The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,4

his hand, then rose to his eyes. “No.”

He smiled. Intently. “I’m sure you can see the sense in not causing a scene and focusing the attention of every last grande dame present on us. After all”—he arched one brow—“what possible excuse could you have for refusing to dance with me?”

Her eyes, locked with his, slowly narrowed. Her lips, those luscious lips he’d started to fantasize about, firmed, then compressed to a thin line. A second more and she nodded. Once. “All right.” She raised her hand, reached out—but froze with an inch separating her fingers and his palm.

Resisting the impulse to grab, to seize, he recaptured her gaze and arched a brow.

Indomitable will glimmered like steel in her blue eyes. “One dance. And then you’ll take me to join Randolph’s circle.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Done.” Fingers closing around hers, he drew her nearer and turned toward the middle of the room, to where guests were drawing back, clearing a space for the dancers.

As he led Mary forward, his lips spontaneously curved. From the way she moved, light on her feet and almost eager by his side, he knew she thought she’d won, or at least had gained equal ground from the exchange.

But she was fencing with a master. He’d forgotten more than she would ever know about this particular game; he was entirely content to fall in with her plans.

But first came his price—the waltz. The first of many, regardless of her present inclination.

Reaching the dance floor, he turned and smoothly drew her into his arms, unsurprised when she stepped forward fluidly, raising one small hand to his shoulder, without a heartbeat’s hesitation letting him settle the fingers of her other hand within his clasp, but rather than rising to his face, her gaze went to his right, to where Randolph had elected to remain chatting with his cronies.

Almost as if, despite being in his arms, her mind was elsewhere. . . .

He set his hand to the delicate planes of her back—and yes, there it was. The telltale quiver of reaction that shivered through her, no matter that she fought to damp it down.

Lips curving in anticipatory delight, he stepped out and swept her into the dance, and reveled in her instant, impossible-to-conceal response. The way her eyes flared as her gaze snapped to his face. The way her luscious lips parted just a fraction, the way her breath hitched.

From that instant on, her attention was his.

He didn’t intend to ever let it go, let it wander.

Capturing her blue eyes, the color of cornflowers under a stormy sky, he whirled her down the floor, focusing on the swoop and sway, the sweeping dance of their senses, feeding the power, ruthlessly heightening the intensity of their effortless, near perfect grace.

If he was an expert on the dance floor, she was a svelte goddess. She matched him—not intentionally but instinctively stepping up to his mark.

Even while, her gaze locked with his, she held fast, denying any and all susceptibility.

Pure challenge.

Him to her, and her to him.

Like an invisible gauntlet, as they swirled around the floor they tossed intent and defiance back and forth between them, relying not on words but on the sheer power of what both of them could say with their eyes, communicate with their gazes.

All any observer would see was a couple absorbed with the dance, locked in each other’s eyes.

No one else could see the tussle—the elemental battle—they waged.

A private war that, he suspected, would very soon advance to a siege.

His inner predator delighted, encouraged and enticed. He hadn’t made any conscious decision; that wasn’t how he operated. He’d long ago learned that, for him, success in life most frequently came through following his instincts.

That was what he was doing now—his instincts had led him to Mary Cynster, and now he was intent on capturing her.

She would be his, and he knew that outcome would be right. The right outcome to lead him forward, to getting what he wanted and needed from his life.

To making his life into what he wanted it to be.

And that was all he needed to know.

That, and that the battle was his to win. No matter her dismissiveness, his innate talents hadn’t failed him. She might not want him now, but she would.

Mary could barely breathe. Her lungs felt tight, constricted, and then Ryder’s lips slowly curved, and the intent in his gaze grew only more heated. More definite, more acute, more pronounced.

She couldn’t pretend she didn’t understand. She didn’t waste time attempting