Devil's Daughter (The Ravenels #5)(36)

“There were times when that book kept me from despair,” Mr. Ravenel said. “It was one of the best things about my childhood.” A self-mocking smile touched his lips. “Naturally, it was something I’d stolen. Henry left school for good before I could bring myself to return it. I’ve always felt badly about that.”

Phoebe didn’t want him to feel badly. Not anymore. “I gave Henry my copy after his went missing,” she said. “He was able to read Stephen Armstrong’s adventures whenever he wanted.”

“That doesn’t excuse what I did.”

“You were a boy of nine or ten. Henry would understand now. He would forgive you, as I have.”

Instead of reacting with gratitude, Mr. Ravenel seemed annoyed. “Don’t waste forgiveness on me. I’m a lost cause. Believe me, compared to my other sins this was a drop in the bucket. Just take the book and know that I’m sorry.”

“I want you to keep it,” Phoebe said earnestly. “As a gift from Henry and me.”

“God, no.”

“Please, you must take it back.”

“I don’t want it.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Phoebe . . . no . . . damn it . . .”

They had started to grapple, pushing the book back and forth, each trying to compel the other to accept it. The novel fell to the floor as Phoebe swayed off balance and staggered back a step. Mr. Ravenel snatched her reflexively and pulled her back, and momentum brought her against him.

Before she could draw breath, his mouth was on hers.





Chapter 13




Once as a child, Phoebe been caught outside in a summer storm, and had seen a butterfly knocked from the air by raindrops. It had fluttered and fallen to the ground, bombarded from every direction. The only choice had been to fold its wings, take shelter and wait.

This man was the storm and the shelter, pulling her into a deep, encompassing darkness where there was too much to feel—hot soft firm sweet hungry rough silken tugging—She strained helplessly in his arms, although she didn’t know whether she was trying to escape or press closer.

She had craved this, the hardness and heat of his body against hers, the sensation familiar and yet not at all familiar.

She had feared this, a man with a will and power that matched her own, a man who would desire and possess every last part of her without mercy.

The storm ended as abruptly as it had begun. He tore his mouth away with a rough sound, his arms loosening. She wobbled, her legs threatening to fold like paper fans, and he reached out to steady her.

“That was an accident,” Mr. Ravenel said over her head, breathing hard.

“Yes,” Phoebe said dazedly, “I understand.”

“The book was falling . . . I was reaching for it, and . . . your lips were in the way.”

“Let’s not speak of it again. We’ll ignore it.”

Mr. Ravenel seized on the suggestion. “It never happened.”

“Yes—no, it was—forgettable—that is, I’ll forget about it.”

That seemed to clear his head rather quickly. His breathing slowed, and he drew back far enough to give her an affronted glance. “Forgettable?”

“No,” Phoebe said hastily, “I meant I wouldn’t think about it.”

But he looked more disgruntled with each passing second. “That didn’t count as a real kiss. I’d just started.”

“I know. But all the same, it was very nice, so there’s no need to—”

“Nice?”

“Yes.” Phoebe wondered why he looked so insulted.

“If I have only one chance in a lifetime to kiss you,” he said grimly, “I’ll be damned if it’s going to be second rate. A man has standards.”

“I didn’t say it was second rate,” she protested, “I said it was nice!”

“The average man would rather be shot in the arse than have a woman call his lovemaking ‘nice.’”

“Oh, come, you’re making too much of this.”

“Now I have to do it over.”

“What?” An airless giggle broke from her, and she shrank back.

West reached out and hauled her against him easily. “If I don’t, you’ll always think that was the best I could do. I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.”

“Mr. Ravenel—”

“Brace yourself.”

Phoebe’s jaw slackened in astonishment. He had to be teasing. He couldn’t be serious . . . could he?

There was a gleam of laughter in his eyes as he saw her expression. But then one of his arms slid securely around her back. Oh God, he meant it; he was really going to kiss her. A rush of confusion and excitement made her dizzy.

“Mr. Ravenel, I . . .”

“West.”

“West,” Phoebe repeated, looking up at him. She had to clear away the nervous catch in her throat before she could continue. “This is a mistake.”

“No, the first kiss was a mistake. This one’s going to fix it.”

“But it won’t,” she said anxiously. “You see, I . . . I don’t doubt your lovemaking skills, I doubt my own. For more than two years, I haven’t kissed anyone over three and a half feet tall.”