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you mean by that?” she demanded indignantly. Then she could have groaned. Of course she didn’t want him to think her dishonorable, but better he should think that than realize Ronald’s diary rested in her pocket close to his hand.
    “I mean” — he pressed a kiss on her mouth — “that you’re an incredible woman.”
    “Please.” She pushed at him. “I don’t want this.”
    “Don’t you?”
    “I’ve changed my mind.”
    “As you wish.”
    He moved off of her and she covered herself with her hands, watching him warily. He’d given up too easily, this man who claimed to be the Seamaster. The Seamaster, according to Ronald’s diary, had much in common with his namesake. Once he sank his teeth into a situation, he never let go.
    Ronald’s diary. She glanced down at her skirt and saw the red leather peeking out of her dark blue skirt.
    He saw it, too. His eyes widened and he lifted an inquiring eyebrow. “What is that?”
    His hand reached for it, and she caught his wrist. “Nothing.”
    “Nothing? It’s a book.” He pulled a long face. “Laura, what are you hiding from me?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “That book will tell me all your secrets, won’t it?”
    “No!”
    “Everything I desire to know is there.” His fingers twitched closer. “It’s a novel, isn’t it?”
    She was so stunned, she could only parrot his words. “A novel?”
    “One of those wicked romances.” She couldn’t restrain him, and he laid his palm on it, preparing to draw it out. “Let me read it, and perhaps next time I’ll learn enough to seduce you successfully.”
    If he read it, he’d learn enough that he wouldn’t have to seduce her ever again. If he read it, he’d have all his questions answered, and she still didn’t dare trust him. Not with Ronald’s diary, nor with the information inside.
    He brushed off her effort to restrain him like a bear brushing away flies, and pulled it out.
    In desperation she gambled, using her virtue as the stakes.
    She laid her hand flat on his bare chest.
    He paused in the process of opening the diary. His eyes closed, and her hand rose and fell as he took a hard breath.
    He wasn’t as controlled as she had thought; he still wanted her. It was obvious from the tight set of his mouth and the unmoving stoicism with which he awaited her next move.
    Inching her palm down his breastbone, she lingered on a ragged white scar right over his ribs. “How did this happen?”
    “Occasionally, someone believes he has reason to resent the Seamaster, and he tries to do him in.” Placing his hand over hers, he stopped her restless movement. “The one who cut me there was luckier than most.” Plucking her hand off his chest, he examined it, then folded it within his own. “You are, I believe, inexperienced in these matters, so I will tell you — if you wish for us to remain upright, you should keep your hands to yourself.” He put her hand back into her lap and patted it, then advised, “It would be wise to pull your bodice up, also.”
    His focus went back to the book. Again he began to open it — and she returned her hand to his tanned forearm.
    He froze. Nothing moved in his face, nothing moved on his body. As she wished, he wasn’t opening the diary, but she couldn’t depend on such inactivity, so she slid her palm up over his biceps. The skin there was lighter, with a finer texture, and she rubbed him with her fingertips. The muscles flexed beneath her palm, and fascinated, she walked her hand up to his shoulder.
    With slow deliberation, he put the book down on the mattress. When he looked at her, she clearly saw the hunger of the tiger. Imitating her, he placed his hand on her shoulder, then slowly, slowly he pushed her down until she rested against the pillows. “I gave you a chance to think,” he said. “Now think no more while I take my pleasure.”
    His tiger breath brushed her cheek. A slow pounding began in her veins. Her fingertips tingled with it. Her nose, her