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She could feel her heart thudding. This close to him she was so conscious of everything about him—especially all those things she didn’t want to be conscious of: his maleness and her own vulnerability to it, the scent of his skin, the ache deep down in her own body caused by his proximity.
She tried to push past him but he stopped her, taking hold of her, and then she was in his arms and he was kissing her—fiercely, determinedly, almost as though he was laying claim to her. And she was kissing him back. Such a hunger possessed her, such a need, such an aching, tearing, irresistible yearning that she couldn’t withstand its call. She wanted to hold him, to touch him, to own him as she had done all those years ago. A need it was impossible for her to control had come out of nowhere to crush all the opposition in its way.
.....
His questions were far too intrusive for her liking, but she knew that to antagonise this man—even if she was coming to resent him more with every nerve-shattering dagger-slice he made into the protective shield she had wrapped around her past—would prove to be counterproductive. She was determined not to do so.
All that mattered about this interview was getting this arrogant, hateful overlord’s agreement to the burial of her grandparents’ ashes in accordance with their wishes. Once that was done she could give vent to her own feelings. Only then could she finally put the past behind her and live her own life, in the knowledge that she had discharged the almost sacred trust that had been left to her.
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