As for her nerves…he plucked them like a maestro, tuning her body, preparing it for his use. For his plea sure, and her delight.

He bent his head, nudged hers aside, and touched his lips to her skin. Her nerves leapt, then melted. How had he in just a moment awoken her so that his lips now seared and burned? Every lingering caress, every taunting sweep of his tongue along the tendons of her throat, the evocative graze of his teeth, sent flames of need, of that heady conflagration of lust, passion, and desire of which he was a master spreading beneath her skin, rushing down her veins, pooling low, then swelling, welling, building, a volcanic furnace of fiery need driving her, compelling her.

His hand at her waist held her upright against him; his fingers at her breast artfully played, sliding over her skin, closing about her ruched nipple, and squeezing…

She uttered a fractured gasp. Realized he’d loosened her bodice and pressed aside the fabric to bare one breast. As if it were his to caress as he wished, to possess as he wished.

There was some element, some underlying current rippling through his touch, that spoke of that view, of how he saw her, of how he wanted her…

Her wits were too far distant, too veiled by the mists of passion to see more deeply, or clearly.

Her breathing was quick, shallow; its cadence escalated, breathlessness gripping her, the vise about her lungs tightening another notch as his lips returned, hot and ardent, to cruise the vulnerable line of her throat.

Giddy, her lids falling, she tilted her head and let him have his way.

Let him stoke that inner furnace and feed the flames, until they wreathed through her body, and her brain.

Behind her, she felt him shift, reach down. Grasping the back of her skirts, he drew them up, and up, until they were bunched above her waist, her chemise trapped with them, baring her, exposing the backs of her legs and her bottom to the cool night air.

To him.

His hand touched, caressed, sculpted.

Heat flared with every touch, searing her flesh, sinking into her blood to set it pounding.

To set it rushing to the swollen folds between her thighs, so she throbbed and ached. So that by the time he’d caressed and claimed every curve, by the time the dew of desire had spread across her exposed skin, by the time he consented to touch her there, to press his fingers between her thighs and stroke, then part her folds and press deep, she was urgent and ready.

Ready to moan when, his hot mouth covering the pulse at the base of her throat, he held her before him and worked his fingers deep.

Eyes closed she rode the thrusting penetration of his fingers, evocatively pressing back, rolling her hips to caress his erection in explicit invitation.

He released her breast. He shifted behind her, then leaned forward, his shoulders and chest bending her over the desk as his distracting fingers returned to her breast.

“Lean on your hands.”

She did. And felt his tongue sweep over the galloping pulse at the base of her throat. Felt his fingers close once more about her tortured, excruciatingly sensitive nipple.

Her lungs tightened until they hurt, her nerves coiled, her body throbbed hotly, weeping with need as his fingers withdrew from the furnace between her thighs.

The blunt head of his erection filled the void.

He pressed in, then forged deeper, forcing her up on her toes.

The sound that fell from her, part sob, part moan, resonated with surrender. With her need, with her hunger.

He locked one hand about her bare hip; the other remained, hard and hot, about her breast. He held her anchored before him, withdrew and thrust deep, feeding and fulfilling her raging hunger with every long, heavy stroke.

She gasped, and let her head hang, let the sensations wash through her and over her. Felt the touch of his lips, the caress of his breath on her bare nape as he filled her-as plea sure bloomed, rose up, and swamped them both.

Dillon knew the instant she let go, the instant she ceded all rights to him and left him to set the pace.

It was a heady moment, one he would have liked to savor, but the heat of her slick sheath closing like a scalding glove about his rigid flesh drove him on. Gave him no surcease, no chance to use his brain.

When he had her in his arms, all he knew, all he could assimilate while sunk in her body, was feelings. They rose up, beat around him and through him; some battered him. Some pushed through the conflagration, cindering his senses and his defenses, and sank deep, took hold.

Sank talons and winding tendrils deep into his soul.

He knew, not by thought but by instinct, why they were there, how he came to be taking her so possessively, a possession veiled by his sophisticated expertise, perhaps, but he knew the truth.

Knew what drove him.

Last night…she might have been a virgin-initially, he’d assumed she was, but her bold and brazen temptation had made him wonder, made him doubt. But then had come that staggering moment when she’d so deliberately impaled herself upon him, and he’d known. Not simply that she’d never had a man inside her before, not just that he was by her choice the first, but that he would move heaven and earth, harness the stars, and do what ever it took to be the only.

The vow hadn’t needed to be spoken, hadn’t even needed to be thought. In that moment, it had simply come into being, enshrined in his soul, engraved on his heart.

And he accepted it.

The realization that he did stunned him, shook him, yet at no level was he able to shake the rigid and resolute conviction.

She. Was. His.

He’d known the moment he’d set eyes on her, and the knowledge had only grown more entrenched.

All very well. His logical mind had coped, had formulated plans to bring about what his inner self needed, and now had to have. One way or another, he would secure her; he entertained no doubts on that score.

But what ate at him wasn’t rational, not within the realms of logical thought. The need that whispered through him, that gripped and consumed him whenever she was close, whenever opportunity arose and his reckless self perceived it, was entirely conceived within the realms of passion. An unforgiving need forged in the heat of unbridled yearning, in the flames of unbounded desire.

