“Mademoiselle.”
She shivered as the sensual inflection with which he spoke wrapped around her like a lover’s embrace.
“Mr. Quinn,” she greeted, her voice husky and inviting.
Quinn’s gaze narrowed into an examining perusal. Without warning, he caught her elbow and pulled her away from the wall. She was so startled by his action that she was unable to voice a protest.
At least that was what she told herself. She wasn’t yet prepared to admit that she wanted to be claimed by a man such as him. A man whose polished exterior encased raw masculinity.
He led her through the crowd and down a hallway, opening a closed door and pushing her ahead of him into the room. The interior was dark, and for a moment, she was blinded by the dearth of illumination after the blaze of the massive ballroom chandeliers.
Her eyes slowly adjusted to the softer moonlight spilling in through the windows. When she could see, she stepped farther into the large, liberally furnished library. The smell of leather and parchment teased her nostrils, reinforcing the sensation of being primitively claimed.
The door latch clicked into place and she jumped, her nerves stretched too thin. The sounds of laughter and music faded from her perception, leaving her aware only of Quinn and the fact that they were alone together.
“What game are you playing?” he asked gruffly.
“I was staring,” she admitted, turning to face him. She appreciated having the light behind her, which shielded her features in shadow while revealing the whole of his. “But then, every woman here was doing the same.”
“But you are not just any woman, are you?” he growled, coming toward her.
So . . . he knew who she was. That surprised her. Her mother had insisted they hide their identities. They stayed with a friend instead of at their own property and were using an assumed surname. Her mother said it would prevent her father from becoming angry with them for deviating from their stated destination—Spain. She would have agreed to anything in order to come to Paris. In all of her life, her family had never visited here.
But then . . . If Quinn knew her true identity, why would he pull her away from the festivities in such a public manner?
“You approached me,” she pointed out. “You could have kept your distance.”
“I am here because of you.” He caught her elbows and jerked her roughly into him. “If you had stayed out of mischief for a few days longer, I would have been far from France now.”
She frowned. What was he talking about? She would have asked if he had not placed his hands on her. No man had ever been so bold as to accost the daughter of the Vicomte de Grenier. She could hardly believe Quinn had done it, but she could not jerk away because the sensations elicited by his proximity stunned her. He was so hard, like stone. She could not have expected that.
As her breathing quickened, she felt herself sway into him, her chest pressing into his. It was madness. He was a stranger and he seemed to be angry.
But she felt safe with him, regardless.
For a long, taut moment Quinn did not move. Then he yanked her toward the window, impatiently pushing the sheer curtain aside so that moonlight touched her face. With a tug of his fingers, he untied the ribbons of her mask and it fell away, leaving her exposed. She suddenly felt na**d, but not nearly na**d enough. She felt a reckless, goading need to strip off every article of clothing while he watched. It was heady to be the focus of such heated, avid interest from so handsome a man.
He loomed over her, scowling, his mouth set in a grim line. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he snapped.
She swallowed hard. “Like what?”
Quinn made an aggravated noise, dropped the curtain, and caught her about the waist. “As if you want me in your bed.”
Mon Dieu, what did one say to that?
“You are . . . very attractive, Mr. Quinn.”
“ ‘Mr. Quinn,’ is it?” he purred, his large hands cupping her spine, making her feel tiny and delicate. Conquered. “I always knew you were mad.”
Her tongue darted out to wet her dry lips and he froze, his gaze burning.
“What game are you playing?” he asked again. This time, she heard something else in his tone. Something darker. Undeniably arousing.
“I—I think we are both c-confused,” she said.
He moved, cupping the back of her neck and the side of her hip, mantling her body with his. “I’m bloody well confused, curse you.” He tugged, forcing her spine to arch, leaning over her so that she had no leverage to move.
Every inhale was his exhale. Every movement was an enticement, their bodies sliding against each other in a wanton dance. She felt a fever in her blood, a conflagration that had started with that first smoldering glance in the ballroom.