Free One Dangerous Desire (Accidental Heirs) by Christy Carlyle Page A

which he would vehemently deny.
    She tilted her head up as if examining the stars before looking back at him again. This time more composed, every inch the polished, ladylike heiress.
    “I forgive you, Mr. Leighton.” Her voice arced through the night, the words spoken lightly, almost flippantly.
    They struck him like a current, the power of her declaration reverberating through him. I forgive you. He hadn’t realized how much he’d craved her forgiveness. Needed to hear the sentiment from her lips. None of the excuses and justifications he’d piled up over the years could do what she’d done in one breathy proclamation.
    Yet it wasn’t enough. He needed more. Some relentless, stubborn part of him wanted to break through her cool manner and know that she truly felt forgiveness. Anyone could say the words. He had to get at May’s heart.
    He moved toward her. This time she didn’t raise a hand to ward him off.
    “If you’re going to forgive me, I want to know why.” Another step and he drew close enough to touch her, to get drunk on her floral scent. “And you should call me Rex. We’re beyond formalities, May.”
    “Who is Rex?” she scoffed. “Who is this person you’ve become?” She tipped her head as if she might divine some hidden truth by scrutinizing his face. “We’re not past formalities because I’m not sure I know who you are anymore. You’ve changed your name, your manner, your entire life in the years we’ve been apart.”
    I’m the same man. Unbidden, unwanted, the words percolated up. As if he kept his former self chained in a pit somewhere deep in his soul, and the poor bastard refused to give in.
    Rex swallowed down the foolish notion. He wasn’t the same. Everything he’d built for himself, all he’d done to achieve it, proved he was no longer the man she’d once known. That man had been weak, without hope. Until she’d walked into that glassware shop and looked at him as if he could be—should be—much more than a poorly paid shop clerk.
    “Why forgive me, then?”
    “Because you apologized, of course.” She moved slowly, stepping toward him until the skirt of her gown pressed against his legs and her bodice brushed his chest. Dark lashes fanned against the pale skin above her eyes when she looked up at him, and he gritted his teeth to keep from reaching for her. He knew just how she’d fit against him if he pulled her near, remembered precisely how her curves softened all his rough edges.
    “It was a bit overdue, I must say.” Sharpness cut through the usual lilt in her voice. “Most people who apologize are seeking to be forgiven for their actions. Weren’t you asking for my forgiveness?”
    Yes. God, yes. He nodded. His body tensed, refusing every impulse urging him to reach for her.
    The sincerity in her voice was an unexpected gift. As if absolution had always been simple, had always been his for the asking. This was the May he remembered. Giving. Trusting. Frighteningly naive.
    Her lack of guile stoked the same impulse it had six years ago. A desire to protect her, to shelter her goodness from the ugliness he’d experienced. He must act on that urge, accept her forgiveness, and wish her well in her quest for an aristocrat. But the desire to touch her swept away all his best intentions. Her warm, scented nearness tempted him as he hadn’t been tempted in years. He knew too much about May, remembered all of it with exquisite clarity. The softness of her skin, how his hand fit perfectly in the curve of her waist, that when he kissed the spot behind her ear, she emitted erotic moans and melted in his arms.
    “Does that mean you’ll grant me anything I ask?”
    “Don’t push your luck, Mr. Leighton. Forgiveness is all that’s on offer this evening.” She sidestepped to move past him, and he grasped her arm lightly.
    “That dress says differently.” The red frock didn’t just hug her curves; it embraced them, celebrating each and every slope and swell.
    He