He craved her. Craved the taste of her, the feel of her bare skin, the scent of her aroused and abandoned. Like an addict she drew him, and he simply had to have.

That was why he held her bent over the open ledger on his desk, her bare bottom and the backs of her thighs riding against him as he filled her, the fine skin covering her hip hot silk beneath his hand, her pebbled nipple hard as stone between his fingers as he sank his rigid staff into the hot haven between her thighs, as he sank deeply into her body and claimed it anew.

He’d had to have her again, had been driven to soothe that wild and reckless self she so flagrantly provoked, with whom she so determinedly wanted to engage.

Her body tightened about him, and he felt the reins fall away. Sensed the compelling thunder rise in his blood, in his head. Felt the heat rise through her, catch her in its grip and sweep her up. High, higher.

Until she touched the stars.

Until she shattered, and with a soft cry fell from the peak.

Her sheath contracted powerfully about him, once, twice; that was all he could stand. With a guttural groan he followed her, swept away on the tide as his body joined forcefully, unrestrainedly with hers.

Consciousness returned in fits and starts, in trickles of awareness.

They were bent over the desk, breathing like horses that had just finished a race. His hand had fallen from her breast to brace beside hers, taking his weight. Her head was bowed, her nape beneath his lips.

He touched them to the delicate skin, on the whisper of a breath traced.

Wondered, in the disjointed part of his mind that had managed to realign, whether she really thought he’d claimed her in payment for information, as he’d let her believe-or whether she’d guessed. Whether in her heart, in her female mind, she knew the truth.

The truth that was written on his soul.

10

Pris returned to the world, warm, sated, indescribably content, and feeling strangely secure.

Dillon must have carried her to the armchair opposite the bookcase; her legs, still boneless, had certainly not supported her over the requisite yards. Slumped in the chair, he was cradling her in his lap, gently, as if she were fine porcelain.

She felt fine indeed, the glory of their joining still golden in her veins, yet despite the sensual lassitude that dragged at her body, she felt mentally energized, alert.

Expectant.

Their clothes were neat again, she presumed by his doing, for which she was grateful. Before she could gather sufficient strength to wriggle around to face him, his chest, behind her shoulders, rose and fell. His breath brushed her ear in a sigh.

“The information in the register is used in many ways.” He spoke quietly, evenly. “Breeders use it-they request information on horses they’re considering using as sires or dams. It’s also used to track changes in ownership, as well as constituting the official race record-the wins and loses, the races run-for every registered horse.”

He paused, then went on, “The information is also used to verify the identity of all placegetters in races run under Jockey Club rules.”

She remembered what Rus had said in his letter-a racket run in Newmarket that somehow involved the register. Rus must have learned more, something that had made him leave Cromarty’s stable and try to get a look at the register.

Dillon had told her the register’s description was used to prevent “falsifying” winners. How did one “falsify” a winning horse?

She recalled the columns she’d recently perused, the countless details contained in each entry. Where in all that did the essential clue lie?

Dillon shifted; leaning on the opposite arm of the chair he studied her face. She felt his gaze but didn’t meet it. Did the racket Harkness was running center on breeding, racing-or did it involve falsifying winners?

“It would be easier if you told me what, exactly, you need to know.”

The quiet statement had her meeting Dillon’s dark eyes. He held her gaze steadily, and simply waited. He didn’t press, wasn’t pressing her; to her heightened senses, he seemed resigned.

She drew a breath, then stated as evenly as he, “I need to know how the register’s information can be used illegally.”

He didn’t move, yet she felt his reaction. Steel infused and hardened the muscles beneath her, turned the chest against which she rested to stone. The dark eyes that held her widening ones contained an implacability she hadn’t seen in him before.

For a moment, Dillon struggled to find words, in the end simply said, “I can’t tell you that.” His voice had flattened, grown hard. “But-”

He swallowed the unequivocal order he’d been about to utter, fought and succeeded in slamming a door on his too-violent response, succeeded in finding some degree of warrior calm. He’d known she was connected with some scam; probability had argued it was the current horse substitution one. Bad enough. That someone had shot at her had made matters worse. But to have her confirm that she was walking into the situation blind-knowingly blind-determined to protect her Irishman…!

He felt like roaring but knew better. Holding his roiling, welling emotions in check, holding her gaze, he refashioned his approach. “What ever it is you-and that Irishman-are involved in, it’s serious. Deadly serious.”

Telling her of Collier’s death, warning her that involving herself would bring her to the attention of whoever had murdered the breeder wouldn’t be wise; she’d only grow more desperate to protect her friend. But just thinking of some murderer turning his attention her way sent a surge of well-nigh-ungovernable protectiveness rushing through him.

“This is madness.” Even to his ears, his tone sounded harsh. Jettisoning wisdom, he cupped her chin in one hand; eyes narrow, he captured hers. “Some man shot at you-it was pure luck he failed to kill you! There’s other evidence those involved in this scam have already resorted to murder.” Releasing her chin, he gripped her upper arm; battling the urge to shake her, he forcefully stated, “You have to tell me what’s going on-what you know, and who’s involved.”

She stared at him; in the faint light from the distant lamp, he couldn’t read her eyes. But then she looked down, at his hand clamped about her arm.