She set him afire.
But then . . . he had known this woman was trouble from those first moments aboard thevetturiniin Italy.
Abruptly, all he could think was that it would be so easy . . .
So simple to merely reach across the table, thread his fingers into her hair, and create another memory of the gentle give of her lips under his. The hitch in her chest. The soft exhale of her warm breath against his mouth.
Or maybe . . .
. . . he would just write a poem about it instead.
That was the safer option, was it not?
If Allie found his lengthy silence unnerving, she didn’t show it.
She continued to regard him with a casual insouciance.
Which, in its own way, revealed her feelings on the prospect of a kiss.
“Aye, I’m a man. Of course, I want tae kiss yourself,” he finally said. “But I don’t think ye genuinely wish me tae kiss you.”
“Whyever not?”
Och, so many ways to answer that simple question and none of them good.
“Because ye would be kissing me merely tae spite Kendall. Because ye may have already had a wee bitty too much port tae think clearly. Because Kendall claims that ye use kisses like currency, spending them tae bend men tae your will, and I don’t wish to be counted among that number.”
She set down her wine glass with a thud, causing the remaining port to slosh in a rollicking circle. “I thought we already agreed that my brother is a bastard?”
“Aye, but an intelligent and perceptive one.”
His implied question—well,doyou use your kisses as currency?—hovered between them.
She stared at him, declining to answer.
“Contrary to my past behavior with regards tae yourself, I don’t make it a habit tae kiss women willy-nilly. When a lady kisses me, I want it to mean something.” Ethan paused and held her gaze. “Because when I kiss a lady, itwillmean something.”
That was the raw truth.
Though he wanted this woman more than his next breath, he also desired more than just her lips or her body under his—things she appeared ready to bestow on anyone she deemed useful.
No.
Ethan was greedy.
He wanted the wee bits she kept stowed away. The guarded pieces of her soul no one else knew existed.
Allie sucked in a long, stuttering breath, as if his words had rattled something loose.
And then she let it out again, just as quickly.
“Your poetic nature is showing, Ethan,” she said, eyes dropping to her wine glass on the table. “Always wanting everything to mean something. Sometimes a kiss can just be a kiss.”
“I disagree. A kiss is a communion. An exchange of spirit right along with breath.”
“Again, that is the poet Ethan Penn-Leith speaking.”
“It is, but then, I am that man, too. Words are my craft.”
