“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.