And in truth, she had once been very much like him. Confident, brash, and utterly confident that she was impervious to danger.
Life had taught her a bitter lesson in assuming that she could play with fire and not be burned.
And burned badly.
"Routine plodding is far more dependable than brash recklessness," she philosophized.
His eyes narrowed as if he sensed she was hiding secrets deep inside. "But where is the fun?"
"The satisfaction of success."
A surprising hint of tenderness softened the beautiful features. "There is little point in achieving success if you did not enjoy the path leading to your purpose."
"There are other things in life beyond fun and enjoyment," she determinedly argued.
"What?"
"Duty, responsibility, and consideration of others."
Slowly he leaned forward, his hand reaching out to lightly touch her cheek.
"All very noble, Miss Kingly, but life is a banquet that should be sampled to the fullest. Duty, joy, love ... passion."
Although his touch was as gentle as a feather, Jocelyn felt scalded by the fingers that lingered against her skin. She thought she was no stranger to passion. Hadn't she once before tasted of the forbidden fruit?
But her brief experience did not seem to make her any more prepared for the flutters of excitement that sped through her or the sudden racing of her heart.
With an awkward haste she rose to her feet and backed away from his large form.
"It is growing late," she muttered, watching warily as he swiftly gained his feet and moved to stand directly before her.
"Where are you going?"
"To bed."
With deliberate, relentless steps he backed her toward a nearby wall, placing his hands on each side of her head to effectively trap her.
"Not quite yet, I think," he murmured.
She sucked in a sharp breath, then wished she hadn't. The warm scent of male skin and a faint hint of spice threatened to cloud her mind. A potent, undeniable quiver of longing swept through her.
"What do you want?" she demanded in unsteady tones.
Those distracting fingers lifted to stroke the line of her exposed throat, coming to rest upon the frantic beat of her pulse at the base of her neck.
"You lost the match, my dove. Now you must pay your forfeit."
"I... there was no mention of a forfeit."
His soft chuckle feathered down her spine, sending a rash of delightful sensations through her stiff body.
"What is the point of winning a game if I cannot collect a prize?"
Jocelyn discovered herself battling to maintain her usual calm demeanor. This man possessed the most shocking ability to slip beneath her defenses and stir sensations she had thought buried forever.
With wide eyes she regarded the delicate features of his countenance.
"What sort of prize?"