She sat beside him. “This isn't like you, Blake.”
He turned on her, his gray eyes glowing fiercely. “Don't you tell me what is or isn't like me,” he hissed. “You have no right.”
“As your friend,” she said softly, “I have every right.”
“Today,” Blake announced with an off-balance flourish of his arm, “is the eleventh of July.”
Caroline didn't say anything; she didn't know what to say to such an obvious announcement.
“The eleventh of July,” he repeated. “It shall go down in infamy in the saga of Blake Ravenscroft as the day he…as the day I…”
She leaned forward, shocked and moved by the choking sound in his voice. “As what day, Blake?” she whispered.
“As the day I let a woman die.”
She blanched at the pain in his voice. “No. It wasn't your fault.”
“What the hell do you know about it?”
“James told me about Marabelle.”
“Bloody interfering bastard.”
“I'm glad he did. It tells me so much more about you.”
“Why the hell would you want to know more?” he asked caustically.
“Because I lo—” Caroline stopped, horrified by what she'd almost said. “Because I like you. Because you're my friend. I haven't had many in my life, so perhaps I recognize how special friendship is.”
“I can't be your friend,” he said, his voice unbearably harsh.
“Can't you?” She held her breath, waiting for his reply.
“You don't want me to be your friend.”
“Don't you think that's for me to decide?”
“For the love of God, woman, what does it take to get you to listen? For the last time, I cannot be your friend. I could never be your friend.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want you.”
She forced herself not to pull away. He'd been so blunt, so bare with his need—it almost frightened her. “That's the whiskey talking,” she said hastily.
“Do you think so? You know very little about men, my sweet.”
“I know about you.”
He laughed. “Not half as much as I know about you, my dear Miss Trent.”
“Don't mock me,” she whispered.
“Ah, but I've been watching you. Shall I prove it? All the things I know, all the little things I've noticed. I could fill one of those books you're so fond of.”
“Blake, I think you should—”
But he cut her off with a finger to her lips. “I'll start here,” he whispered, “with your mouth.”
“My m—”
“Shhh. It's my turn.” His finger traced the delicate arch of her upper lip. “So full. So pink. You've never painted them, have you?”
She shook her head, but the motion brought on the sensual torture of his finger rubbing along her skin.
“No,” he murmured, “you wouldn't have to. I've never seen lips like yours before. Did I ever mention that they were the first thing I noticed about you?”
She sat utterly still, too nervous to shake her head again.
“Your lower lip is lovely, but this one”—he traced her upper lip again—“is exquisite. It begs to be kissed. When I thought you were Carlotta…even then I wanted to cover your lips with mine. God, how I hated myself for that.”
“But I'm not Carlotta,” she whispered.
“I know. It's worse this way. Because now I can almost justify wanting you. I can—”
“Blake?” Her voice was soft, but it was urgent, and she thought she'd die if he didn't complete his thought.
But he just shook his head. “I digress.” He moved his fingers to her eyes, skimming the tips over her eyelids as she closed them. “Here is another thing I know about you.”
She felt her lips part, and her breathing grew ragged.
“Your eyes—such heavenly lashes. Just a touch darker than your hair.” He moved his fingers to her temples. “But I think I like them open better than closed.”
Her eyes flew open.
“Ah, that's better. The most exquisite color in the world. Have you ever been out to sea?”
“Not since I was a very little girl.”
“Here by the coast the water is gray and murky, but once you get away from the taint of the land, it is clear and pure. Do you know what I'm talking about?”
“I—I think so.”
He shrugged rather suddenly and dropped his hand. “It still doesn't hold a candle to your eyes. I've heard the water is even more breathtaking in the tropics. Your eyes must be the exact color of the ocean as it skims along the equator.”
She smiled hesitantly. “I should like to see the equator.”
“My dear girl, don't you think you should at least try to see London first?”
“Now you're being cruel, and you don't really mean it.”
“Don't I?”
“No,” she said, reaching within herself to find the courage she needed to speak to him so plainly. “You're not angry with me. You're angry with yourself, and I'm convenient.”
His head tilted slightly in her direction. “You think you're very observant, don't you?”
“How am I supposed to answer that?”
“You're observant, but not, I think, enough to save yourself from me.” He leaned forward, his smile dangerous. “Do you know how much I want you?”
Her voice lost to her, she shook her head.
“I want you so much I lie awake every night, my body hard and aching with need.”
Her throat went dry.