Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) by Piper Maitland Page B

“Better?” he asked.
    Yes. No.
    His hand fell to his side, and he stood. “I should go, shouldn’t I?”
    â€œPlease don’t.” She got to her feet and stepped closer. She wanted to touch him, to press her face against his face and feel the weight of his body, the whole length of him pushing her down into a warm place. It felt wrong somehow to be consumed by these feelings in the wake of her uncle’s death, and yet it somehow seemed right. She wanted Jude to take her out of all that, to distract her and make her feel something other than the immense pain and loneliness that had surrounded her since that horrible phone call.
    She stood on her toes and pressed her lips against his, tasting wine and salt. His tongue pressed against hers, lightly at first, but the delicate dance quickly morphed into something more urgent. Her knees began to shake. She wanted more than a kiss, and she wanted it now. She slid her hands up his chest, brushing over the smooth cotton, feeling the hard curve of his muscles.
    Still kissing him, her fingers grazed his collar. As she undid the top button, her hand froze. What was wrong with her? How could she feel pleasure amid so much emotional pain?
    No, she couldn’t do this. She broke the kiss and stepped backward. “I’m sorry.”
    His eyebrows came together. “What for?”
    She felt dizzy and put a steadying hand on the desk. Better not get into that kiss. Better to tell a plausible lie. “I’m just exhausted,” she said. “Can we talk tomorrow?”
    â€œOf course.” He walked to the door and opened it, then he turned back. “Are you certain you’re all right?”
    She almost told him to whistle. It had worked for Bacall and Bogie, but it wouldn’t work for her. So she just nodded.
    â€œWell, good-bye, then.” Jude stepped into the hall. The door clicked shut behind him, a hard, final sound. Now that he was really gone, she was sorry. There was still time to call him back, wasn’t there?
    No, of course not. She flopped onto the bed. She’d saved herself a world of embarrassment. Him, too. Especially him. She pushed the pillow over her head. Drunken idiot. But not so drunk that she’d slept with him. That really would’ve taken the biscuit.

CHAPTER 12
    Daylight blazed through the curtain, shining into Caro’s eyes. It felt rather pleasant until she tried to sit up, and then pain shot through her head. God, how much had she drunk last night? She wasn’t in the habit of kissing strange men—not because she was a prude, but because she was a cynic. The London dating scene was flooded with married men and players. Without exception, she’d been drawn to commitment-phobic chaps. In fact, she’d compiled a list of her failed relationships, which she privately referred to as the Lost Boys.
    Her first beau, a thirteen-year-old football player, had shattered her bedroom window with a rock, only to later claim temporary insanity after Uncle Nigel had charged the lad with vandalism. Her big love was a college boy who’d almost gotten into her knickers, but Uncle Nigel’s relentless hoovering in the next room had quashed that romantic interlude. That particular boy dropped her for a girl who didn’t have a nosy, and noisy, uncle. The lovebirds had gotten married and now raised show-quality dachshunds.
    The most cringeworthy entry in the list was her engagement to an Oxford banker named Robert Thaxton. Their romance was one of those sad tales that tour guides love to embellish on castle tours, but in her case it was true.
    Caro had still been living with her uncle when Robert had proposed. Uncle Nigel had wanted to make a huge fuss, so he’d arranged a lavish party at Danesfield House, near Marlow-on-Thames. Then he’d taken her shopping at Harrods, and she’d picked out a gray-blue silk dress went nicely with her eyes. The night of the party, she fashioned