Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)(23)

“You look as though you're swatting flies,” came a sardonic voice from nearby.

Startled, Madeline saw Mr. Scott emerging from backstage, and she wanted to sink through the floor. Why did he have to be the one to witness her making a fool of herself? She expected him to make some remark that would cause her eternal humiliation…but his blue eyes gleamed with amusement.

“Whom are you attempting to skewer?” he asked, smiling in a way that revealed he was well aware of her invisible opponent's identity. When she didn't reply, he surprised her by taking her wrist in a gentle grip. His hand was very warm on her skin. “Here, this is how to handle the thing properly. Loosen your grip.” He adjusted her hand, his fingers pressing over hers. Madeline tried to relax, but it wasn't easy. He was standing so close, and her pulse was racing madly. “Imitate the way I'm standing,” he continued, “and keep your knees slightly flexed.”

Madeline risked a glance at him. His hair was rumpled, as if he had been tugging it distractedly, and she longed to smooth the thick locks. “You're always directing, aren't you?”

“You're not the first woman to accuse me of that,” he said wryly, and nudged the sword to the proper angle. “Now lunge forward with your right foot, bend your knee and extend the sword…yes, exactly like that. A stageworthy move if I've ever seen one.”

He was so close that Madeline could see the fine texture of his skin, the dark stubble that roughened his jaw, the gleam of auburn in his long lashes. With his face relaxed and his lips curved in a smile, he seemed a little younger than usual, a little more approachable.

“I understand why you were so harsh with me before, Mr. Scott,” she said.

“Oh?” His brow arched sardonically.

“You were worried about my safety. That's why you lost your temper. I forgive you.” Before he could react, she pressed her mouth to his chin, her lips tingling from the scrape of close-shaven bristle.

His entire body stiffened. Drawing back, Madeline waited apprehensively for his reaction. His face was a blank mask.

Awkwardly Madeline bent to set the sword on the floor and straightened to look at him. “Was that…stageworthy?” she asked.

Scott wore a strange expression. It took a long time for him to reply. “Not quite,” he finally said.

“Why not?”

“Your back is to the audience. If we were in a play…you would have to turn this way.” He began to reach for her, paused, then finally caught her arms in his hands. Lightly his fingers skimmed her shoulder and slid to her throat and jaw.

“You would show your emotions through your posture and the angle of your head…” Carefully he adjusted her chin a notch downward. His voice turned hoarse. “If you were ambivalent about the kiss, you would hold your head like this. And you might put your hands on my shoulders as if you were thinking of pushing me away.”

Madeline obeyed, her hands trembling a little as she pressed her palms against the hard surface of his upper body. He was so much taller than she, his shoulders looming high above her, his chin nearly brushing the top of her head.

“If you wanted the kiss,” he continued, “you would lift your chin higher…you would stand closer…” He fell silent as her arms slid around his neck, her small hand touching his nape.

He smelled of starched linen and sweat and sandalwood soap. Madeline had never known such an appetizing scent—it filled her with the impulse to bury her face against his throat, and breathe.

A mist of sweat had broken out on his forehead. “Maddy…” he said with obvious difficulty, “you don't know what you're asking for.”

Madeline curled her fingers against his chest, gripping his shirt. “Yes, I do.” Swallowing hard, she stood on her toes, straining to reach him. His self-control seemed to snap, and suddenly his head lowered, his lips pressing against hers.

His mouth was hard and warm, demanding things she didn't know how to give. His arms closed around her, bands of solid muscle crushing her against his body. Gradually his mouth gentled, and he rubbed his lips over hers until they parted. His large hands closed around the back of her head, holding her steady for his skillful exploration. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this. All her ideas of poetry and romance burned to cinders, replaced by the solid reality of his body against hers.

She groped for his hair, the rumpled locks silken and thick beneath her fingers. The nape of his neck was as taut as a board as she clasped her palm over it. She was caught fast within his embrace, returning kiss for kiss, her heart thundering so hard that she thought she might faint. His mouth left hers, and she felt his lips slide down her throat, hungrily exploring the thin, vulnerable skin. Her legs wobbled beneath her, and she leaned against him for support.

He touched the firm curve of her breast, shaping with his hand until the soft peak tightened into a point beneath the fabric of her bodice.

“Oh…” She gasped and jerked backward, holding her own hand to her throbbing breast. Her eyes were wide in her flushed face, her lungs striving for air.

Logan dragged his sleeve over his damp forehead. His body was stiffly aroused, aching with his intense awareness of her. He wanted to reach for her again, bear her to the hard stage floor and take her right there. It was insane, impossible that he could be so obsessed with a naive girl when he'd taken his pleasure with some of the most desirable women in Europe. “Enough of this damned nonsense,” he muttered.