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have him—he would see to that. The violence of the jealous rage suddenly cutting through him caught him unawares. Jealous? No way!
    But before he could stop himself he’d caught hold of her arms and was drawing her near—or pushing her away?
    “I’m going to Nice tomorrow and you’re joining me,” he snapped.
    “No,” she breathed weakly.
    As he caught a whiff of her scent—lemony with a hint of something wild and feminine—he bit, “Yes! Until Geoffrey’s wedding I’m not leaving you out of my sight. Both for your own good and that of the family. Is that understood?”
    She was looking at him with such fury in her clear blue eyes that a lesser man might have wilted. But not him. He’d faced down more formidable foes than her. “Is that understood?!” he roared, giving her a vigorous shake.
    She nodded, and by rights he should have let go of her, but he found that he couldn’t. The tug of war between them had provoked such a buildup of longing inside him that he found himself incapable of resisting it when it finally crested and he drew her to him in a sudden jerking motion, ignoring the cry of distress escaping her lips, and claimed her mouth in a harsh dominion, his tongue demanding and finally penetrating the soft wetness of her mouth.
    Stuart was kissing her again, she thought as she felt dizzy with… delight? No, revulsion, of course. He had no business kissing her. But then why did it feel so good? Why was her hand on his face, relishing in the smooth feel of his skin, so hot under her fingers, and why was she opening her lips to encourage his tongue to stab so furiously and erotically against her own? Why was she arching her back, lifting her breasts against the hardness of his chest, pressing into him, wanting him to rip off her clothes so they could be skin on skin? And why had she opened her legs to allow his thigh to brush against hers? With a soft moan of agonized desire she bucked her hips and became acutely aware of the hard evidence of his arousal surging between their bodies. Stuart’s girth!
    She wanted to reach down and free the granite length from the confines of his slacks, to take him into her hand, feel all that power pulsate under her touch.
    This wasn’t really happening, Stuart thought as he pressed his burgeoning male flesh against Kirsty’s soft loins, his hands cupping her buttocks to press her more firmly into the saddle of his sex while his tongue rode against hers in sync with the thrusts of their groins moving and grinding in ever rising heat.
    Christ! She was his personal assistant, not his personal score!
    His hand snuck up between them and firmly molded itself around her breast, reveling in the softness that fit so snugly and perfectly in his large calloused hand, his thumb stroking the rising peak while a deep groan of male possessiveness escaped his throat. He wanted her, all right—he wanted her badly and he wanted her now! Visions of her pushed down on top of his desk held him in its grip, and already they were moving toward the desk, her fingers curling into his chest, nails clawing at his pecs, when finally he was reminded that it wasn’t him she wanted—she was deeply in love with Geoffrey, and probably trying to numb the pain his engagement had caused her by engaging in mindless sex with any male who made himself available to her.
    The viciousness of the searing pain this fact caused him had him withdraw from her with a wild snarl, pushing her back so that she almost stumbled.
    Panting, she stood gazing at him, with something in her eyes he didn’t immediately recognize but which he assumed was disappointment her plan hadn’t worked. He stabbed a finger in her direction. “Don’t think this changes anything because it doesn’t. Our plane leaves tomorrow at seven. Be there.”
    As she staggered from Stuart’s office, her whole body trembled violently. The moment she reached her desk her legs finally succumbed, and she had to scramble to deposit her