Martin's senses alerted him to her nearness-too late. He'd been distracted by the bust-Apollo, the gods' messenger. He'd been wondering what message there was in this for him. Now he knew.

He was too late to stop her from pressing close, from laying her hand on his chest. From leaning into him, reaching up and drawing his face to hers.

Too late to stop his body from reacting, to stop himself from bending his head, meeting her lips, taking what she offered. He tried-for one instant fought against her spell. But she'd captured him; despite all his logical arguments, there was too much of him that simply wanted her.

And it was only a kiss. That was what he told himself as he sank into her mouth, let his arms slide around her and gathered her to him.

One kiss. What harm could one kiss do? It wasn't as if he wasn't in control, of himself as well as her.

The kiss lengthened, deepened. She wound her arms about his neck and stretched upward against him.

He let her. Gloried in the feel of her lithe body pressed to his, the feminine curves, the tempting contrast of softness and resilience that beckoned, promised and teased.

She wanted more; he knew it. All sense of time, of place, of safety, fled from his reckoning. He knew nothing beyond her innocent hunger, and the powerful need to be the one to slake it.

Innocent though she was, Amanda recognized that need. She tasted it in his kiss, felt it in the arms that caged her, cradled her. Coveted it, wanted it-wanted him.

Wanted him to be hers, linked to her and her alone with a chain strong enough to withstand whatever pressures life brought to bear.

Knew in her heart what she would give to forge that chain.

Realized it would have to be created link by link. Episode by episode; interlude by interlude. Kiss by kiss.

Desire was a drug, its addiction potent. He stole her breath, held her mind and senses captive. His slow, achingly thorough exploration, the lazy, compelling conquest left her mentally reeling, emotionally bound.

She'd been right-this was what she wanted, what she needed to be all she'd been created to be.

If she told him, she'd lose him. If her actions became overt, he'd pull back, leave her and slide back into the shadows. The occasional sharp glance he'd thrown her were warnings; she had to walk a line between naive encouragement and deliberate sensual beckoning without a single stumble. She had to tempt him further while keeping her intentions veiled so he couldn't be sure she was luring him on. The ultimate game given his experience, given his steadfast reticence.

She kissed him back boldly but briefly, enough to evoke a reaction, to tug him an iota deeper into the game. Desire flared, heated and sultry, contained behind the wall of his will. Crack by crack, she would demolish that wall. She let her lips soften, tempted his to harden, tempted him to take just a fraction more. Clung, fingers sinking in reaction when he did. He was sensuality incarnate, each languid caress an invocation of pleasure. Her fingers threaded through his silky hair as inside she felt herself melt.

His hands tensed, flexed on her back; she sensed the war he waged to keep them from wandering. She considered trying to tip the scales-realized her inexperience would give her game away.

He won his inner battle too easily for her liking. Time to try another tack.

She drew away, gently broke the kiss-hid her triumph at the brief instant that passed before his arms eased and let her do so. As her senses returned, she heard voices outside. They both turned, listening, then she stepped back, out of his arms.

She cast about for some quip to cover her retreat, to disguise her hope that it would evoke his desire for something denied.

"Excitement enough?"

The deep words and their underlying challenge had her lifting her head. He was no more than a shadow looming close in the dark. She let her lips curve with a haughty confidence she hoped he could see. "The night's young."

Her tone struck the perfect note, low, warm yet even.

It was the tilt of her head that ruffled Martin's surface, an elementally feminine gesture of defiance that sparked an instantaneous reaction. One he ruthlessly quelled.

She looked toward the Walk. "Shall we return to the booth?"

He reached for her hand. "We won't be returning." When she glanced at him, surprised, he murmured, "The night's young."

And he'd been a fool for thinking that cramming two of her adventures into one night would be a good idea. More of her "excitement" was not going to be easy to withstand. Yet he would. Leading her down the temple steps, he glanced at her. "You said you wished to see the stars in the Thames."

The anticipation that lit her face was a joy to behold. "A boat? From here?"

It had been a long time since he'd been with a woman who could conjure such innocent delight. His lips curved in a genuine, entirely spontaneous smile. "The Water Gate's this way."

He led her further up the Dark Walk, then across to the gate opening onto the riverbank, steadfastly refusing to dwell on the difficulties that doubtless lay before him. During his years in India, he'd survived his fair share of life-and-death encounters; one hour floating down the Thames with Amanda Cynster could hardly be that dangerous.

From the Water Gate to the stone quays where a plethora of river craft waited was but a few steps. The pleasure craft he'd hired waited, bobbing gently, a pair of brawny oarsmen slumped over the oars, the owner standing by the tiller. The latter spotted him, straightened and saluted. The oarsmen stirred, nodding respectfully as Martin stepped down to the deck. He held out a hand to Amanda; eyes huge, she eagerly descended.

"M'lady." The owner bowed low.

Amanda inclined her head, then glanced at Dexter. He gestured to the curtain cutting off the front two-thirds of the deck. The owner hurried to lift one side. She walked through. And stopped. Looked around. Offered mute thanks to fate for her assistance.

Dexter ducked through the curtain behind her; the heavy material fell closed, shutting them off from the watermen, leaving them in a private world.

