The Ice Princess (Princes #3.5)(13)

He swallowed, beating down rage at the unknown man who had hurt her so. "And now?"

She attempted to withdraw her fingers, but he held tight. Damned if he'd let her retreat. "Now? Now I am the Aphrodite of the most infamous brothel in London, sir. What else do you think? "

He was in no mood for her teasing. "Do you whore yourself now?"

Her elegant head reared back and an ugly sneer twisted her lips. "Of course I—"

He shook their joined hands. "Cut line, Coral. Tell me the truth."

Something vulnerable flashed behind her eyes and he wondered if she'd dare tell him the truth.

Then she sighed, the sound weary and lost. "I haven't entertained a man in two years. I haven't had to—I am the Aphrodite."

"Except for me," he reminded her.

"Is that what I'm doing with you?" she cocked her head, a sad whimsical smile on her face. "Am I truly entertaining you?"

"I enjoy my time with you," he said carefully. This was new ground, fragile and uncertain. He didn't want to make a false move. Didn't want to destroy this new journey. "I like talking with you, like sitting here with you. In that way I am entertained. Whether or not I am like your customers in other ways as well, I don't know. I hope not. I hope this is something different and new for you, but I think that is for you to decide."

She stood, gently disentangling their hands, and came around the table to stand before him. He moved his chair so that he faced her.

"You are different." She lifted a hand to delicately trace his hairline.

He closed his eyes, feeling her fingers tremble against his skin.

"For whatever reason," she said softly, "when you are with me, you are simply Isaac and I am Coral."

And he felt her lips against his. Lightly, no more than the brush of a moth's wings. Her breath fanned against his mouth, hesitant and sweet. He curled his hands about the chair's seat, fearful of grabbing her. Fearful of breaking this fragile bond. She grew bolder, pressing her lips, still close-mouthed to his. He opened his lips slowly, savoring her, not wanting to frighten her. He licked across her mouth and tasted wine and woman. His pulse beat heavy in his body. He wanted to take her into his lap, to open her dress and feel all that smooth, pale skin.

But when she drew back he made no move to stop her.

He opened his eyes and looked at her, Coral Smythe, this mysterious woman he seemed to know so well now, and asked the only thing he could.

"What now?"

Chapter 7

So the soldier set off for the home of the Ice Princess. He journeyed through forests and mountains, tundra and bare ice, tramping along with a bag over his shoulder and worn boots upon his feet. He was attacked by lions, chased by bandits, and spent the night with more than one wise hermit. And as he neared the Ice Princess' palace he began to hear her song, high and sweet, and so very, very lonely. . . .

--from The Ice Princess

Coral glanced into the mirror and smoothed her already perfect coiffure. She'd waited on innumerable men in her career, but for some reason, the wait tonight for Isaac was making her as nervous as a cat strolling through a pack of dogs.

She let her hands fall on a sigh of frustration. Oh, why not admit the truth? Isaac wasn't like all the other men she'd lured and ensnared over the years. Isaac was important.

Which was perhaps why she'd cut short their tête-à-tête last night in an uncharacteristic fluster. She just didn't know what to make of the man. How to act, how to present herself. He seemed to see right through her usual wiles—damn him. He made her feel wretchedly gauche, and at the same time the mere sight of him caused her heart to jump and skitter, made her lips curve in a silly smile.

Good Lord, she was turning into a ninny.

A discreet knock came at her door and she whirled, that idiot smile attacking her face. She fought it back fiercely, took a deep breath, and glided across the room to open the door. The sight of Isaac's grave, handsome face was like a physical blow. He wore his naval uniform—crisp white, dark blue, black, and gold—and his black hair was pulled back into a severe queue. Her heart started skittering, whether she willed it or no, a tempo that increased, keeping time with her mounting excitement. She wanted to muss his uniform, take apart that tight queue and run her fingers through his hair. And why not? Wasn't that the inevitable conclusion to this game they played? Why not simply accept fate?

The only problem would be to keep herself intact as she gave into her urges. She knew she trembled on the edge of an abyss, and if she fell . . . well, there would be no climbing out of that particular pit. But she pushed that thought aside as she stood back to let him in. She'd bedded many men in her lifetime. He was just one more.

Now, if only she could convince her heart of that.

He threw his cloak over a chair and started to speak, but she was done with their dancing. She stepped close to him and, standing on tiptoe, reached up to bring his face down to her level.

She kissed him.

Ah, this was better. A part of her calmed at the touch of her lips on his, even as her belly clenched in need. His lips were firm yet supple, yielding to her pressure without surrendering. She was surprised—and a little embarrassed—by her own moan. It was the man who was supposed to yearn and lose control. She was the Aphrodite. She was immune to sexual heat.

Except that with him she was not.