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encircling her
    nipple.
    In fact, she hadn't really the slightest idea what it would take, but it
    certainly wasn't the kind of practised caresses that Fay Preston had
    undoubtedly enjoyed.
    I'm not even a person to him, she thought, stiffening in hostility as
    his long-fingered hand slid down to the curve of her hip, lingering
    there, alerting her to the possibility of other, even more startling
    intimacies. Just a substitute.
    As he parted her thighs she had to sink her teeth into her lower lip,
    her whole body tensing in outrage.
    'You are not a very ardent lover.' Riago da Santana's voice held
    amusement, and something else, less easy to analyse. He was
    probably annoyed that his technique wasn't having the desired effect
    for once.
    'I made no promises,' she retorted flatly.
    'No, that is true.' His hands framed her face, forcing her to meet his
    direct gaze. 'But I made one to myself.'
    So, she was right, she thought.
    She lifted one shoulder in a shrug. 'I'm sorry if it's dented your
    macho pride to discover you're not instantly desirable to every
    woman you meet.'
    'I do not,' he said with faint irony, 'meet a great many.'
    For a moment she was assailed by something like compassion. He'd
    been anticipating a passionate reunion with Fay Preston, who
    probably knew everything there was to know about pleasing a man.
    And instead...
    She stopped abruptly, right there. Life was full of disappointments,
    and he had no right—no right at all—to jump to the insulting
    conclusion that she was on offer in place of the absent Fay.
    'In any case, carinha -' the mockery was back in full force '—you
    should not have issued the invitation if you did not intend me to
    accept.'
    What invitation? she asked herself wildly. Her lips parted in angry
    denial, but he silenced her once more with his mouth. The kiss was
    deeper this time, his lips and tongue exploring her slowly and
    languorously, as if he was savouring her in some intense and unique
    way. Another quiver of mingled fear and excitement rippled through
    her. She'd never known a kiss could be like this— never imagined
    that a man's mouth could be so cool on hers, so gentle, and yet burn
    her down to her very soul.
    In spite of herself, she could feel a small coil of heated pleasure
    beginning to unwind deep inside her body. The movement of his
    mouth on hers, the play of his hands on her skin were too beguiling,
    too insidious. She could feel the resistance, the anger ebbing out of
    her, and, in its place—what? Something she could not recognise—or
    had never before experienced. Sexual curiosity, perhaps, or
    something deeper, and infinitely more dangerous. She didn't know,
    and it scared her.
    Riago lifted his head, and looked down at her. 'Querida,' he
    whispered, 'don't I please you— just a little?'
    It was the last thing she'd expected to hear from him. He was the
    arrogant ravager that she needed to hate, and now, instead...
    'I—I don't know.' She almost croaked the words.
    'Say my name.'
    Her throat felt dry. She didn't want to say it. It was too personal—
    too intimate. It brought him too close, not just physically, but
    spiritually in some strange way, and she didn't want that. It would
    be, in its way, a form of submission.
    'Say my name,' he urged again huskily. 'And kiss me—just once,
    carinha.''
    She needed to say no, to reject him utterly and finally, but somehow
    her mouth wouldn't frame the word. Instead, on a soft sigh, conjured
    up from the depths of her being, she heard herself whisper, 'Riago,'
    and her hands lifted to his shoulders to draw him down to her.
    As her lips touched his she knew she was lost. Small rivers of fire
    were suddenly running through her veins, and her pulses were going
    crazy. Resentment, bitterness, even fear were being submerged by
    darker, more potent forces that were impossible to resist—even if
    she'd wanted to. It wasn't just a kiss—it was a fever, a delirium, a
    madness.
    Somewhere in the hot and swirling