“No.” After a moment, he added, “You don’t seem to realize how dangerous this could be…to you.” And him. He no longer recognized the landscape into which they’d journeyed; when it came to her, he was no longer sure he recognized himself.

Jacqueline held his gaze, dark and frankly stormy, while she considered his words, his warning. Eventually, she replied, “I have thought of it, but I’ve decided the greater danger lies in inaction.”

He frowned, but she had no intention of explaining further. She had thought, at length; to her, her conclusions were sound. She had no guarantee he would remain in her orbit beyond the completion of her portrait; that evening, Barnaby had told her that that might mean she’d lose Gerrard’s company in less than two months.

Going slowly, carefully, was no longer an option. She wanted to know, to explore fully whatever it was that stirred and flared whenever they were close. He’d made it clear he would make no promises; that was as may be-she still had to know, had to grasp the opportunity fate had handed her, to explore this until now unknown arena.

Who knew when next she’d get the chance? He was the first and only man who’d ever made her feel like this.

Even more critically, what if, by not acting but instead taking the safe road, they missed something-unknowingly passed up an experience that, if given a chance to evolve and bloom, might lead to some vital development for them both?

Beyond doubt, not acting was the greater risk.

Lowering her elbow, she shifted, facing him. His gaze lowered, drawn to her full breasts outlined beneath her robe; his frown deepened, a degree of puzzlement quite clear.

“What is it?” she asked.

Lips thinning, he lifted his gaze to her face. “I was wondering if this was the natural outcome of keeping young ladies like you hidden away until the advanced age of twenty-three.”

She laughed.

Although patently distracted again, he continued, “If so…I can guarantee it’ll become all the rage.”

His eyes openly roamed, then returned to hers. He looked at her; desire burned steadily in his eyes, yet he didn’t move. Gave no sign at all that he would.

She set her feet to the floor, and slowly stood. Paused until her robe and nightgown slithered down, then she walked the few paces to stand before him. Boldly reaching for the sketch pad, she took it; his fingers tightened for an instant, then he let it go.

Turning it, she studied what he’d drawn.

Felt not so much shock as satisfied surprise warm her-was that truly her? There was a quiet sultriness in her face, a sirenlike quality in her gaze. A lush invitation in every line of her body, a body she recognized well enough, but had never before seen as blatantly sexual.

Now she saw through his eyes, understood, and was pleased.

She glanced at him, saw that he’d been tracking her emotions, her thoughts, in her face. “It’s very good.”

She handed the pad back to him. He took it, but his eyes didn’t leave her face. “Accurate, would you say?”

There was something in his eyes that warned her she was standing very close to some edge. She drew breath, found her lungs had constricted, not with fear but anticipation. “Yes.”

He dropped the pad; the pencil rolled away across the floor.

He reached for her, and drew her down onto his lap, into his arms-into a kiss that within a minute had set fires alight everywhere under her skin.

Raising one hand, he cradled her head, and pressed her lips wide. Angling his head, he filled her mouth, and took everything she offered, all she freely yielded. She clutched the fine linen of his shirt, fists clenching tight, then realized…slowly straightening her fingers, she spread her hands.

Over his chest. Beneath her thighs, his felt like rock, solid and un-giving; the arms about her felt like iron bands, not crushing her yet holding her captive. But his chest felt like cushioned stone, warm, unyielding yet comfortable. She sank her fingers into the heavy muscle and pressed closer, drawn by his heat.

By the urge to get closer still. Pushing her arms up over his shoulders, she pressed her already heavy, already aching breasts to his chest-and felt his pulse leap. Sensed the catch in his breathing, then his fingers shifted about her jaw, his lips firmed-and fire and molten heat poured from him, flooded through their fused lips and into her.

Gerrard’s head was spinning. Again. Just being near her when she was thinking sexual thoughts was enough to arouse him. Painfully.

Kissing her was sheer torture.

He couldn’t stop.

Yet some part of his mind knew exactly what to do, knew exactly what script he should follow. That he had such a side to him was something of a revelation; more ruthless, more primitive, and passionate, possessive and protective in the extreme, driven by primal instincts and content to be so, such maleness was something he’d associated with Devil and Vane, and the other Cynster males he knew-not him.

Until he’d met her, he hadn’t met this side of himself, hadn’t known it existed. Now he did.

Now it felt right, and he embraced it; he had no choice.

He tugged the sash of her robe free, slid his palm beneath the satin, skated over warm skin shielded by filmy silk, then closed his hand firmly about her breast, and provocatively, possessively, kneaded.

Instinct informed him what he wanted her to feel, what he needed the interlude to achieve. Settling her more firmly in his arms, his lips on hers, he set out to educate her senses, to educate the passion he sensed in her.

Jacqueline let herself flow on the heated tide he sent rushing through her. She felt no fear, no hesitation, but gave herself up to the wild and thrilling ride. Eagerness buoyed her, anticipation and expectation were a giddy mix roiling through her veins; excitement flowered and desire burgeoned, powerful and compulsive.

His lips and tongue demanded her attention; his hand on her breast shattered it. His long fingers teased, taunted, then soothed. She gasped through their kiss, gripped his head with both hands and with her lips and tongue urged him on.

She wanted to know all; pressing heated kisses on his firm lips, inviting ever more in return, she made that plain.

