He shrugged. “Touché.” Giving her a lurid look, he gestured to the length of his body. “Well, Rosalie? Do you want the key, or not?”
She lifted her chin. “I thought you didn’t need to resort to force to get a woman to touch you.”
He had said that to her, once upon a time, on a balcony beneath a sky strewn with stars. Of course, she would remember it.
“Another direct hit. Well done.” He sat up. “In that case, I suppose I’ll have to offer you a different method to win the key.”
Her eyes were icy. “I am terrified to ask what that might be.”
He held up three fingers. “Questions. Three of them, to be specific. Answer them for me, and I will set you free.”
Rosalie regarded Lucian warily.
It was difficult to decide which was more dangerous—opening up to him by answering his questions, or opening up his coat and running her hands over every inch of his flat stomach and deliciously sculpted?—
She cleared her throat. “Fine. I’ll answer your questions.”
He patted the sofa beside him. “Come. Sit.”
She hesitated.
He arched a brow. “I believe we’ve established that I’m not going to force myself on you.”
They had, but that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that, although she did not like Lucian Deverellat all, she was still horribly drawn to him. Really, who could blame her? She pictured the way he had looked a moment ago, sprawled across the sofa like a fallen angel, with those hooded dark eyes and soft, kissable lips. What chance did a woman stand?
He held out a hand. “Please, Rosalie?”
Like an idiot, she took it. She couldn’t seem to stop herself. It was as if he were the Pied Piper and she were… every rat in town.
She shook herself. She really needed to come up with a better metaphor.
She sat beside him, and he turned to face her. Instead of releasing her hand, he held it, stroking his thumb over its back. She should have pulled hers away, but it felt so good. It wasn’t merely that his hand was warm, strong, and surprisingly soft. It was the caring implied by the gesture and the sincerity in his eyes. Which she knew was utter rot! This wasLucian Deverell! The devil himself!
He made you believe he cared two years ago and look how that turned out.
Rosalie withdrew her hand from his. He released her without comment.
She cleared her throat. “What is your first question?”
His grey eyes were gentle, but compelling. “Why did you agree to marry my cousin?”
Perfect. One question in, and she already didn’t want to answer. The truth—that Lysander was the only one who had asked, that she was sick of feeling like a laughingstock—wasn’t something she could admit. Not to the man who had broken her heart.
She chewed her lip. She felt honor-bound to answer the question. But perhaps she could answer honestly without telling him every tiny, humiliating detail.
“He asked, and it seemed like a respectable match.” She shrugged. “I had to marry someone.”
His eyes were intent. “But you weren’t in love with him?”
“No,” she admitted. “It was a pragmatic arrangement.”
He exhaled, and his shoulders relaxed. “All right. Next question—do you hate me?”
At least this one was easy to answer. “Yes.Somuch.”
One corner of his mouth quirked up. “That’s good.”
She gave him a strange look. “Good? Why is that good?”