A world composed of a narrow path leading around the railings. Fixed in the prow, a wickerwork basket held a platter of fruit, a bowl of nuts, two glasses and an open bottle of wine. The rest of the space was taken up by a thick pallet on a wooden base, covered by a plain black cloth. Piled atop was a mound of cushions encased in brightly colored Indian silk.

The deck of the pleasure craft looked exactly as she'd always imagined such a notorious venue would look-a setting for seduction. Lowering her hood, she glanced back at Dexter.

He looked down at her face, studied her eyes. The deck rocked as the vessel pushed off from the quay; his fingers closed about her elbow. "Come. Sit down."

He handed her to the couch; she sat and found it as comfortable as it looked. He sat beside her, angling against the cushions. "Does it live up to expectations?"

She smiled. "Thus far." Sliding back, she let herself sink against the silk-sheathed mound. She looked up at the stars. And said nothing more.

She kept her eyes on the heavens, on the pinpricks of light bright against the darkness, aware that Dexter's gaze never shifted, never left her.

The boat swung into the current, then the oarsmen rested and the craft drifted south with the tide.

Martin eventually stirred, then rose and crossed to the basket. Ignoring the wine, he plucked a grape from the platter, tasted it, then picked up the platter and returned to offer it to her.

Smiling, she chose a sprig of grapes and murmured her thanks. He hesitated, then sat once again beside her, placing the platter between them.

Amanda eyed it, then lifted her gaze to his face, to his profile as he looked out over the water. Popping a grape into her mouth, she looked in the same direction. "You spent many years in India."

His gaze touched her face briefly. "Yes."

She waited, then prompted, "In one place, or"-she gestured with a grape-"all over?"

He hesitated, then replied, "All over."

Pulling teeth would be easier. She looked directly at him, and inquired, sweetly determined, "All over where?" He met her gaze; she sensed the frown in his eyes. Frowned back. "Your travels can hardly be state secrets."

Unexpectedly, his lips kicked up at the ends. "Actually"-he leaned back against the cushions-"some of them were."

Shifting, she faced him. "You worked for the government?"

"And the Company."

"The East India Company?"

He nodded; after a fractional pause he answered the question forming in her mind, "There were precious few Etonites in Delhi, and the maharajahs preferred to deal with those they considered their peers."

"So where did you go?"

"Mostly along the trade routes through the north, occasionally south to Bangalore, Calcutta or Madras."

"What was it like? Tell me."

It was the light in her eyes, Martin later told himself, that and the genuine interest in her face that had him complying-and, of course, the knowledge that while she was listening wide-eyed to his tales, she wasn't plotting his downfall. She peppered him with questions; he found himself telling her things, recounting the years as he had to no one else. No one else had asked.

The end of her questions coincided with the last of the grapes. With a satisfied sigh, she picked up the platter and rose.

He watched as she crossed the few steps to the basket and set the platter in its niche. She stood in the prow, looking out over the black waters, presumably studying the reflections of the stars. She'd flipped her hood up; from where he sat she appeared the very essence of mysterious-a cloaked and silent female, mind and body shielded, hidden from his knowledge.

The urge to know, in every way, completely, waxed strong; he quelled it, restlessly shook aside the impulse to go to her, take her in his arms… he looked away, to the shore, indistinct in the dark. Between them and the banks, other craft slid through the waters, some, like theirs, idling, others pressing on.

Recollection of their unexpected meeting with Luc had him glancing at Amanda. "Sit down." Another craft was coming up swiftly on their right. Leaning forward, he grasped her wrist. "Someone might recognize you."

She turned at the same instant he tugged, the same instant the swell from the other vessel lifted the deck. She lost her balance. Before she could fall, he yanked-she fell across him.

Wriggled and ended up alongside him, breathless, tangled in her cloak, laughing up at him, her free hand trailing down his chest.

He couldn't breathe.

Their gazes met-she stopped breathing, too. The laughter faded from her eyes; awakening desire replaced it. Her gaze lowered from his eyes to his lips. Her lips parted, softened; the tip of her tongue skated over the lower. When he didn't move, she lifted her gaze to his eyes. Studied them. Then, with a deliberation he could feel, she slid her hand up, around his nape and drew his lips to hers.

No, no, no, no… despite the clarion warning in his mind, he permitted it, let her draw him down so he could feast on her lips, sink into the warm haven of her mouth and devour. She welcomed him in, offered herself up to him, and he knew very well what she did.

Knew she was trying to snare him, knew he would be wise to refuse her lures. Simply couldn't.

Especially not when his logical mind pointed out her inexperience; she could have no weapon, no plan he had not already escaped, that women more experienced had not already used to try to capture him. She was no threat to him. So there was no reason he couldn't savor her, and give her a taste of the excitement she craved. She was safe with him, and, logically, he was safe from her.

He kissed her again, took her breath, drew her to him. He sensed her inner gasp, felt her yearning rise. Her hand drifted to his cheek, touched, stroked, a featherlight caress. Tantalizing. Taunting. He deepened the kiss and she shivered. He felt it to his marrow.

Before he knew it, he'd shifted, angling over her to take the kiss further, the better to touch her-

No. Caution caught his reins. Mentally hauled him back. He wasn't that foolish. She lay beside him, cocooned in her cloak, her svelte form shielded from him-temptation under velvet wraps.

Infinitely safer than temptation under his hands, no matter how his palms itched. But the impulse wouldn't leave him. He pressed his palms to the silk cushions in a vain attempt to ease their burning.