Free The Seductive Impostor by Janet Chapman Page B

bouncing around in Rachel’s brain, trying to urge her into action. She had to do something. She could not let this guy take such liberties with her mouth.
    Rachel pushed at his chest and immediately cried out.
    He pulled back and looked down. “Your left wrist is bruised,” he said, carefully taking her hand and holding it, his voice utterly calm, as if that kiss had never happened.
    Rachel took a bit longer to gather her wits. Yes, she could see the bandage covering her left wrist and most of her fingers. His hand dwarfed hers. It was huge and powerful-looking and so utterly male, it was all she could do not to shiver.
    â€œWhat were you after, Miss Foster?”
    â€œI wasn’t in your library last night,” she repeated, this time by rote, still focused on the size of her hand in his.
    He sighed, the feel of him wafting over her face, reminding her of his kiss. Her cheeks heated.
    â€œYou…intrigue me, Rachel Foster.”
    â€œWh-what?” she whispered, snapping her gaze to his. She didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to know what he meant. Not after that kiss.
    He cocked his head as he watched her, seemingly fascinated by her reaction. “I came to that conclusion just as I finished braiding your hair.” He reached up and pulled her braid over her shoulder, watching the end curls slowly wrap around his fingers.
    Rachel jerked her head back, grabbing her braid and hiding her treacherous curls in her fist. Their eyes met again, and she became aware of a heat between them so intense, it even singed his face with two flags of color.
    â€œYou can’t…you can’t…you braided my hair?” she finished on a squeak.
    He nodded. And then he leaned down and kissed her again. But not her mouth this time. He simply, sensually used those remarkable lips to caress her cheek.
    Fire shot all the way down to the pit of Rachel’s stomach. Oh, Lord. His causing her bodily harm had just become the least of her worries.
    He pulled back and stood up. Rachel saw the light of promise in his steady Atlantic-blue eyes. He winked at her, turned on his heel, and headed for the door.
    â€œWait!”
    He stopped, his hand on the doorknob, and looked at her.
    â€œWhat—what time is it?” she asked, looking at the closed hurricane shutters on the windows. She couldn’t tell if it was night or day outside. The only light in the room came from the bedside lamp.
    He followed her line of vision, then looked back at her. “Does it really matter, Miss Foster?” he asked, just before he opened the door and walked out.
    Â 
    Kee stood in the hall, his head thrown back and his eyes closed, listening for any sound coming from the room he’d just left. But all he could hear was the rush of his own blood raging through his body. Kee knew that if he held out his hand, it would be shaking.
    Rachel Foster. She’d done this to him—with her snapping eyes that were more scared than brave, with her indignant expression that hid the heart of a very poor liar, and with her wildly curling hair that drove him into a sexual frenzy whenever he looked at it. Hell. He’d been as hard as a stone the entire time he’d worked on getting the tangles out of it.
    The lady may have bruised his manhood last night, but she sure as hell hadn’t broken it.
    Damn. This was not going to be as easy as he’d thought. Rachel Foster may be temporarily in his clutches, but he was the one who was caught. From the moment she’d stood facing him in the library, every damn hormone in his body had stood at attention.
    Just before she’d kneed him into oblivion.
    It took a brave person to do what Rachel Foster had done. Kee admired her for that. And then she had lied to his men and to him—and right to their faces, by God.
    She was going to stick to her story, Kee knew. Neither threats nor kidnapping nor kisses would make her admit that she had been snooping around Sub