He merely smiled. The message that gesture conveyed was more effective, more awful, than anything he might've said.

  Steeling herself, Gwyneth moved to his swivel chair and sat, her back unbending. She planted her parasol in front of her, its point stabbing the deck, and crossed her hands atop the handle as she leaned forward and met that waiting stare. "I have learned, Morninghall, that you are a master of deception, and that you are not as evil as you would have others believe."

  "Oh, this is rich," he murmured, but a cold, wary glitter came into his eyes and his smile wasn't quite so self-assured.

  "You never had any intention of coming to our committee meeting, but accepted my invitation so that your failure to show could only restore your reputation — at least in my eyes — as a black-hearted scoundrel."

  The barest flicker of something — admiration? alarm? — moved across that iridescent stare. He smiled chillingly, then slowly lowered his hand, his head tilted a little to one side.

  "And why would I do that?" he asked silkily.

  "Because I am getting a little too close to the core of whomever Damon, Lord Morninghall, is."

  He uncrossed his arms, then straightened up, so tall that his great height seemed to lower the deck above by several inches. He filled the cabin, and every inch of him was throbbing with rage. With slow, menacing grace, he moved forward.

  Toward her.

  "Too close, eh?" he murmured dangerously.

  Gwyneth had seen that look in his eyes before, the one where his lids came down to half-shutter fiery, glittering intelligence, anger, and yes, desire. No. Not desire. That was too mild a word for a man like this one. What she saw there was a craving, a hunger, an obsession as lethal to him as it was to her. She knew what was coming, and her skin began to prickle with warning, with hope, with wanton, screaming excitement.

  She held her ground in the face of his advance. "Yes, too close, and you don't like it, do you, my lord?"

  "You have no idea what I like, and you have no idea who the real Damon, Lord Morninghall is," he said softly and, reaching out, tilted her chin up with the tip of his finger.

  She remained stiff and unresponsive, though her nostrils flared with delicious fear as she stared up at him. "Oh, but I think I do — Damon."

  He released her. She thought he would come back with a cold retort, but instead he moved slowly behind her chair, his fingers whispering along its arm as he passed. She sensed him standing just behind her, over her, staring down at the top of her head: a magnificent, angry force she could sense but could not see, could feel but could not face. She shivered uncontrollably, yet she refused to turn around and give him the satisfaction of knowing that he was unnerving her. She refused to flinch, even when his hand came down to rest lightly on her shoulder.

  God, help me.

  The seconds crept by, crackling with tension. Every beat of her heart was louder than the one before it, every nerve in her body began to scream. She heard his slow, measured breathing. She felt his hand burning through the muslin to her shoulder. And now his fingers were pushing into the delicate flesh just beneath her collarbone . . . questing . . . stroking. She stared fixedly at the opposite bulkhead, hardly daring to breathe.

  And then, with one sudden, savage movement, he tore her hat off — and sent it flying across the room.

  Gwyneth's mouth went dry.

  She felt his fingers in her hair, slowly splaying through the heavy masses and sending pins tinkling to the floor.

  She shut her eyes, praying for strength.

  But what she got was desire, and he was a master at inducing it. Desire, skating over her flesh as his hand moved toward the swell of her breast. Desire, tightening her nipples, deepening her breathing. She felt it in the dampness between her thighs, and in the wild, erotic images playing out in her mind.

  But he is not so terrible, not such a monster as he wants you to believe! She had seen that glimpse of goodness in him, God help her, she had, that spark of humanity he kept brutally locked within himself, and the tiny flame of hope it gave her was all that kept her frozen in the chair, hardly daring to breathe, when every primitive survival instinct was shrieking at her to run for her very life. Light and dark, good and evil, it all faded and she knew only that dark and masterful hand, combing out her hair, pulling the rich waves of silk down around her shoulders, the slow, skillful fingers catching in a tangle, gently tugging it free . . . now moving downward to linger on the clasp of her mantle, thumbing suggestively over it before moving with scorching slowness back up her neck —

  "You want me, don't you Lady Simms?"

