"Roberts, Nora - Irish Hearts 3 - Irish Rebel" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

Idly he tugged a white blossom from the vine, tucked it into her hair. The gesture flustered her-the easy charm of it-and made her remember they were walking in the moonlight, among the flowers.
Not, she reminded herself, a good idea.
"All right then. If and when you've time to spare, I've got an extra pitchfork."
When she veered toward the house he took her hand again. "Don't go in yet. It's a pretty night and a shame to waste it with sleeping."
His voice was lovely, with a soothing lilt. There was no reason she could think of why it made her want to shiver. "We both have to be up early."
"True enough, but we're young, aren't we? I saw your medal."
Distracted, she forgot to pull her hand away. "My medal?"
"Your Olympic medal. I went looking for you in your office."
"The medal lures parents who can afford the tuition."
"It's something to be proud of."
"I am proud of it." With her free hand she brushed her hair as the breeze teased it. Her fingertips skimmed over the soft petals of the flower. "But it doesn't define me."
"Not like, what was it? A British tie?"
The laugh got away from her, and eased the odd tension that had been building inside her. "Here's a surprise. With a great deal of time and some effort, I might begin to like you."
"I've plenty of time." He released her hand to toy with the ends of her hair. She jerked back. "You're a skittish one," he murmured.
"No, not particularly." Usually, she thought. With most people.
"The thing is, I like to touch," he told her and deliberately skimmed his fingers over her hair again. "It's that... connection. You learn by touching."
"I don't..." She trailed off when those fingers ran firmly down the back of her neck.
"I've learned you carry your worries right there, right at the base there. More worries than show on your face. It's a staggering face you have, Keeley. Throws a man off."
The tension was slipping away from under his fingers as he touched her, and building everywhere else. A kind of gathering inside her, a concentration of heat. The pressure in her chest was so sudden and strong it made her breath short. The muscles in her stomach began to twist, tighten. Ache.
"My face doesn't have anything to do with what I am."
"Maybe not, but that doesn't take away the pure pleasure of looking at it."
If she hadn't trembled, he might have resisted. It was a mistake. But he'd made them before, would make them again. There was moonlight, and the scent of the last of summer's roses in the air. Was a man supposed to walk away from a beautiful woman who trembled under his hand?
Not this man, he thought.
"Too pretty a night to waste it," he said again, and bent toward her.
She jerked back when his mouth was a whisper from hers, but his fingers continued to play over her neck, keeping her close. His gaze dropped to her lips, lingered, then came back to hers.
And he smiled. "Cushla machree," he murmured, and as if it were an incantation, she slid under the spell.
His lips brushed hers, wing-soft. Everything inside her fluttered in response. He drew her closer, gradually luring her body to fit against his, curves to angles, as his hand played rhythmically up and down her spine.
A light scrape of teeth, and her lips parted for him.
Her head went light, her blood hot, and her body seemed balanced on the brink of something high and thin. It was lovely, lovely to feel this soft, this female, this open. She brought her hands to his shoulders, clung there while she let herself teeter on that delicious edge.
He knew how to be gentle, there had always been gentleness inside him for the fragile. But her sudden and utter surrender to him, to herself, had him forcing back the need to grab and plunder. Resistance was what he'd expected. Anything from cool disdain to impulsive passion he would have understood. But this... giving destroyed him.
"More," he murmured against her mouth. "Just a little more." And deepened the kiss.
She made a sound in her throat, a low purr that slipped into his system like silk. His heart shook, then it stumbled, then God help him, it fell.
The shock of it had him yanking her back, staring at her with the edgy caution of a man suddenly finding himself holding a tiger instead of a kitten.
Had he actually thought it a mistake? Nothing more than a simple mistake? He'd just put the power to crush him into her hands.
"Damn it."
She blinked at him, struggling to catch up with the abrupt change. His face was fierce, and the hands that had shifted to her arms no longer gentle. She wanted to shiver, but wouldn't permit another show of weakness.
"Let me go."
"I didn't force you."
"I didn't say you did."
Her lips still throbbed from the pressure of his, and her stomach quaked. Rumor was she was cold, she thought dimly. And she'd believed it herself. Finding out differently wasn't cause for celebration. But for panic.
"I don't want this." This vulnerability, this need.
"Neither do I." He released her to jam his hands into his pockets. "That makes this quite the situation."
"It's not a situation if we don't let it be one." She wanted to rub a hand over her heart, to hold it there. It amazed her that he couldn't hear it hammering. "We're both grown-ups, able to take responsibility for our own actions. That was a momentary lapse on both our parts. It won't happen again."
"And if it does?"
"It won't, because each of us have priorities and a... situation would complicate matters. We'll forget it. Good night."
She walked to the house. She didn't run, though part of her wanted to. And another part, a part that brought her no pride, simply wanted him to stop her.
He'd hoped the time away in Florida with work at the center of his world would help him do just what she'd said to do. Forget it.
But he hadn't, and couldn't, and finally decided it had been a ridiculous thing for her to expect. Since he was suffering, he saw no reason why he should let her off so damn easy.
He knew how to handle women, he reminded himself. And princess or not, Keeley was a woman under it all. She was going to discover she couldn't swat Brian Donnelly aside like a pesky fly.
He walked up from the stables, his bag slung over his shoulder. He'd yet to go to his quarters, and had slept very little on the drive back from Hialeah. He could have flown back, but the choice to stay with the horses and make the drive had been his.