tilted ever so slightly at their corners as if they were always full of mischief and mystery, and the gown that set off the rest of her to perfection. The white of her shift peeked enticingly over the square bodice of a pale-green overdress laced over the full, rising curves of her breasts to a tight, slim waist before flaring out into provocatively swaying hips. The knowing smile on her lips suggested it was deliberate. She knew precisely what she was doing and what she wanted. At the moment, that was him.

      The thrill of the hunt surged through him. Quicksilver eyes locked on his, and he held her sharp gaze, his own eyes communicating the unspoken message: invitation accepted. On his periphery, he was aware of women falling back, their interest averted by the advent of this woman’s approach. She had staked her claim. If she meant to hunt him, she might be in for a surprise. Like any stallion worth his stud, Archer would be dominated by no woman.

      She held out her hand, and he felt the full force of her attentions. ‘Dance with me.’ Not a question, then, she was too bold for that, but a summons, and he would honour it. Archer took her hand. That was where her supremacy ended. In his experience, a bold woman wanted a bold man and he could be that indeed, a commanding stallion to her flirty, teasing mare.

      Eyes unwavering, he led her into the dance and fitted his hand to her back, swinging them into the polka without a word. Who needed words when they had eyes like hers? A body like hers, that communicated everything she thought and felt? She gave him a toss of her glorious dark head, tipping it up to meet his. Archer grinned, and she answered with a wide smile of her own, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of the dance.

      Archer swung them into the turn and let the energy of the music claim them, his hand confident at her back as if it belonged there, as if they had done this before. He knew how to dance, how to navigate a crowded space, and she knew it too, recognised his skill and delighted in it, just as she was revelling in the sheer joy of the dance. The joy emanating from her was nearly intoxicating. She danced with her heart, her very soul, and it fired him, drove him to reckless abandon.

      At the edge of the makeshift dance floor, he manoeuvred them sharply, bringing her up against him with the force of the turn, and did not relinquish her to the decency of distance. The pulse at her neck beat hard from the dancing and possibly from something more. She laughed up at him, confirming the latter. She felt it too, this surge of wildness, this connection between them although they’d not spoken a word—the dance was too fast, they were too breathless for conversation, too in love with the moment to contemplate the use of words.

      What moments they were! Archer thought he would remember them for ever. It was an odd sensation given how many moments made up a lifetime, thousands upon thousands, most to be forgotten. Why these moments with a stranger who had lured him into a dance with only a smile and a touch? What made them different? What made them more valuable than all the other moments?

      The music was ending. He took them through one last turn, his body memorising the soft curve of her hip where it met his, the straightness of her spine beneath his hand, his eyes discreetly taking in the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the tight-laced bodice just as he was aware of her gaze taking in him, studying his neck and throat where his shirt lay open. This was summer magic at its finest: a beautiful woman in his arms to enjoy the music and dancing with, a starry sky overhead, an arduous journey complete. He felt quite the king in these moments. Archer tilted his head to the sky and gave a howl of primal victory. And he knew.

      He knew why he would remember these moments; because he was so alive in them, she was so alive in them. They were breathing hard and laughing, drinking in the simple pleasures of music and dance beneath a starry sky, the summer air warm around them. Did life get any better than this? His hand lingered at her waist in no hurry to set her apart from him and he thought that indeed it just might get better. His eyes drifted across her face, resting briefly on her lips. This woman was no stranger to pleasure, not with that body and those eyes, and the way she looked at him—with boldness and invitation. The rest of the piazza might as well have melted away for all that he noticed anything but her.

      Archer’s voice was low and private when he spoke, his gaze lingering meaningfully on the sensual curve of her lips. ‘Who are you, bella signora?’ They were the first words he’d spoken to her. She would know now that he wasn’t Italian. She would hear it in his accent. Not just a stranger, then, from a neighbouring town, but a true outsider. Maybe it didn’t matter where he was from for what they wanted of each other. ‘My name is Archer.’

      ‘Elisabeta.’ She returned his signals, letting her own eyes wander over his mouth. Arousal stirred hard. She had understood the negotiation. She had consented. They were to be Elisabeta and Archer. No last names, no true way to trace the other once they parted. There would be no strings, no ties that would bind them beyond the immediacy of the affair.

      ‘Well, Archer...’ she smiled up at him ‘...you are just in time.’

      Heat intensified in his groin. ‘In time for what?’

      She gave him a coy glance. ‘For strawberries.’ Elisabeta crooked her finger and beckoned with a ‘come-hither’ smile that left him aching. ‘Did I mention there would also be cream?’

      The innuendo was not lost on Archer. He was going to come all right. Between the dancing, the warm summer night, the elation of having arrived at his destination at last and the seductive beauty in his arms, his body was fully primed for more intimate thrills. He had every reason to celebrate. It had not been an easy journey from Paris on his own. He’d had to leave before Haviland’s rather sudden wedding. He’d given up the summer in Switzerland with Nolan and Brennan. There’d been no choice. Time had been of the essence if he wanted to make Siena in advance of the August Palio. He’d known from the start he’d never make the first one in July.

      Travel had been rough, the Italian inns rougher. But, oh, the journey had been worth it the moment he’d passed through the city gates, seen the town lit up and festivities under way, as if the party was just for him. He’d stabled Amicus, left his bag at the livery and headed for the central piazza, hoping to find someone to direct him to his uncle’s. The piazza had been quiet, but he’d followed the music to this neighbourhood and found more than directions. He’d been in this piazza less than five minutes when this dark-haired beauty had pulled him into the dancing, all fire and beauty in his arms, her quicksilver gaze flashing with life and exuberance, her body moving into his as if they were made for one another. Dancing with her had been effortless, just as following her across the piazza was now. He had no doubts where this was heading: to the food tables and to a quiet space in the dark beyond the lights.

      Archer’s stomach growled, and he grinned. There was no choice to ignore it. Elisabeta smiled and passed him a plate. She gestured to each dish and offered an explanation, pleased when he nodded. While all of his friends had been studying French, he’d been studying Italian. His mother had seen to it that he had Italian tutors. It was paying off now, even if it was just to bring a smile to this woman’s face.

      ‘Risotto alle fragole, polenta con fragole, ravioli...’ She rattled off the dishes, taking a serving for herself as they went. At the end of the table stood an enormous vat-like bowl of strawberries and tubs of cream alongside various tortes. ‘La torta!’ Elisabeta beamed back at him over her shoulder, silver eyes gleaming in delight.

      Archer took a healthy helping of everything. The smells alone would have been persuasion enough to try the new foods, but Elisabeta’s smile stole any reservation he might have had. The way she looked at a man, the way her eyes lingered over him in appreciation, he would have eaten slugs for her. There was wine to pour from casks after