  His voice was a dark angel's, wickedly soft, seductive, and husky. He was leaning down over her, so close that the low words stirred the wispy hair at her temple, so close that she could feel the quivering anger that made every word he uttered something dark and threatening and deadly. She swallowed hard, but there was not a drop of saliva left in her mouth. She felt his knuckles grazing the side of her neck, his palm and fingers opening to cup the fragile, white column of her throat and encompass it totally, only the thumb moving as it tested her frantically beating pulse. That hand was hot, hard, terrifyingly powerful. He could kill her with one quick movement and she was powerless to stop him. She knew it. He knew it.

  She began to shudder.

  "Did you hear me, Lady Simms? I'll bet that when I spread those clamped legs of yours, I'll find you hot, wet, and wanting."

  She didn't answer, only staring straight in front of her. His hot, male scent, deliciously spicy with the taint of sandalwood, infiltrated her senses. He slowly let his fingers drag across her windpipe before moving down the column of her neck, skimming the sensitive skin there until coming to rest on the fastening of her mantle. She felt the barest tug, a loosening; then, with a faint whisper, the cape-like garment slid from her neck and he was pulling it up and off, letting it fall to the decking behind her.

  "Hot, wet, and wanting," he repeated. "Just waiting for me to" — his lips were warm against the side of her neck, and she shut her eyes on a shiver of delight — "taste you . . ."

  Her insides went hot and wobbly. Gwyneth anchored her hands around the parasol, staring straight ahead and trying to hold onto herself, her will, her reason.

  And then she realized what she had to do to gain the upper hand and throw him off balance.

  "As a matter of fact, you're right."

  He paused. "What?"

  "I'm not going to bother denying that I find you attractive, that my body aches for yours, that there are things I've never done before but would find wildly exciting to do with you. There, I've admitted it, Morninghall. I've admitted that I desire you, would like to get to know you better. But can you admit the same? Do you have the strength to say you can't resist me?"

  He laughed. "I cannot resist you, my dear Lady Simms."

  "Well, there's a start. And now what?"

  "You tell me."

  "Oh, I'll tell you, but it'll be things you won't want to hear, Morninghall."

  "Please, call me Damon. We are . . ." his lips brushed her nape ". . . past the hand-holding stage, are we not?"

  "You will listen to what I have to say, then?"

  "Later. Not now . . ."

  Gwyneth, breathing as though every inhalation might crack lungs gone suddenly to glass, felt him find the top button of her dress.

  God help me.

  And began to undo it.

  "Now," she said.

  "Oh, go on, then," he murmured, close to her ear. "Enlighten me."

  He had the first button undone. She could feel the sweep of cool air against her nape, the brush of his skilled fingers. He found the second button and knew she had to think fast, and act even faster.

  But she couldn't think.

  "Well?" he taunted, already moving to the third button.

  She swallowed hard and plunged ahead before he rendered her completely mindless. "I think that beneath that hard, diabolical armor in which you wrap yourself, you are a very sensitive and caring individual."

  "You're correct, I don't want to hear this."

  "No, my lord, you're going to hear it or I'll get up and walk out of here, whether you like it or not."

  A fourth button slid through a tiny hole. His fingers were skating between her shoulder blades now, dragging shivers of exquisite feeling from every pore as they moved lower.

  And lower.

  "Very well, then. Carry on."

  She took a deep breath, desperately trying to hold onto her resolve, her purpose, her mind before she lost them altogether. "I think that you have been" — oh God, he's making me melt, please give me strength and courage — "cruelly misused, scarred even, and that there is something beautiful worth saving in your soul."

  "The lady needs spectacles," he murmured, but the slow, purposeful descent of his fingers faltered, just the same.

  Then continued.

  "And I think the reason you have these — these attacks, Damon, is because there is something dark and wounded inside of you, something afraid, something that needs to be confronted, to be — healed." She shut her eyes, glad that he could not see her fear. "But you won't confront it, because the idea of doing so . . . terrifies you."

