“Mr. Bronson,” she said, her words seeming to float aimlessly out of her mouth, “you've let me drink far too much of that wine…As a matter of fact, you encouraged me, which was very wrong of you.”
“You're not all that intoxicated, my lady.” His mouth twitched with amusement. “You're just a little more relaxed than usual.”
The statement was patently untrue, but for some reason it reassured her. “It's time I retired for the evening,” she announced, lurching upward from the settee. The room seemed to spin, and she felt herself falling, sinking through the air as if she had stepped off a cliff. Bronson reached out and caught her easily, stopping the wayward tumble. “Oh—” Holly clutched at his forearms as he steadied her. “I seem to be a trifle dizzy. Thank you. I must have tripped on something.” She bent to peer fuzzily at the carpet, searching for the object that had impeded her, and she heard Bronson's soft chuckle.
“Why are you laughing?” Holly demanded as he lowered her back to the settee.
“Because I've never seen anyone get so tipsy from three glasses of wine.” She made a move to rise, but he sat beside her, preventing the halfhearted attempt at escape. His hip was perilously close to hers, causing her to shrink hard against the back of the settee. “Stay with me,” Bronson murmured. “The night is half-gone already.”
“Mr. Bronson,” she asked suspiciously, “are you trying to compromise me?”
His white teeth flashed in a grin, as if he were teasing her, but there was a disturbing hot glimmer in his gaze. “I could be. Why not spend the next few hours with me on this settee?”
“Talking?” she asked faintly.
“Among other things.” He touched the curve of her jaw with his forefinger, leaving a streak of fire along the sensitive curve. “I promise you would enjoy it. And afterward we'll blame it on the wine.”
She could hardly believe he had dared to suggest something so outrageous. “Blame it on the wine,” she repeated in indignation, and giggled suddenly. “How many times have you used that phrase in the past, I wonder?”
“This is the first time,” he assured her easily. “I rather like it, don't you?”
She frowned at him. “You've propositioned the wrong woman, Mr. Bronson. There are a hundred reasons why I would never do that with you.”
“Tell me a few.” His black eyes were wickedly inviting.
She waggled an unsteady finger in his face. “Morality…decency…self-respect…the responsibility to set an example for my daughter…not to mention the fact that any indiscretion with you would make it impossi
ble for me to stay.”
“Interesting,” he mused. Holly inched backward as he leaned over her, until her head was resting heavily on the arm of the settee and she was stretched out beneath him.
“What's interesting?” she asked, drawing a deep breath, and then another. The air in the room had become very warm. Her arm felt heavy as she reached up to push back a strand of hair that clung to her damp forehead. She let her elbow rest above her head, moist palm turned upward. She had drunk far too much…she was intoxicated…and while this fact did not especially bother her at present, she knew in the back of her mind that it would be a matter of great concern to her later.
“You listed every reason except the one that truly matters.” Bronson's face was very close, and his mouth—surely the most tantalizing mouth she had ever seen, full-lipped and wide and promising—was so close that she felt his breath gently touch her cheek. The smell of his breath was pleasantly infused with wine and his own intimate flavor. “You forgot to say that you don't desire me.”
“Well, that…that's a given,” she faltered.
“Is it?” Rather than look offended, he seemed faintly amused. “I wonder, Lady Holly, if I could possibly make you want me.”
“Oh, I don't think…” Her voice was extinguished into a feeble gasp as she saw his head lower toward hers, and her body tingled with a shock of realization. She closed her eyes tightly, waiting, waiting…and she felt his mouth descend to the delicate inside of her wrist. The velvet slide of sensation sent an erotic shiver down her arm, and her fingers twitched involuntarily. He let his mouth linger on the soft, thin skin of her wrist, encouraging the tiny pulse to beat madly. Holly's entire body drew tight as a bow, and she wanted to lift her knees and curl around him. Her lips felt swollen and warm, tautly anticipating the pressure of his kiss. He lifted his head and stared at her with eyes as dark as hellfire.
Reaching for something nearby, he held it before her. The crystal wine glass glittered in the firelight, a few remaining sips of burgundy liquid swirling in the bottom. “Finish the wine,” he suggested softly, “and let me have my way with you. And in the morning we'll both pretend that you don't remember.”
It frightened her, the extent to which she was tempted by the sinful offer. He was mocking her, she thought dizzily…surely he couldn't truly be propositioning her. He was waiting to see what her response would be, and then no matter what she said, no or yes, he would make jest of her.
“You're wicked,” she whispered.
The smile had left his eyes. “Yes.”
Breathing shakily, she passed a hand over her eyes as if trying to clear away the wine-soaked fogginess. “I…I want to go upstairs. Alone.”
A lengthy silence stretched between them, and then Bronson replied in a light, friendly tone, all intensity safely banked, “Let me help you.”
His hands cupped beneath her elbows, and he guided her to her feet. Once she had gained purchase, she found that the room had stopped its heady swaying. Relieved, Holly pushed herself away from his hard, inviting body and made her way to the door. “I'm perfectly able to go to my room unescorted,” she said, throwing him a beseeching glance.
“All right.” He came to open the door for her, glancing up and down her disheveled form.
“Mr. Bronson…this will be forgotten by tomorrow morning.” Her voice contained an anxious questioning lilt.