LITMIR.BIZ

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much, if not more, of an allure than her appearance.

      But not for him.

      Even now, his dark stare roamed her face, lingering on her eyes before drifting over her cheekbones, her jaw, her mouth. Though it belied reason, she swore she could feel his gaze stroke over her skin. An illicit, mysterious, desire-stoking caress.

      And here, in the isolated depths of this mansion, she wanted more.

      Even if just for a little while.

      The cloak of anonymity bestowed her with a gift of boldness—of freedom—she didn’t ordinarily possess.

      “I wonder what’s going through your head right now?” he murmured, drawing her from her thoughts. “And would you honestly tell me?”

      That would be a no. “Careful, Mr. Knight,” she drawled, tone dry. “You’re beginning to sound a little too Edward Cullen-ish for my comfort.”

      “Last time I checked, I didn’t sparkle in the sunlight or age out at eighteen years old. Although I do admit to a little biting. And liking it.”

      A blast of heat barreled through her, warring with surprise over his recognition of her Twilight reference. Curling her fingers into her palms, she willed the searing desire to abate, but it continued to burn a path along her veins.

      “Still blunt, I see,” she said, and no way could he miss the hoarseness rasping her voice. “You weren’t lying when you claimed not to play games.”

      “Am I making you uncomfortable, Camille?” he asked, his head cocking to the side. His eyes narrowed on her, as if searching out the answer for himself.

      She should say yes. Should order him to keep his straight-no-chaser compliments and need-stirring comments to himself.

      Instead, she matched his head tilt. “And if I said you were?”

      “Then I’d go out there in that kitchen and drag one of those chefs in here so you wouldn’t be. Is that what you want?”

      She shook her head, the denial almost immediate. “No,” she said, although wisdom argued she should have him invite the whole crew into this small room. Protect her from herself. The self that couldn’t help wondering if those stark angles softened with pleasure. Wondering if that hard-looking mouth became more pliable.

      Wondering if that icy shield of control shattered under desire’s flame?

      A shiver danced over her skin. Waltzed along her nerve endings.

      She was the moth dancing too close to those flames.

      “What do you want?” he pressed, the deep timbre of his voice dipping lower.

      He didn’t move, didn’t inch closer to her on the couch. But God, all that intensity crowded her, rubbed over her, slipped inside her. He wasn’t a coy or playful man; he grasped the wealth of possibilities that question carried. And he offered her the choice of not addressing them...or taking all of them.

      A lifetime of playing by the rules slowly unraveled beneath his heated stare. His question vibrated between them, a gauntlet thrown down. A red flag waved.

      “Too many things to possibly number in the space of a blackout,” she finally replied. Truth. And evasion. “But I’m fine with you here with me.” She paused, and with her heart tapping an unsteady rhythm against her chest, added, “Only you.”

      A fierce approval and satisfaction flashed like diamonds in his eyes. “Good,” he said, those same emotions reflected in the one word. “Because now we don’t have to share this with anyone else.” Reaching down, he picked up a plate and set it on the cushion between them. A grin curved her lips at the sight of the braised lamb, roasted vegetable medley and risotto piled on the fine china.

      “Now, that’s lovely,” he murmured, his gaze not on the dinner but on her face.

      She ducked her head, wishing the strands of the wig weren’t tied back in a bun so they could hide the red stain creeping up her neck and flooding her face.

      “You’re certainly resourceful,” she said, reaching for an asparagus tip. “Or sneaky.”

      His soft snort echoed between them. “I’ve been accused of both before. And both are just words. Whatever works to achieve my goal.”

      “Yes, I clearly remember your goal for this evening. You didn’t mince words out there earlier. I guess you’ve achieved your aim. Spending the night with me.”

      Why had she brought up that conversation? What had possessed her to remind him of his claim to be with her—inside her? To see that glint of hunger again? To tempt him? God, she was flirting with danger. And doing so with a rashness that bordered on recklessness.

      “Do you really want to dive into that discussion right now, Camille?” The question—a tease, a taunt—set her pulse off on a rapid tattoo.

      Yes.

      No.

      “Not on an empty stomach,” she whispered, retreating. From the faint quirk of his lips—the first hint of a smile she’d glimpsed on his austere face—he caught her withdrawal. “And you wouldn’t happen to be hiding a bottle of wine over there, would you?”

      The quirk deepened, and her heart stuttered. Actually skipped a couple beats at the beauty of that half smile. Jesus, he would be absolutely devastating if he ever truly let go. Her fingertips itched with the urge to trace those sensual lips. To curb the need, she brought her hands to her pants, intent on rubbing them down her thighs. But stopped herself, recalling they were damp from the food she’d just eaten.

      “Take this.” He reached inside his jacket and offered her a small white handkerchief.

      Startled, she accepted it, again struck with how perceptive he seemed to be.

      “Thank you,” she murmured.

      For the next half hour, they dined on the pilfered food, and as stellar and flavorful as the cuisine was, it didn’t steal her attention like the man across from her. He...fascinated her. And after they finished, when he asked her if she would be fine with him turning off the phone’s light to conserve the battery, she okayed it without hesitation.

      Though he was basically a stranger to her, he emanated safety. Comfort. As if he would release all that barely leashed mercilessness on her behalf instead of against her. Maybe that made her fanciful, too. But in the dark, she could afford it.

      Perhaps the blackness affected him in a similar fashion, because he opened up to her—well, as much as someone as controlled as Gideon Knight probably did. They spoke of mundane things. Hobbies. Worst dates. The best way to spend a perfect, lazy afternoon. All so simple, but she hung on every word. Enjoyed it. Enjoyed him.

      Enjoyed the lack of sight that peeled away barriers.

      Reveled in the desire that thrummed just below the surface like a drum keeping time, marching them forward to...what? She didn’t know. And for the first time in longer than she could remember, she didn’t weigh the effect of every word, the consequence of every action on the Neal family name.

      Here, with him, she was just...Camille.

      “We’ll never see each other again once the lights come back on,” she said. And it was true. They’d never see each other as Camille and Gideon, even if they happened to cross paths in the future. Because then, she would once more be Shay Neal of the Chicago Neals. “That almost makes me...sad,” she confessed, then scoffed, shaking her head, though he couldn’t see the gesture. “Ridiculous, right?”

      “Why?” he asked. “Honesty is never silly. It’s too rare to be ridiculous.”

      A twinge of guilt pinged inside her chest. She was being dishonest about the most basic thing—her identity. “Because fantasies are for teenage girls, not for grown women who know better.”

      “And what do you believe you know, Camille?”

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