Heiress Seeking Perfect Husband by Maris Soule

Author:Maris Soule [Soule, Maris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780373520367
Google: xNEiZHK6X2UC
Amazon: 0373520360
Publisher: Silhouette
Published: 1996-11-21T18:30:00+00:00

She didn’t object. Bringing her hand back to her lap, she let him take over, his large hands kneading the knots in her shoulders. She closed her eyes, and simply absorbed the sensation, his callused fingertips intensifying her awareness of him as a man. Her breathing was shallow, her insides coiled in anticipation.

“I’m sorry Martin didn’t turn out to be what you were looking for,” he said, the soothing gentleness of his touch moving to her neck.

“So am I.” Though, at the moment, she didn’t care. All that mattered was Clint’s touch.

“He talked about himself a lot?”

“About himself and that damned book he’s writing. I should have suspected as much. Even in his letters he went on and on about those topics.” She chuckled. “You ought to have heard him tonight.”

“I heard some . . . While he was here.”

She imagined Clint had. He’d been in the kitchen when Martin and she were eating dinner. As loud as Martin talked, Clint would have heard everything. “It got worse as the night went on,” she assured him. “Dinner was just a warm-up.”

“He seems rather opinionated.”

“And, of course, he’s always right.” She’d disliked that the most. “You ought to have heard his side-comments about Poe.”

“He didn’t like him?”

“Hardly.” She groaned in pleasure when Clint massaged the base of her neck, then realized how she sounded. Straightening, she tried to remember he was simply acting as an employee trying to help his employer, that there was nothing romantic about what he was doing.

“Relax,” he said, the seductive tone of his voice at odds with her reasoning. “What did Martin say about Poe?”

“He said—”

The breathless quality of her words shocked her and she paused, hoping to quell the jittery feeling racing through her. Again, she tried. “He said that Poe was brilliant and dazzling, but with no heat. That he rhymed to excess, and that his poetry, like his prose, was cheap Gothic.”

“I like Poe,” Clint said.

“So do I.” Shannon glanced back at him, only to have him turn her head forward again.

“I remember,” he said, “the first time I read ‘The Pit and the Pendulum.’ “

“Oh yes,” she said, remembering her initial reaction to the story. “And ‘The Raven.’ And the “Mask of the Red Death.’ ”

He chuckled. “I guess we like cheap Gothic.”

“I guess so. According to Martin, Poe’s works were tasteless, gaudy, theatrical claptrap. Nothing like the works of his beloved Lord Byron.”

“To each his own, I guess.”

“To each his own,” she agreed, beginning to feel the tension in her neck ease, The quivering in the pit of her stomach, however, was intensifying.

It had been two and a half years since she’d had any problems from the whiplash she’d gotten the night her car was rear-ended. John had rubbed her neck back then, but his touch had been nothing like Clint’s. Clint’s hands were large and rough, his fingers corded steel. Yet with Clint, as with John, there was a soothing gentleness. Clint’s hands warmed and excited her. “Oh yes,” she sighed, then groaned.

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