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to the mirror and started brushing again. Thirty-one, thirty-two.
“I’ve definitely had arrogant and inconsiderate before,” he said thoughtfully, moving a little closer. “I don’t think I’ve been called hypocritical or condescending, at least not to my face. But I’m absolutely positive I’ve never been called a prude.”
Lexie studied his reflection. His white shirt lay open at the collar, revealing a vee of tanned skin and reminding her that she still wore his jacket, the too-long sleeves pushed carelessly up. Stubble darkened his jaw. Her sandals dangled from one hand, looking ridiculously flimsy in his grip. In the other hand he held her wig. Behind him, her big bed, the covers turned back, her lacy nightgown laid out, filled the background.
She dragged her gaze away from him, focusing on her own reflection and brushing her hair. “Look at what you’re wearing,” she said, mimicking his voice. “The people of San Philippe are very conservative, Alexia.” She spoke to him in her mirror. “And the way you dance. Sounded prudish to me.”
A smile, not in the least prudish, played about his lips and eyes, threatening to distract her. “So? Prudish?” She nodded. “And hypocritical?”
She held tight to her anger, wouldn’t let herself be beguiled by the charm he could wield. “I’ve read about you on the Internet. Seen pictures.” She knew about his latest, brief affair. He shifted uncomfortably, his expression clouding. “I’m practically Amish in comparison to you. And I’ve been to San Philippe more than once—it’s not that different from here in terms of conservatism.” She waited for his response.
“Finished? You don’t want to expound on arrogant and inconsiderate?”
“Self-explanatory, I would have thought.” She wanted to point out just how inconsiderate he’d been, making her walk, but that had kind of been her fault. Still, she was paying for it now; the soles of her feet were stinging. She’d probably have been better off keeping the four-inch heels on.
“I can accept some of your points.”
Not used to the people in her life admitting mistakes, she hid her surprise.
“And you’re right, not everyone in San Philippe is conservative. But I’ll tell you one person who most definitely is.”
She sighed and put her brush down. “Adam?”
He nodded.
“It’s one of the things I like about him. It seems sweet and noble.” Unlike his brother, there had never been a hint of scandal attached to Adam.
“He’s noble. He’s not sweet.” Rafe walked closer. The description seemed to fit him just as well. There was nobility in his bearing, his aristocratic features, and nothing sweet about the hard glaze to his eyes. He stopped at her side, heat radiating from him as he lowered her wig to the dresser. It lay like a small, sleek animal. His fingers, large and blunt, traced the length of the dark hair. And for a second she recalled how those fingers had felt the time he had plunged them into her hair. How he had cradled her head for the erotic assault of his kiss. She quickly turned her eyes back to the mirror.
He dropped her shoes to the carpet. And still he stood there, making it difficult for her to breathe normally.
“We want the same thing here, Alexia.” His gaze tracked to her hair, her real hair. He lifted his hand and ran his thumb and forefinger down the length of a lock before frowning, clenching his hand into a fist and lowering it to his side. “We both want to get you to San Philippe as soon as possible. And without any scandal. Don’t we?”
“Yes, of course.” Lexie swallowed. “Can I point out that you being in my room at 3:00 a.m. is probably not the best way to go about that?”
“Probably not.”
She waited for him to move. And waited. “If you’re finished, I guess you can go.”
“One more thing.”
Surprising her for the second time that night, even more than the first, he crouched before her and, wrapping his fingers around her ankle, picked up her foot, lifting it so he could see the sole. He ran his forefinger along the arch. “How is it?”
Ignoring the response to his touch that seemed to slither from her sole and up along her leg, Lexie swallowed. “Fine.”
A corner of Rafe’s mouth quirked up. “I don’t suppose it is. But you’ll live.” He placed her foot carefully back down on the plush carpet, picked up her other foot and, after running his thumb along the sensitive underside of that one, too, placed it back beside the first.
Lexie stood as he straightened and turned to go. “Your jacket.” If she got rid of that there would be no link between them from tonight.
He moved behind her. As she shrugged the jacket from her shoulders he slipped his hands beneath her hair to grasp the collar, his knuckles skimming her neck. Her eyes met his in the mirror as he drew the garment down her arms. For a second their gazes locked. It was as though he was undressing her and she was allowing it. Sudden heat suffused her, coalescing deep inside her. Lexie closed her eyes so he wouldn’t be able to read her response, part confusion and part desire.
Three
Lexie paused with her cup of strong black coffee halfway to her lips as Rafe strolled onto the terrace where her mother and the dozen or so guests who’d stayed over last night had gathered for breakfast. She put her cup down and followed his progress. He was immaculate, gorgeous. Even the sun seemed to brighten with his entrance, sparkling on the nearby lake.
It shouldn’t annoy her that he looked so good and so relaxed. But it did.
He approached their table. Lexie’s only comfort was that the four seats were already taken. “Antonia.” He smiled at her mother, a flash of white perfect teeth, warmth in his eyes. “Clayton, Jackson,” he greeted the two elderly oilmen already at her table.
Finally, deliberately, his gaze found hers. “Alexia.” He dipped his head, no trace of remembrance of that other gaze, the one that had heated her very being. No wonder women fell over themselves for him, she’d thought as she’d lain in bed, sleep slowly claiming her.
“Rafe.” She nodded back, found a smile in her repertoire, hoped it was both gracious and remote.
Lexie returned her attention to Clayton. But still she was aware of Rafe as he strolled to the side table where breakfast was laid out and picked up a plate. She’d expected, hoped, he would sleep in. Wasn’t that what indolent playboy princes did? Except she was having a difficult time seeing him fit so neatly into that role anymore. There was something about the ease with which he’d found her in the darkness and the steel of the body she’d twice been pressed against, the uncompromising strength of the arms that had held her. Something about the standards he wanted her to uphold, and his discomfort and displeasure when she’d mentioned his scandals.
Clayton wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I’ll thank you lovely ladies for your hospitality.” He addressed both her and her mother.
“You’re not going?” Lexie asked, appalled.
“I’m afraid so.” He smiled as he pushed back his chair, flattered by her clear disappointment.
Jackson stood too. “Likewise, ma’am.”
“Surely you’ll have another cup of coffee.” Lexie tried to keep the desperation from her voice. She wasn’t ready to face Rafe again, and if there were vacant seats at her table she just knew he’d sit there.
“Love to,” Clayton said, “but the doc’s told me to cut back. Thanks again.” And then they were both gone, and the housekeeper, always efficient, swept in and cleared away their plates.
Lexie, atoning for her early exit from dinner, had promised her mother she’d stay till all the guests had breakfasted. Otherwise she would have been hot on Clayton’s and Jackson’s heels.