Jacquie D'Alessandro by Who Will Take This Man Page A

suppressed energy. Vitality. Passion.
    And then there was her coloring. Shiny midnight curls contrasting with a porcelain complexion, properly pale except for twin brushes of peach staining her cheeks. All set off by those striking blue-green eyes whose color reminded him of the turquoise Aegean, not to mention her full, deep rose lips…
    Everything about her seemed so very vivid . Colorful. Outstanding. Like a single spot of bright color painted upon an otherwise white canvas. She reminded him of a sunset in the desert—the rich, vibrant hues of the evening sun painting the sky a stunning contrast to the golden beige of the endless sand.
    She shifted, and an image—a most unwanted and vivid image—of him stealing up behind her, touching his lips to the vulnerable skin on her nape, pressing his body against her feminine form, flashed through his mind, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
    He shook his head to dispel the sensual image, shook itso vigorously his spectacles slid down his nose. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? He was normally not prone to such lascivious thoughts, especially when he was working. Of course, he had never worked in such proximity to a woman before. A woman whose skirts rustled with her every movement, inspiring thoughts of the curvaceous form beneath. A woman who smelled like she’d just stepped out of the damn confectioner’s.
    A woman who was not his fiancée.
    That thought brought him up short and blinked the remnants of the disturbingly provocative image from his mind. He grimly set his jaw. Yes, she was not his fiancée. Excellent. Now he was back on the correct path. He found this woman imperious and annoying. Her goal was to turn him into some simpering, dandified, ruffle-cuffed fop. Yes, yes, that was much better. She was the enemy.
    Yet, when he attempted to pull his gaze from the enemy’s enticing curves, he failed completely. He watched as she carefully lifted a wooden bowl from the crate and gently set it on the blanket spread on the floor. Turning, she made a notation in the ledger, affording him the opportunity to admire her profile.
    Her nose tilted slightly upward, and her chin was set at an angle that could only be described as stubborn. She frowned, and worried her lower lip between her teeth, drawing his attention to her mouth. And bloody hell, what a lovely mouth it was. How could he not have noticed it before now? He couldn’t decide if it was more likely that those full, moist, delectable lips had been fashioned by an angel or by the devil himself. Miss Chilton-Grizedale portrayed the epitome of a proper lady, but there was nothing proper about that rosy, lush mouth, or the heated thoughts it inspired.
    He closed his eyes and was overtaken by a vivid image of himself pulling her into his arms. He could almost feel her curves pressed against him. Lowering his head, hetouched his lips to hers. Warm. Soft. She tasted delicious…like a rich, luscious dessert. He deepened the kiss, slipping his tongue into the heat of her mouth and—
    “Is something amiss, Lord Greybourne?”
    Philip’s eyes popped open. She was staring at him with quizzical concern. Heat crept up his neck, and he had to fight the urge to jerk at his already loosened cravat. He swallowed twice to locate his voice. “Amiss? No. Why do you ask?”
    “You groaned. Did you hurt yourself?”
    “No.” Aching was certainly not the same as hurting. As unobtrusively as possible, he shifted, moving his arm so the ledger he held shielded that which ached. Damn. This was a devil of an inconvenient time for his months of celibacy to catch up with him.
    Ah! Yes, surely these uncharacteristic lustful urges she inspired were due to the fact that it had been months— many months—since he’d last had a woman. He grabbed on to that explanation like a mongrel with a bone. Of course, that was all this was. His body was simply reacting to her in response to his long abstinence. Why, he’d feel the same if