He swung her back round to face him, one eye closed, his divine mouth twisted in chagrin. 'Was that the biggest load of egotistical clap-trap you've ever heard?'
She shook her head slowly, wondering if he had a single clue how at risk she was to his smiles in that moment. 'That wasn't what I was thinking at all.'
'No?'
'I was thinking that, no matter how much you might like people to think that you consider yourself to be the centre of the universe, you really don't. I'm not sure that you ever have.'
He opened both eyes and lost the humble grin. He let his hand slip away from her elbow, ostensibly to grab his drink, but she knew better. Even before he said, 'Whatever gave you that idea?'
'Why skyscrapers? Why not mini-malls or housing estates or parking garages?'
'The bigger the building, the bigger my … income.' He grinned. Gorgeously.
'See, now you might think you can dazzle me with your jokes,' she said, waggling a finger at his nose, 'And your fancy noodles, but I've realised something.'
He leant a forearm along the counter-top and inclined his head towards her. His voice was deep, dark and beguiling as he said, 'Enlighten me.'
'The pragmatic black-sheep, lone wolf, tower of strength, big boss, cool-as-a-cucumber thing you have going on is all an act. You, my friend, are a romantic.'
Well, now, that was the last thing Cameron had ever expected to be called.
Demanding, ruthlessly ambitious, with tunnel-vision. He'd been labelled all of the above at one time or another. But romantic?
Rosalind was so mistaken it was laughable. But by the sureness in her wide grey eyes, and the heavy air of attraction curling out from her and enveloping him, he knew laughter was definitely the wrong response.
Needing a moment to find the right way to let her down easily, he slid from his seat, collected the takeaway paraphernalia, slid the chopsticks into the sink and tossed the cartons into the recycling bin.
Then he stood on the other side of the island bench from her and placed his palms on the granite worktop.
'Now, Rosalind, don't you go getting any funny ideas about the man you might think I am. You'll only set yourself up for disappointment.'
Her lips pursed ever so slightly but her eyes remained locked on his. She was swimming against the current, against all evidence that he was as unyielding as he made himself out to be, but she refused to bend.
His voice was a good degree cooler as he said, 'I'm thirty two and single, and there's good reason for it. I don't have a romantic bone in my body.'
She shook her head, refusing to hear him. 'You create things that by their very definition scrape the sky, each one greater and more awe-inspiring than the last. I might look at the stars every night, but you are reaching for them. Just think about it. Let the idea just seep on in under your skin. You'll find I'm right.'
The light in her eyes … He'd never in his life seen anything so bright. And it hit him then that, though she appeared to be as blithe as dust on the wind, though her bluntness made her seem tough, inside she was as soft as they came. Her absent father, and her mother's inability to let go, had wounded her, and she walked through life with a heart prone to bruising, and he had no intention of being responsible for that kind of damage. It would make him no better than his father.
He grabbed a tea towel and wiped his hands clean. He'd been here before. Well, not exactly here, nor quite so soon, but surely near enough that he knew what he had to do.
Looking into those beautiful eyes had been his first mistake. He moved around the bench and took the edge of her chair and spun it to face him.
Giving in to the overwhelming need to touch her, to tuck a silken wave of hair behind her ear, to make her realise that what he was about to do wasn't her fault but his-that he'd been selfish in letting things flow as they had-was his second mistake.
She leaned into his touch, infinitesimally, but enough that her warmth seeped into his fingertips, infused him with her natural heat. Gave him signal upon signal that she wanted him as much as he, for days, had wanted her. Tempted him beyond anything he'd ever felt before.
Feeling like it might be his last chance before he could stop himself, he placed a hand either side of her face and kissed her hard.
Hating the very sight of himself, he closed his eyes tight, which only made every other sense heighten.
She tasted of honey and soy. Beneath his hands she was warm and soft and everything delectable. And beneath everything else she was struggling. He could feel it in her lips as she let in his touch, but nothing more. Nothing deeper.
Earlier she'd claimed she knew when to quit; it seemed neither of them was that astute.
Cameron pulled back, only so that he could kiss her again, more comprehensively, longer, slower. He had no intention of letting up until she kissed him right back.
It didn't take long.
With a sigh that seemed to tremble through her whole body, Rosalind sank back so that the kiss could deepen. And deepen it did, until all he could see behind his eyelids were swirls of red and black, deep, desolate darkness with no end in sight.
She snuck a soft hand behind his neck, lifted herself from her seat and melted against him. The world of sensation inside his mind lit up until he felt as hot and bright as the surface of the sun.
He held her tighter, fisting a hand into the back of her T-shirt, running another over her bottom, the exquisite softness of old denim making his fingers clench, pulling her closer still. His eyes were shut tight, head spinning, and he was kissing her for all he was worth until he couldn't remember ever doing anything else.
As do all good things, it came to an end.
Rosalind pulled away first, her lips slowly sliding away from his, as though it took every effort she could muster. Her head dropped and she rested her forehead against his chest, her hands splayed over his abdomen.
Cameron opened his eyes, the bright, sharp light of reality slamming him back to earth-the reality of what he'd done and what he'd been about to do.
He laid a gentle kiss on her soft hair as his eyes focussed hard on the perfect precision and crisp, true angles of the floating staircase in the distance, looking for his centre as a builder looks to a spirit level.
But all he could think of was lifting her into his arms, carrying her to his bedroom and making love to her all night long. Hell, once there he knew he'd be happy not to come up for air for days.
This woman was giving him a lesson in the lure of temptation, of the lengths a man might go to in order to satiate the want of the one thing his reason and sense and experience and moral centre told him he shouldn't want.
That pull of dangerously destructive desire, a dimension he'd always feared he might be genetically predisposed to possess, was ultimately why he tucked a finger beneath her chin and lifted her head, and waited until her soft dilated eyes were focussed on his.
And in a firm voice he said, 'Might I suggest after tonight we slow things down?'
There, he'd done it, on the back of the kind of kiss that made a guy unable to think sensibly for hours after. That way she'd know it wasn't as merciless as it had sounded.
Her skin paled and went blotchy all at once. She looked at him as though she'd just been slapped. And the shock in her eyes …
His fingers recoiled guiltily into his palm, then uncurled to touch her face. But she'd already disentangled herself to bolt into the lounge, frantically searching for something in her handbag. Whatever it was he could see by the tension in her neck that it wasn't coming to the surface quick enough.
'Rosalind.'
She held out a hand, which as good as told him to shut the hell up.
Ignoring it, he tried reasoning with her, 'Three dates in three days was pure overindulgence on my part. And you can't tell me you're not exhausted. I saw you trying to hide a yawn not ten minutes ago.'
When she lifted her eyes to his, he was fairly sure all she saw was red. She held her mobile phone to her ear and said, 'Which is why I think now is the perfect time to call a cab.'
'Don't be ridiculous. I was always going to take you home.'
'Really? Was it diarised? Kiss Rosie at nine. Dump her at nine-fifteen. Drive her home by ten. In bed by eleven.'