Free What Price Love? by Stephanie Laurens Page B

step away. He needed to draw her back to the world, needed to force himself step by step back from a precipice he’d never before faced.
    The realization that that last was indeed true helped.
    Eventually he lifted his head. He looked down at her lips, swollen, slightly bruised; he hadn’t been gentle. He shifted his gaze to her eyes, watched as she drew in a breath, then her lashes fluttered, and rose.
    Revealing eyes brilliant and dark, deeper than emerald, the veil of ebbing passion slowly fading.
    He studied those eyes, tried to ignore the compulsive beat in his blood, still painfully attuned to her, aware to his throbbing fingertips of the rise and fall of her breasts beneath her velvet jacket as she fought to catch her breath.
    There was comprehension in the eyes that stared back at him, eyes that, like his, would never be distracted by superficial beauty, that would look past it, search deeper, and see.
    They both knew what had happened, what had just occurred, what question had been decided. She’d thought to challenge him, had risked doing so knowing that at the least she’d learn which of them was the stronger on this plane.
    She’d hoped she’d be able to manage him, bedazzle and hypnotize him with her not-inconsiderable charms. She’d wantonly rolled the dice—and lost; he saw the knowledge in her eyes.
    He couldn’t stop a cynical, arrogant smile from curving his lips. “I believe that answers that.”
    Her eyes flashed, temper flaring, but, still recovering, she made no reply.
    He looked into her eyes for a moment longer, then, very slowly, released her. “Might I suggest we’d be wise to return to the horses?”
    It would definitely be wise to get some distance between them.
    She looked away, toward the horses.
    He forced himself to step back, let her slip from between him and the tree; silent and, he judged, slightly dazed, she started back to the edge of the wood.
    Without a word, he fell in beside her.
    Pris struggled to get her limbs to work, to get her mind to function, struggled to assimilate all that had happened and all that hadn’t. There’d been a moment there…she slammed a mental door on those thoughts. If she dwelled on what she’d sensed, she’d never be able to deal with him—and deal with him she must.
    He was striding beside her; she didn’t dare glance at him—she was still much too quiveringly aware of him, of the impression of his body against hers, of the insidiously dangerous thrill of being trapped in his arms, his lips on hers, his tongue dueling with hers…
    Thrill? What was the matter with her? Being kissed by him had obviously warped her mind.
    She frowned as they neared the edge of the trees, frowned even more definitely when, glancing about, she realized there was no convenient fallen log, no stump she could use to regain her saddle.
    He’d noticed. With a curt wave, he gestured her to her horse. He followed, still close. Steeling herself, she halted by the mare’s side and swung to face him.
    Finding herself looking at his neatly tied cravat, she forced her gaze up to his eyes, just as his hands slid about her waist and gripped.
    And it happened again. Heat flared, then spread from where he touched; desire and more rose like a wave and surged through her. And him. His eyes locked on hers; the expression in his face, all hard angles and austere planes, perfectly sculpted, classically beautiful, stated very plainly that he wanted her. But…
    Although desire flared in his mink-dark eyes, it was harnessed, controlled. He studied her for a moment, then evenly, rather coldly, said, “I would suggest, Miss Dalling, that if you have the slightest sense of self-preservation, you will not again attempt to sway me using yourself as bait.”
    Her temper flared. Haughtily, she raised her brows.
    His features resembled cold stone. “Regardless of what men you’ve previously bent to