Free Trust Me by Jayne Ann Krentz

to project an outward calm. She was a woman in control. She would not pick up the nearest object and hurl it across the room.
    “I'll have to check my schedule,” she said grimly.
    “You do that.” His shoulders stiffened. He swung around and paced back across the kitchen to stand in front of her. With his unknotted tie and unbuttoned collar, he looked a good deal less civilized than he had a moment earlier. “See if you can manage to fit me in.”
    She blinked and stepped back quickly, coming up against the door once more. “Good grief. Don't tell me you're angry just because I don't know whether or not I'm free to accompany you to a business affair.”
    “Why the hell would I be angry?” He leaned close, reached out, and planted his wide palms on the door behind her, effectively caging her. “I've got no right to be angry, do I?”
    “No, you certainly do not.” Out of the corner of her eye she could not help but notice the sinewy strength of his wrists. Stark was no doubt capable of being dangerous under the right circumstances. She was a little surprised to discover that he did not inspire any genuine fear in her, merely a thrilling feminine wariness. “If anyone has a right to be annoyed, it's me.”
    “You've got no call to be mad, either. I'm offering you a chance to do some business.”
    “Business is just fine for me these days.”
    “Getting better all the time, isn't it? Thanks to me.”
    “I've never asked you to do me any favors,” Desdemona said.
    “If you attend this thing on Thursday with me, we'll be doing each other a favor. Let's call it an even trade.”
    “A trade?”
    “Yeah. How about it?” His mouth curved coldly. “If you're free , that is?”
    Desdemona felt goaded beyond endurance. “All right.” She lifted her chin. “If I'm free.”
    “Anybody ever tell you that you drive a hell of a bargain, lady?”
    “As a matter of fact—”
    His mouth came down on hers with the impact of lava on snow. She went utterly still for the space of three lilting heartbeats. The world stopped while her senses frantically struggled to cope with the overpowering sensation of being kissed by Stark.
    He kissed her as though she were the only living woman on earth. It was a sensually devastating experience.
    While the rational side of Desdemona's brain scrambled to formulate an appropriate response, Wainwright intuition took over. Somewhere inside her a switch was turned on. Her feminine emergency backup system kicked in.
    She wrapped her arms around Stark's neck and kissed him back.
    He groaned, folded his arms around her, and clamped her against his chest. Desdemona felt as though she were being swallowed alive.
    Stark shoved his fingers into the coil of her hair and tugged the black velvet band free. Then he gripped the back of her head and held her still while he deepened the kiss.
    Desdemona clung to him, her senses reeling. Kissing Stark was everything she had known that it would be, a searing, mind-altering, earthshaking experience.
    It struck her in a flash of insight that this glorious, indescribable thrill was similar to what three generations of Wainwrights must have felt every time they went on stage. Being the only one in the family who could not act, she had never experienced it until this moment.
    Stark's hands moved down her back to cup her buttocks. He lifted her up against him.
    Desdemona could hardly breathe. He was hard, solid, strong. Deliciously masculine. She moaned softly and inhaled his indescribable scent. No after-shave or cologne. Just Stark and the soap he used. Everything that was female in her responded to it.
    She was vaguely aware of the room shifting around her. She realized that Stark was carrying her somewhere. Perhaps to the couch in the living room.
    Or perhaps to his bedroom, a dark, mysterious place she had not yet seen.
    Too soon , she thought. Too soon . He was not ready for this. He needed time.
    Desdemona knew she had to do something before they both