Who said anything about sleep?

"Who said anything about sleep?" he whispered against

her mouth.

This was no gentle, exploratory first kiss. He took her

mouth like a conquering warrior, not asking for a response

it demanding it. Cat's hands tightened on his arms, as to

push him away, and then she was melting into him, mouth

opening to his, her body curving against his felt a surge of

triumph race through him, and he slid arm around her

waist, pulling her closer, deepening kiss, his tongue

slicking over hers.

The kiss was hungry and carnal, a kiss meant for lovers.

She whimpered, a low sound in the back of her throat. It

wasn't a protest. It was a plea. She rose on tiptoe, her

fingers curling into his dark hair as her mouth opened to

his, inviting him to take more, to take her.

Not since he was a randy teenager had he been so

instantly, painfully aroused. Luke's hands caught her hips,

dragging her close in a quick, convulsive movement, letting

her feel the hard press of his erection through the layers of

denim and cotton. She caught her breath, her head jerkitig

back, breaking the kiss. Wide green eyes stared up at him,

smoky with hunger but holding a new wariness.

"No."

God, she even managed to make "no" sound sexy. Still

holding her, Luke bumped his hips into hers, letting her feel

his arousal again. Her breath stuttered, and her eyelids

seemed suddenly heavy. He could' persuade her, he

thought. It wouldn't take much. She wanted him. Maybe

not quite as much as he wanted her, but if he nudged the

heat up a bit, he could have her.

"I'm not going to sleep with you tonight," she said firmly,

and his confidence wavered. There was a core of steel in

her voice.

Ordinarily he would have let it drop there. It wouldn't be

the first time he'd been turned down. Contrary to

generations of male whining, no man ever actually died of

blue balls. By the time a man reached thirty-five, he'd

learned to be gracious about it.

But it had been a bitch of a day. He'd watched a deal on

an' apartment building in Sherman Oaks go down the tubes

because the seller was too stupid to know a good offer

when he saw one. His grandfather had called to tell

him―for the fifth or sixth time―that he was a damned fool

to be marrying that little blond tart when he could have had

a fine young woman from a good family, and that Cissy

Winslow was still ripe for the plucking. Luke had told him

to pluck her himself and hung up. He'd come home, looking

forward to a pleasant dinner in Devon's undemanding, if

vacuous, company and then ending the evening with some

nice, uncomplicated sex.

Instead Cat had shown up to inform him that he was no

longer engaged, which would please his grandfather to no

end and leave him that much closer to Cissy Winslow's

well-bred clutches. As the day's events flashed through his

mind, Luke felt the leash on his temper slip several

notches. Without taking time to think, he opened his mouth.

"What if I said the deal was off if you didn't sleep with

me?"

Cat's spine stiffened so fast, it was a wonder she didn't

end up with whiplash. Her eyes went from smoky-green to

icy-emerald, and the hands that had been resting on his

shoulders were suddenly flat against his chest as she

pushed herself back and out of his hold.

"I'd point out that we don't have a deal, and that even if

we did, I'm not particularly responsive to blackmail." She

looked down as she found her shoes under the edge of the

sofa and slid her feet into them.

She was leaving. If he didn't say or do something, she

was going to walk out, and while one part of his brain

pointed out that that might not be a bad thing, he knew he

didn't want her to go.

"I'm sorry that was way out of line."