Surrender The Heart

She should be frightened, Ariane thought. He was so tall, so broad that her world was suddenly completely circumscribed by his body, whose power was not disguised by his elegant evening clothes. His fingers circled her hand so relentlessly that she might have been manacled to him. But it was his eyes where the true danger loomed—his eyes, so intent that they seemed to consume her.

“Christopher,” she whispered obediently, spellbound by those cool green eyes that held more heat than a thousand fires.

“Chris,” he corrected.

She smiled. “That suits you better.”

“So?”

“Christopher belongs in a stuffy drawing room. Chris belongs among mountains and deserts and beautiful, empty valleys.”

Chris chuckled at the precision of her observation. “Is that a polite way of saying that I don’t belong here?”

“It’s not an insult when I say that. On the contrary.” She smiled ruefully. “I don’t particularly belong here myself.”

“It depends on how you define ‘here.’” Slowly he loosened his grip on her hand and placed it palm down against his chest. Then, using thumb and forefinger, he tipped her face upward. “You belong here perfectly.” He lifted his other hand to lie against the nape of her neck. “Perfectly.”

He remained very still, his touch so light that they both knew all Ariane had to do was step away.

But she did not step away. She had been waiting for this moment, she realized, ever since she had seen him in the theater.

“Now we will seal our bargain my way.”

Despite the command in his voice, Chris lowered his head slowly. Then he touched his mouth to hers.

Not wanting to frighten her and knowing well just how much a little control could intensify pleasure, he reined in the impulse to take her mouth fully. Instead he tasted his way along her lower lip, adding only an occasional flicker of his tongue.

Even when her lips parted beneath the light pressure of his, he did not take the invitation. Instead he continued to tantalize, to tease, allowing himself no more than a brief foray to taste her.

Ariane felt heat blossom within her. It poured through her veins until she was suffused with it. Until she was light-headed with it. And still he did not kiss her, but continued to brush her mouth with his as if he was interested in no more than a casual game.

Her hand was still lying on his chest just over his heart and when her fingertips picked up his quickening heartbeat, she knew that the same heat that curled through her like a living, breathing entity had taken possession of him as well. But he continued with the maddening game, even as his heart began to pound heavily against her fingers.

She opened her eyes to find him watching her. How could he be so controlled, she thought, when she could feel the drumming of his heart? How could he be so controlled when she was melting with the need to taste him?

Lifting her other hand, she threaded it in his hair. She felt the leap of his heart and the answering thud of her own.

“Now,” she whispered against his mouth.

The tug of her fingers on his hair and her breathy invitation had his control crumbling like a house of cards. As he took her mouth fully, he heard a sound that he only vaguely realized came from his own throat. Now that he had surrendered, he plunged into the kiss like a man on the brink of starvation.

For a moment Ariane went still as he invaded her mouth. Voracious, his tongue explored and probed. Unbearably aroused, even more by the sensation of being wanted so badly than by the kiss itself, she moaned.

Her moan pierced his consciousness, which had been clouded by his passion. Oh, God, he thought as he pulled back. He had fallen on her like a wild animal. When she moaned again, his eyes flew open.

As he looked down at her, her eyelids rose to reveal eyes dark and unfocused with arousal. Ridiculously grateful that he had not frightened her, he lowered his mouth to hers again.

She waited for the passion to blaze again, but she found that everything had changed. The fire and flash of a moment ago were gone and in their place was a steady, bright flame. Where he had plundered, he caressed. Where he had demanded before, he offered. Where he had taken before, he gave.

Minutes passed that seemed like hours as they feasted on each other, breaking away only because their breath had become as ragged as if they had run for miles.

As Chris lifted his head, the stunned look in his eyes matched hers. He had not expected such hunger, such need. Nor had he expected a pleasure so sweet, so sharp.

They stared at each other, trying to come to terms with their feelings. If they heard the opening and closing of the door, neither one gave a sign. Even when the indignant voice sounded, they moved apart slowly, choppily, like windup dolls whose mechanisms had begun to run down.

“Monsieur!” The voice sounded again.

Only then did Ariane recognize her father’s voice.

Chapter Six (#ulink_7a6098b5-3c85-5188-bcda-751853799da2)

As Ariane turned around to face her father, the warmth and pleasure that were drifting through her began to fade. With something resembling panic she struggled to hold on to these sensations that she had never experienced before.

“Monsieur, unhand my daughter.” Pierre de Val-mont’s voice quivered.

Ariane saw the telltale glazing of his eyes that preceded one of his rages. “Papa. please—” Moving forward, she stretched her hand out to him. She was not afraid of his rage, but she was afraid of ruining the last of the pleasure that was still drifting through her like the echo of a lovely melody. “Please.”

His daughter’s plea penetrated that place inside his head that sometimes seemed to take over. Her voice was soft and submissive as it should be. He focused his eyes on her face and the fear he saw there soothed him.

“You will come with me now.” He strode toward her and held out his arm.

Ariane obeyed him, grateful for the support of his arm and hating herself for needing it.

“You will stay away from my daughter, monsieur,” he said. “Stay away.”

When they reached the ballroom door, Ariane stopped and turned to look over her shoulder.

Chris was standing there as she had left him—his hands by his sides, his eyes still stunned. Perhaps, she thought, the odds were not against her after all.

Ariane took a deep breath the moment they were seated in their carriage. There was no sense in prolonging it, she thought. If he was going to fly into a rage, he would do it whether they were in a carriage or in their apartments.

“Papa—” she began.

He interrupted her. “Your conduct was inexcusable, Ariane. You made a spectacle of yourself.” He leaned forward. “But that isn’t the worst of it”.

“What do you mean?” She flinched back from the smell of alcohol on his breath.

“Do you know who this man is?”

She shook her head and lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “I know as much as you do.”

“What?” he screamed. “You know?”

“Pierre, chéri—” Marguerite de Valmont’s hands fluttered ineffectually. “Please.” She touched her husband’s arm, but he shoved her roughly into the corner of the carriage. Softly, she began to cry.

“What are you talking about, papa?” Ariane demanded loudly, knowing that it was important that she keep her father’s attention focused on her. “Know what?”

“That he’s a bastard,” Valmont shouted. “He’s Charles de Blanchard’s bastard.”