  His fingers went deathly still. His breathing stopped. There was no sound behind her, just a stunned tension, like that awful moment between a close bolt of lightning and the terrible crack of thunder that always follows. Gwyneth held her breath and shut her eyes, waiting for that thunder, a blow against the side of her head that would break her neck and knock her sprawling from her chair, never to get up again.

  No blow came, no words came, only the cool breeze whispering in through the broken window, swirling around her exposed shoulders, down her damp spine, into the delicate, curved middle of her back.

  And him.

  "You're mad," he said without rancor. "Bloody crazy, in fact."

  "I'm not crazy and you know it. Something threatens to get too close to you, and you have an attack. Something starts to penetrate those walls of apathy, anger, and self-pity you've erected to protect yourself, and you have an attack. You're afraid of intimacy, Damon, of anyone getting too close to you."

  "Tell me, then," he murmured, his fingers grazing the side of her neck, "if it is fear of intimacy that incites these strange attacks, then why did I have one just after I met you for the very first time? That would seem to dispute your ridiculous theories."

  "Maybe your soul knew something your mind did not: that I was going to be the person to penetrate those defenses and learn your secrets."

  She heard the whisper of fabric behind her as he straightened up, and then there was only his fingers sliding down, over her collarbone and beneath her gaping bodice to touch the fragile white swell of her bosom.

  Gooseflesh began to rise on her arms, and she knew that, for her, it was all over.

  She had pushed him too far, and now he was going to make her pay.

  "How very interesting," he murmured from somewhere just above her ear, and she tensed, melting inside, as his fingers moved slowly toward her nipple. "And do you want to know what I think, Lady Simms?"

  "I suppose fair is fair."

  "I think that your theories are a load of bollocks. Codswollop. The ramblings of an insane mind."

  She swallowed, overcome with heat as the raspy pad of his forefinger reached her areola, tracing it, circling it. It was all she could do not to lean her cheek into the cool, crisp fabric of his sleeve and sigh in defeat.

  "I am not insane, and you know it," she said, still staring rigidly at the opposite bulkhead as all feeling moved out of her bones and drained into that wet conflagration between her thighs.

  "No, but you think I am, do you not?"

  "Another misconception only you suffer. You are not insane, just — wounded."

  "Wounded," he murmured darkly. His hand was fully beneath her breast now, cupping it, weighing it, his thumb skating over her hardened nipple with exquisite and torturous repetition. She shut her eyes.

  He continued to stroke her, until she could no longer maintain her poise. She began to squirm, pinned between the hard bar of his arm and the stuffing of the chair's back. He loosened her chemise and pushed it and the gown off her shoulder, exposing more skin.

  Gwyneth sank her teeth into her bottom lip to contain a helpless moan.

  "And what do you think might heal this so-called wound, madam?"

  "Understanding . . . and love."

  He let out a snort of laughter and pushed his thumb into her hard nipple, driving a tiny cry of pleasure from her. "Love and understanding. Dear God, that's rich."

  "Everyone needs love and understanding. Especially you, Damon. Your soul begs for it. Your body begs for it, and yet you push it away —"

  "My body begs for only one thing," he said with a bitter blitheness that tore at her heart, "and so does yours. Quite shamelessly, I might add. Look down at your tit, my dear Lady Simms, and you will see that it blushes like a new rosebud. It wants to be suckled."

  "Stop it."

  "It wants to be . . . understood."

  "Damn you, do not mock me!"

  "It wants to be loved."

  He gently rolled the hard, engorged bud between his thumb and finger. Gwyneth gasped, sinking down into the chair as he flicked his thumb over it, sending bolts of lightning sizzling through her belly and into that tingling, burning place between her legs, but she did not move, not even when he leaned over her shoulder to brush warm, drugging kisses against her collarbone, the swell of her breast.

  "Are we now through with this ridiculous exchange?" he asked, challenging her.

  ""Only if you're prepared to think about what I said."

  "I am done with thinking. It's time for action." His lips were perilously closed to her nipple, now. "I could have you right here, right now."

