Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5) - Lisa Kleypas Page 0,75
have him hooked, booked, and cooked by now.”
Phoebe frowned at the vulgar expression for courtship and marriage. “I’m not going to marry Edward. He’ll always be a dear friend, but I . . . don’t want him that way.”
West’s face was unreadable. “Have you told him?”
“Not yet. He’s traveling in Italy for at least a fortnight.”
To her dismay, West didn’t seem especially pleased by the revelation. “Phoebe . . . I’m not here to take advantage of you. All I want is to help with the estate, in any way I can.”
The words sent a little cold stab through her chest. Did he mean it? Was that all he wanted? Perhaps the feelings were all one-sided, just as she had feared. She forced herself to ask with difficulty, “The things you said to me that morning . . . is any of it still true?”
“Is any of it . . .” West repeated slowly, with a dumbfounded shake of his head. The question appeared to have set off a flare of impatience. Muttering beneath his breath, he paced away from her, swung around, and returned to her with heightened color and a scowl. “I’m haunted by you,” he said brusquely. “I can’t seem to stop looking for you everywhere I go. When I went to London, I tried to find a woman who could help me forget about you, even for one night. But no one has your eyes. No one interests me the way you do. I’ve cursed you a thousand times for what you’ve done to me. I’d rather be alone with a fantasy of you than have a flesh-and-blood woman in my arms.”
“You don’t have to settle for a fantasy,” Phoebe said impulsively. “Just because you don’t want forever with me doesn’t mean we can’t—”
“No.” West’s breathing roughened despite his effort to moderate it. He held up a staying hand as she parted her lips, and the slight tremor in his fingers electrified her. “If you have any misguided thoughts about taking me into your bed, you would find it a vastly mediocre experience. I’d be on you like a crazed rabbit, and half a minute later the whole thing would be over. I used to be a proficient lover, but now I’m a burnt-out libertine whose only remaining pleasure is breakfast food. Speaking of which—”
Phoebe reached for him, brought herself up hard against him, and interrupted him with her mouth. West flinched as if scalded and held very still in the manner of a man trying to withstand torture. Undeterred, she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him as passionately as she could, touching her tongue to his stiff lips. The feel and taste of him was exhilarating. Suddenly he responded with a primitive grunt and his mouth clamped on hers, wringing sensation from her with demanding pressure. Forcing her lips apart, he searched her with his tongue the way she remembered, and it felt so good, she thought she might faint. A whimper rose from her throat, and he licked and bit gently at the sound, and sealed their mouths together in a deep, insatiable kiss that involved his lips, breath, hands, body, soul.
Whatever it might be like to go to bed with this man . . . it would be anything but mediocre.
Phoebe was so lost in the explosive sensuality of the moment, only one sound could have snatched her back to full alertness . . . her son’s small voice.
“Mama?”
Jerking her head back with a gasp, Phoebe looked toward the sound, blinking in confusion.
Justin stood in the corridor, near the breakfast room, wide-eyed and uneasy at the sight of his mother in a stranger’s arms.
“It’s all right, darling,” Phoebe said with an effort at composure, disentangling herself from West. She teetered on ramshackle legs, but West grabbed her reflexively and adjusted her balance. “It’s Mr. Ravenel,” she told Justin. “He looks a bit different because of his beard.”
It surprised her to see the way her son’s face lit up.
Justin charged forward, and West bent reflexively to catch and lift him in the air.
“Look at this big fellow,” West exclaimed, holding the child against his chest. “My God, you’re as heavy as a clamp of bricks.”
“Guess how old I am now,” Justin boasted, and held up a spread-fingered hand.
“Five? When did that happen?”
“Last week!”
“It was last month,” Phoebe said.
“I had plum cake with icing,” Justin continued eagerly, “and Mama let me eat some for breakfast the next morning.”