She was perfectly certain he understood. His hands, palms and fingers spread, traced her body; her robe hung from her shoulders, wide open, no impediment as he pandered to her senses and, she was sure, his. There was hunger in his touch, quite blatant, an element of desire she’d not before encountered-it sent frissons of mindless anticipation sliding through her.

This and more-she wanted to know it all, to experience all there was, all that might be. When his lips left hers she sighed, floating in the warmth they’d created, wits whirling yet able to follow as he bent his head and, nudging her chin up, set his lips to her throat. Paid homage to the sensitive region beneath her ear, then skated down, tracing the long line to her collarbone, pausing to hotly lave the pulse point above it, then his lips glided over the fine silk covering her breast, and fastened about one tightly budded nipple.

She tensed in expectation of a repeat of the sharp sensation she’d felt before, but his ministrations this time only soothed; he licked, laved, dampening the silk until it clung to her skin, then his tongue swirled and her world shook. Trembled.

Her breasts, full and tight, ached; he switched his attention to the other, repeating the subtle torture, then divided his time until she thought she would scream.

The instant before she did, he lifted his head, covered her lips with his, filled her mouth with his tongue and, like a marauding pirate, plundered. His hands slid lower, outlining her waist, gripping momentarily, fracturing her attention, then gliding lower to sculpt her hips. To learn her form as an artist might; for one moment, she wondered…then his fingers brazenly pressed between her thighs, stroked her curls, pushed past them to reach the throbbing flesh beyond, then pressed further and probed, and she lost all ability to think.

Discovered to her surprise that she could only feel, that there was such a state as being overwhelmed by her senses. Heightened to almost excruciating sensitivity, they commanded every last ounce of her concentration, held her ruthlessly focused on his touch, on the openly predatory way in which he was caressing her. She’d offered, and he was taking. Despite her whirling wits, that fact registered clearly.

She was in complete agreement.

Reassured he was taking the road she’d wished to take, she dragged in a breath, and turned her attention to him. To other aspects she’d yet to explore.

Like his chest. His shirt was of the finest linen; through it she could feel his flesh, feel the muscles shifting beneath her fingers as like a cat she kneaded. But that wasn’t enough; she wanted to feel his skin. Leaning her elbows on his chest, trying not to think too much about the far too evocative play of his fingers between her thighs, she set her hands to his cravat.

Sensually captured by the tactile wonder of the hot, slick flesh his fingers caressed, Gerrard didn’t realize what she was about until she wrestled his shirt wide, and laid his chest bare.

She wrenched back from the kiss to look-one glance at her face, at the expression that lit her eyes, and he was lost. Slayed by a desire so deep, so complete, it spared no part of him, left no vestige of his self, his soul, free. From that instant, he was hers, no matter she didn’t know it. From beneath heavy lids he watched her face, enthralled by the play of emotions across it, by the directness he’d from the first seen in her, and valued for what it was.

All that it was-the most arousing element in any sexual enounter was the response of the other. With her, he would never need to wonder, not even to think-she lavished her appreciation on him, and in so doing enslaved him.

He let her play as long as he could, as long as he dared. He knew the script-she didn’t; control, his control, was vital. And with that, she wasn’t helping.

Her hands traced down; her expression plainly stated she was fascinated with his ridged abdomen. Fingers spread, she tested, explored; from beneath her lashes, she threw him a sultry glance, then returned to her avid play. His painter’s brain happily re-created the scene in his mind, titled it: Siren Exulting.

She was. The sight held him in thrall.

But when her hands eased and drifted lower, his newfound ruthlessness rose to the fore. Catching her hands, he lifted them to his shoulders, released them there; ignoring her questioning glance, he drew her back to him, back into his arms, back into a kiss expressly designed to render her witless.

To plunge her back into the sea of desire, of heady wanton passion, that had been steadily rising about them.

She went eagerly; grasping his head between her hands, she kissed him back with abandon. An abandon that only made him ache all the more, that only made it harder to do what he knew he should.

He had to break her spell, her increasingly strong grip on his senses.

Before he could change his mind-before she could further weaken his resolve-he lifted her, stood, and carried her to the window seat. She drew back from the kiss; he had to let her. From beneath her long lashes, she looked into his eyes, studied his face; he could read her thoughts easily-see the anticipation, the flare of expectation that flamed in her eyes, brilliant emerald and gold, gilded by the fires of passion.

The nursery was old, the window seat wide and liberally supplied with soft cushions; he tumbled her down onto it, and followed, trapping her half beneath him. She laughed softly, a sound of pure abandon that raked his soul, and racked his desire one notch higher. Reaching for him, she drew his head down, drew his lips to hers, parted in flagrant welcome.

He sank into her mouth, for long moments simply indulged, and wallowed in her clear encouragement, in the honest passion that was so much a part of her. He wanted that-wanted to seize-but experience warned that with her, caution and care were imperative. Steeling himself, he mentally drew back, and turned his mind to executing the strategy instinct drove him to employ.

Jacqueline sensed his attention shift; his lips remained fused with hers, a potent distraction, but then his hands were on her, roaming her body, so scantily clad she might as well have been naked.

She wished she were naked-she wanted to feel his hands on her skin, ached for the greater intimacy, wanted that hurdle crossed so there’d be fewer between her and her goal. His touch had grown harder, more demanding, each caress a blatantly sexual act, an intimate claiming.