  "Such rage that fuels you! I know that it goes beyond the navy, and has its origins in something much deeper."

  "I could have you in this chair, with your skirts tossed up over your face and your wrists tied behind its back."

  "I know that your threats and your deliberate crudeness and all your attempts at intimidation are only to keep me away from the real man beneath that cold and unfeeling demeanor."

  "And I know that I will have you. Today. Now. And I also know that you think this silly babbling of yours will distract you enough to prevent what is inevitable between us. But for how long can you keep it up, my dear?" he murmured, and she sucked in her breath as she felt his tongue slip out to touch her nipple, just once.

  "How long do you think I want to keep it up? What on earth makes you think I don't want to see this through, and the sooner the better? I desire you, I told you that."

  "Good, then let's dispense with this nonsense and get down to business."

  He bent over her left shoulder, pressing her down into the chair and filling her senses. Through half-open eyes she saw the glorious waves of his dark hair, the faint shadow that cloaked his jaw, the long sweep of his lashes and the devil's eyes that glittered beneath them. She moaned as his lips grazed her neck . . . her collarbone . . . the swell of her breast. He slid his fingers beneath it, then lifted it up toward his mouth, his intentions clear.

  She was trapped, pinned effectively between him and the chair.

  "Isn't this much more fun than telling me things I don't want to hear? Now tell me something I do want to hear."

  His lips breezed over her hot flesh, seeking her areola. He circled it lazily with his tongue, avoiding the nipple, and Gwyneth's gasps became helpless moans. The nipple thrust shamelessly toward him, tight and hard and pink, and he continued with this exquisite torture for another long moment before finally giving it the attention it craved. His mouth closed over the hard bud, surrounding it with hot, liquid warmth, pulling it up into his mouth, and she felt the rasp of his tongue, the first questing, flicking taste he took of her. Her eyes fell shut, and only his other arm, firmly against her rib cage, kept her from sliding bonelessly out of the chair. "I cannot resist you, Damon. Is that what you want to hear?"

  "I suppose I should admire you for admitting it."

  "Make me admire you equally, then, and admit that what I've said to you is the truth. Admit it, and stop hiding behind your fear."

  "Dare you call me a coward?"

  "You are no coward, merely an intimidating, manipulative, magnificent devil of a man who is afraid to face his own demons."

  "Ah. And you have appointed yourself as the one who will make me face them."

  "I think you are worth saving."

  He merely laughed, his teeth grazing her nipple and setting her body on fire. Gwyneth's head lolled against the velvet upholstery of the chair back, rolled back the other way. Dimly, she heard a clatter as the parasol fell from her loose fingers and hit the floor.

  "I think you are worth . . . understanding," she persisted, faintly.

  Against her nipple he mumbled, "Ah — but am I worth loving?"

  The defiance, the fragile, guarded hope — it was all there.

  "Yes," she breathed. "You are well worth loving, Damon. God help me, you are. Now prove it — to yourself, as well as to me. Prove it by carrying me to that bed and letting the – the inevitable play out with tenderness and feeling, not fighting and fury and the desire to conquer. I challenge you. Can you do that?"

  He merely pulled her nipple up between his teeth, drawing it in and out of his mouth, his hand shaping her breast as he went. Her senses, her reason deserted her, and she felt that hot, pooling warmth between her thighs growing, spreading, flaring out in all directions to consume her.

  Then his hand skimmed down her stomach, gathering her skirts at the knee and dragging them back up her thigh.

  "Don't disappoint me, Damon," Gwyneth managed, weakly. "Don't, I beg of you."

  And he didn't. Damon felt her squirming, sighing delight, saw her flushed cheeks and heavy eyes, and knew that this war between himself and her, himself and the truth of what she'd said, could not go on. With a growl of impatience, he crushed both skirts and petticoats in his hand and yanked them up to her hips, exposing the long, slender legs from foot to thigh.

  There, before him, were stockings and garters, pale white thighs, and her silken mound of dark-gold curls.