Forbidden or For Bedding? by Julia James Read Free Book Online Page A

for that very reason—she was exactly what he wanted her to be. A wisp of a smile played at his lips as he called to mind the muted, self-effacing persona she had presented up to this point. At first he had assumed it was a ploy, for women went to vast efforts to engage his interest, and she wouldnot have been the first to attempt a pose of indifference to him. But as the sittings had continued he had come to the conclusion—surprising, but for that very reason enticing—that Alexa Harcourt was not courting his interest.
    Not, of course, that she was not all too aware of him. That had been evident to him from the first, and it had come to be a source of amusement to him, adding a rare piquancy to his pursuit—a pursuit which he had taken considerable enjoyment in extending for far longer than he customarily did when it came to the women he selected for his relaxation. But he had found that it was fort amusant to sit, posed like a prince in his Renaissance palace, while his portrait was captured for posterity—or in his case for his fond maman —and let his eyes play over her sculpted features. He found pleasure in this casual scrutiny, while she assiduously endeavoured to ignore his regard.
    But not without revealing by her very assiduity just how responsive she was increasingly becoming to his presence.
    His eyes veiled momentarily. That increasing responsiveness was evidently, the reason why she had come here to make her dramatic announcement that she could not continue with making his portrait. Again, at first for a few moments he had assumed she had done so merely to put to the test whether he was or was not interested in her. But then he had realised, with a sense of relief as well as satisfaction, that his reading of her was unchanged—she was quite genuine in her determination to abandon his portrait.
    It was an excellent sign! Excellent that she was not attempting to be intrigant , but even more excellent that she was having such problems with the task of capturing his likeness. Because the reason for that was obvious—he was no longer nothing more than a client to her. And mostessential of all, her inability to capture his likeness betokened her increasing frustration at her own attraction to him. She could not paint him…. because she could only desire him.
    And desire was exactly what he felt for her. He had experienced it the moment he’d realised how much of a front her austere appearance and repressive manner was. He had allowed himself the luxury of a slow, enjoyable cultivation of his desire. Now, as she stood before him in the rich, lustrous beauty she was finally revealing to him, his desire rose pleasurably. Anticipation speared within him for what he knew would be the delights of the evening—the night—ahead.
    Not that she gave any sign yet of realising what was to happen. She was, he knew, quite unconscious of what lay ahead with absolute inevitability. How was it, he found himself wondering with amusement, that she could be so unaware of it? He knew of no other woman who would not have realised long before that he was interested in her. But then, he mused, that was part of her allure.
    It would, of course, make her seduction even more piquant —even more enticing!
    And now the evening was about to begin.
    â€˜Shall we?’ he invited.
    He ushered her to the door, and across the now-deserted reception area of the executive floor. She walked with superb grace, his appreciative eye noted, although there was the very slightest tension in her shoulders. As if she were not entirely at her ease.
    But of course she would not be. She was still, évidemment , quite bouleversé , by the unexpectedness of the situation. Yet striving to carry it off all the same—as if she had quite expected to be gowned and coiffed and taken off to a gala soirée. It amused him to think it was her oh-so-English sang-froid that was allowing her to be so matter-of-fact