The Taming of Ryder Cavanaugh (Cynster #20) - Stephanie Laurens Page 0,5

to do so; he, damn him, had seen through her shields, if not from the first, then certainly in the moment when she’d glanced at Randolph and had temporarily forgotten that the far larger danger, in every conceivable way, had been standing directly before her.

That instant when Ryder’s hand, large and so strong, had touched her silk-clad back—

She cut off the thought, the memory; that alone was enough to make her shiver. Again. And she didn’t need to throw the lion whirling her down the floor any further bait.

What she did need to do was to regain control. If she’d learned anything tonight it was that Ryder—for whatever incomprehensible reason—had taken it into his head to hunt her, and he was one of the few within the ton with sufficient wit, talent, and skill to manage her. To inveigle and steer and, most irritating of all to admit, manipulate her—witness this waltz. Just the thought of being managed by anyone made her set her teeth, metaphorically dig in her heels and refuse . . . but she knew very well that, in this case, the course of wisdom was not to fight but to flee.

Wise ladies never took on more than they could handle—and she couldn’t handle Ryder. No lady could.

Worse, an instant’s consideration was enough to confirm that there was no sphere in her world in which he wouldn’t dominate; he was, she judged, as adept at twisting the social conventions to his advantage as she.

So yes, she needed to run—to put as much space between them as possible and keep him at a distance, at least until he gave up the chase and turned to more willing prey.

Assuming, of course, that he was merely amusing himself in his customary way . . .

A worrying thought intruded, worming its way into her brain. There was no denying that she—young, unmarried, of extremely good family—didn’t in any way match the specifics of his customary partners in dalliance . . .

She allowed the frown in her mind to manifest in her eyes. The fraught silence they’d maintained—a silence full of pressure and weight, and the tense clash of their characters, of two dominant personalities neither of whom would yield—still held.

Without thinking further, she broke it. “Why are you doing this?” She was perfectly certain she didn’t need to be more specific.

A second ticked past, then he arched one tawny brow. “Why do you think?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t ask—and in your case, I wouldn’t presume to know your mind.”

His lips quirked, then, apparently reluctantly, curved in an appreciative smile. “Very wise.”

She opened her mouth to pursue her point—and he drew her closer.

Close enough that the warmth of his body reached her through their clothes; close enough that she—all of her—was abruptly submerged in a sea of sensation, in the blatant physicality of being surrounded by him, by a male body so much larger and harder, heavier and more muscled, infinitely more powerful than hers.

Alien, so different, and yet so viscerally attractive.

Her lungs seized. Her thoughts scrambled. Her wits whirled faster than her feet.

As he whisked her through the turn—one unexpectedly constrained by the press of couples around them—she lost all ability to breathe. She couldn’t even mentally blame him when he urged her closer still, the arm at her back tensing and tucking her protectively against him for that fraction of a second at the point of the curve, his hard thigh parting hers as he swirled them around . . .

And then they were free, out of the melee, and she fought to get her lungs working again.

The instant she did . . . “Ryder—”

The music slowed, then ceased. Lips curving, he quirked a brow at her, but very correctly released her and bowed.

Compressing her lips, she curtsied, then let him raise her.

Before she could speak and try to get an answer—any answer—from him, he raised his head, scanning the guests. “Now—where’s Rand?” Ryder glanced down at her, a question—utterly mild and almost innocent—in his eyes. “If you’re still keen to have me pave your way?”

She stared into his hazel eyes and didn’t know what to think. She was suspicious—of course she was—but . . . she inclined her head. “Yes, please.”

His eyes on hers, he waited, then arched a brow. “And . . . ?”

She knew what he wanted but let the moment stretch before yielding. “Thank you for the waltz.”

He smiled—and that really wasn’t fair. His smile was utterly heart-stopping. With a flourish, he offered his arm. As