Read Online Heiress Behind the Headlines by Caitlin Crews - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Caitlin Crews
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him. “How am I supposed to trap you with my wiles and complete lack of self-respect if my clothes stay on?”
That sat there for a moment between them, ugly and unobscured. Jack felt his teeth grind against the mounting tension, against his own urge to close the distance between them and finish this conversation in a far more direct manner.
“What do you want, Larissa?” he demanded. Because he could not have what he wanted from her, and if he was the kind of man he was supposed to be, he wouldn’t want it. Her.
“I thought you already knew,” she threw at him. “I thought you just took great pleasure in telling me. You, on your high horse, because you decided to change your life and everyone played along. Lucky you. It must be nice to breathe such rarified air.” She straightened from the couch,all elegant lines and tempting flesh, and made everything worse by stepping even closer, her hands wide at her sides. “Well, here I am, Jack. Prostituting myself. Just as you predicted.” Her head tilted to one side. “But if I’m a prostitute, what, I wonder, does that make you?”
“You said I couldn’t have you,” he reminded her, trying to keep himself from reaching over and putting his hands on her. “And yet now you’re half-naked and prostituting yourself? Which is it?”
“You all but called me a whore,” she snapped at him. “Yet you’re the one who kissed me. You’re the one who can’t keep his hands to himself. At the end of the day, I’m still the one who walked away from you.”
“It would be smarter not to keep reminding me of that,” he told her, too softly, denying the kick of temper in his gut. “It’s not one of my favorite memories of you.” He could pretend as well as she could, he told himself. That he was angry simply about her presence here, in his one sacred space in all the world. That he would feel the same about any other specter of the New York social scene.
“Isn’t that what this is all about?” she demanded. Again, that hard, glittering look in her usually sad eyes. “Isn’t that what makes you so bound and determined to lord yourself over me? I had the temerity to walk out on the great Jack Endicott Sutton. A dirty, shameless whore like me.”
He hated those words. That she would use them, that she meant them. That she believed he thought them. More than that, he had the strangest urge to protect her from them, as if they were blows. He wanted to make her take them back. He didn’t know what the source of that feeling was, but it washed over him like another kick of temper.
“I never called you a whore—” he began.
“Didn’t you?” Her eyes flashed at him, green fire. And still she stood there so nonchalantly, gloriously half-naked,and he wanted her so badly he ached with it. He found himself drifting closer. She only watched him, a certain sharp amusement and a deeper anger clashing in her gaze. It should not have felt like an aphrodisiac.
“Larissa.” His hands bunched into fists at his sides—when he knew he could simply reach over now and cup those small, delectable breasts in his palms. “Put that sweater back on.”
“I’ve worn less than this on the covers of magazines,” she said with a sniff, moving her hips in a way that made her whole body sway—and made his mouth run dry. “When did you become such a prude?”
When you walked onto my island,
he thought grimly.
When you walked back into my life. I don’t even care why you’re here, I just—
But he could not allow himself to finish that thought.
He reached down and scooped up her sweater, holding it out toward her, more or less ordering her to take it from him. The back of his hand brushed the silky skin just south of her collarbone, sending sensation rioting through him. She inhaled, sharply, and he felt it as if she’d used that mouth directly on him.
They stared at each other, the air itself erotic all around them, the tension unbearable.
“Put the damned thing back
That sat there for a moment between them, ugly and unobscured. Jack felt his teeth grind against the mounting tension, against his own urge to close the distance between them and finish this conversation in a far more direct manner.
“What do you want, Larissa?” he demanded. Because he could not have what he wanted from her, and if he was the kind of man he was supposed to be, he wouldn’t want it. Her.
“I thought you already knew,” she threw at him. “I thought you just took great pleasure in telling me. You, on your high horse, because you decided to change your life and everyone played along. Lucky you. It must be nice to breathe such rarified air.” She straightened from the couch,all elegant lines and tempting flesh, and made everything worse by stepping even closer, her hands wide at her sides. “Well, here I am, Jack. Prostituting myself. Just as you predicted.” Her head tilted to one side. “But if I’m a prostitute, what, I wonder, does that make you?”
“You said I couldn’t have you,” he reminded her, trying to keep himself from reaching over and putting his hands on her. “And yet now you’re half-naked and prostituting yourself? Which is it?”
“You all but called me a whore,” she snapped at him. “Yet you’re the one who kissed me. You’re the one who can’t keep his hands to himself. At the end of the day, I’m still the one who walked away from you.”
“It would be smarter not to keep reminding me of that,” he told her, too softly, denying the kick of temper in his gut. “It’s not one of my favorite memories of you.” He could pretend as well as she could, he told himself. That he was angry simply about her presence here, in his one sacred space in all the world. That he would feel the same about any other specter of the New York social scene.
“Isn’t that what this is all about?” she demanded. Again, that hard, glittering look in her usually sad eyes. “Isn’t that what makes you so bound and determined to lord yourself over me? I had the temerity to walk out on the great Jack Endicott Sutton. A dirty, shameless whore like me.”
He hated those words. That she would use them, that she meant them. That she believed he thought them. More than that, he had the strangest urge to protect her from them, as if they were blows. He wanted to make her take them back. He didn’t know what the source of that feeling was, but it washed over him like another kick of temper.
“I never called you a whore—” he began.
“Didn’t you?” Her eyes flashed at him, green fire. And still she stood there so nonchalantly, gloriously half-naked,and he wanted her so badly he ached with it. He found himself drifting closer. She only watched him, a certain sharp amusement and a deeper anger clashing in her gaze. It should not have felt like an aphrodisiac.
“Larissa.” His hands bunched into fists at his sides—when he knew he could simply reach over now and cup those small, delectable breasts in his palms. “Put that sweater back on.”
“I’ve worn less than this on the covers of magazines,” she said with a sniff, moving her hips in a way that made her whole body sway—and made his mouth run dry. “When did you become such a prude?”
When you walked onto my island,
he thought grimly.
When you walked back into my life. I don’t even care why you’re here, I just—
But he could not allow himself to finish that thought.
He reached down and scooped up her sweater, holding it out toward her, more or less ordering her to take it from him. The back of his hand brushed the silky skin just south of her collarbone, sending sensation rioting through him. She inhaled, sharply, and he felt it as if she’d used that mouth directly on him.
They stared at each other, the air itself erotic all around them, the tension unbearable.
“Put the damned thing back
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