The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,18
she felt her temper stir as the reality of what had just transpired coalesced in her mind.
She’d been forced out of the ballroom—her field of action—by Ryder. By an interfering, high-handed, wholly arrogant despot; no matter how much amiability he used to cloak his true nature, that was what Ryder assuredly was.
And tonight he’d trumped her.
Her—she who was always in charge. More, he’d done it in an arena she considered hers. Hers to organize and arrange to her liking.
Eyes narrowing, she raised her skirts and marched up the three steps into the deeper shadows of the folly, her temper escalating to a steady boil.
Even though there was no one to see, she set her lips in a mutinous line.
Halting at the top of the steps, she let her skirts fall.
Her senses flared.
Awareness washed over her and she froze.
Silence.
Every instinct she possessed continued to scream that a dangerous predator was close. Too close.
She blinked twice. Barely daring to breathe, as her eyes adjusted to the denser darkness inside the folly, she slowly turned to her left . . .
He was sitting on the bench that circled the structure, at his languid, feline ease. Watching her. Intent. Unmoving.
Head back, shoulders resting against a column, his arms relaxed, hands on his thighs, one ankle resting on the other knee, his pose emphasized just how large, powerful, and lethally attractive he was. In this setting, there was no escaping the obvious extrapolation—how very dangerous he could be to any woman foolish enough to stray too close.
That said . . . head tilting, she consulted her no-longer-panicking instincts and confirmed that she harbored not the slightest lick of true fear, not even trepidation. Not of him.
Anger, and a certain respect, both fueled by an increasing appreciation of what he could do to her plans, to her determined progress down her chosen path, of the degree of distraction he could create, of how masterfully he could play on her senses . . . those she had to own to.
That he would be an implacable opponent, and an even worse enemy, she had not the slightest doubt.
And he’d made it perfectly clear that he was disinclined to view her pursuit of his younger brother favorably.
Yet . . . she eyed him, studied him—and accepted that protectiveness of Randolph would propel Ryder only so far.
Not this far.
“How did you get here ahead of me?”
A flick of long fingers indicated the house. “The garden hall at the other end of that corridor. Its outer door opens directly onto the path over there.”
She glanced at the door in question. Looking back at him, she frowned. “How did you know I’d come here?”
A moment passed before he replied, “You forget that a gentleman of my ilk is expected to know all the potential places for dalliance in all the major houses—and all the ways to reach them.”
“But you couldn’t have known I would come out here.”
Another pause, then, “Clearly, I’m starting to learn how you think—well enough to predict how you’ll behave.”
That was not at all reassuring. Much less calming; her heart was no longer thudding, but it had yet to return to its usual unremarkable rhythm. Regardless, it was past time she made a stand. “Why are you pursuing me?” She spread her arms. “Even out here.”
His eyes well adjusted to the poor light, Ryder studied her features and debated telling her.
He hadn’t risen when she’d arrived, which, if she’d been paying greater attention, might have triggered her suspicions as to his motives. As it was, his claiming of a privilege normally reserved for close personal relationships didn’t seem to have registered with her . . . or rather, she’d accepted the point, conceded it, without real thought.
All of which was good; another step closer successfully claimed.
He also hadn’t risen because, in this setting, with the pair of them alone in the dark of the night in a relatively confined space, if he stood he would sexually overwhelm her. It would be all but impossible not to, and while one part of him was intrigued by the prospect and eager to see how it would play out, his more rational side knew she wasn’t yet ready for that.
He also didn’t think he was yet ready to answer her question. Not unless he had to. His gaze on the dark pools of her eyes, he arched a brow. “Why do you imagine I am?”
The answer would at least tell him how far along the path of realization she’d traveled.