Free Trust Me by Jayne Ann Krentz Page A

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 rear 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 aftershave 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 got too carried away by the seething passion.
    Stark came to an abrupt halt. Desdemona felt the jolt that went through both of them. She realized that he had backed into the wooden work island positioned in the center of the kitchen.
    “Damn,” Stark muttered.
    The interruption was timely if not particularly welcome. Desdemona sighed and reluctantly lifted her lashes. She felt bemused and disoriented.
    “Maybe it’s just as well,” she whispered.
    “You’re right. This’ll do.”
    “What on earth?” Before she realized his intention, he turned around and sat her down on the edge of the work island.
    He parted her legs and moved between them. With quick, deft movements he unzipped her dress. The bodice fell to her waist. An instant later his hand