Ravished by the Rake by Louise Allen

he was not going to let her go. Not until he was ready. She was angry and a little frightened and, it was disturbing to realise, aroused by the fact. ‘You would be wise to behave as though you were.’
    ‘I mean—’ Dita bit her tongue. But she was not going to explain herself to Alistair and tell him that her only experience was their eager, magical, lovemaking. If he chose to believe that she had lost her virginity to Stephen Doyle, that was up to him. She could hardly accuse him of failing to understand her, when she couldn’t forgive herself for going off with the man. ‘I mean, why should I trouble to pretend, with you?’
    ‘Is that an invitation, Dita?’ He was so close now that she had to tip her head back at an uncomfortable angle to look up at him. He gave her a little push and she was trapped against the massive table.
    ‘No,’ she said with all the composure she could muster. ‘It is an acknowledgement that we were … friends, once, a long time ago and I do not think you have changed so much that you would deliberately hurt me now.’
    ‘And an
affaire
would hurt?’ He lowered his head so his mouth was just above hers. His lids were low over those dangerous eyes and she stared at the thick fringe of spiky black against his tanned cheek. Not a youngman’s fresh skin any more. There were small scars, fine lines at the corners of his eyes. Her gaze slid lower. He hadn’t shaved yet that morning and the stubble showed darker than she remembered. Alistair’s mouth was so close now that she could kiss him if she chose.
    I do not choose, she told herself fiercely. ‘Naturally.’ And an affaire is all you would consider, isn’t it? You’ve as much pride as I have and you wouldn’t offer to marry another man’s leavings. And I am not the girl I was, the one who was dazzled by you and had no idea what the fire was she was playing with that night. I am the woman who desires you and who knows that to surrender would be my undoing and the last blow to my reputation. I must be sensible.
    She made herself shrug, then realised that her hands had come up to clasp his upper arms, her fingers pressed against the bulge of muscle. Dita made herself open her hands and pressed them instead to his chest. Pushing was hopeless, but it gave her at least the illusion of resistance.
    ‘A dalliance with you, Alistair, would doubtless be delightful—you have so much experience, after all. But I have my future to consider. In this hypocritical world
you
may dally all you wish and still find yourself an eligible bride. I must do what I may to repair my image. One slip, with my name and my money, might be overlooked. Two, never.’
    ‘You are very cool about it, Dita. Where’s the impulsive little creature I remember?’ His right hand moved up her shoulder and she stiffened, refusing to give in to the shiver of need running through her. Between her legs the intimate pulse throbbed with betraying insistenceand she made herself stand still, expecting him to cup her head and hold her for his caress. Instead his hand curled round her neck and pulled the long plait out of the back of her shirt.
    ‘Where’s the intense, straightforward young man of my memory?’ she countered as he twisted her hair around his hand and tugged gently.
    ‘Oh, he is still intense,’ Alistair said. ‘Just rather less straightforward.’ He was close enough for her to see the pulse in his throat, exposed by the open-necked shirt. Close enough to smell the fresh linen and the soap he had used that morning and the salt from the sea breeze and the sweat from that rapid climb to reach her.
    Dita closed her eyes. He was going to kiss her and she was not strong-willed enough to stop him, nor, in her heart, did she want to. One kiss could not matter; it would not be of any importance to him. He pulled gently on the plait and she swayed towards him, blind, breathless, and felt his warmth against her upper body in the thin cotton. His knuckles brushed