"My intent is to"—have a woman beneath me for the first time in three years—"kiss you."

"You'll have to get yourkisses "—she stressed the word as if she doubted that was all he wanted—"from one of the hundreds of courtesans out there."

"Doona want them." When his gaze had met hers in the crowd and her pink lips had parted, Ethan had been stunned to find himself swiftly growing hard as stone. Now as he leaned his face in closer to her hair—a mass of white-blond curls, swept up to bare her neck—he smelled her light flowery scent and shot harder, his shaft straining hotly against his trousers. He savored the rare feeling, wanting to groan at the unexpected pleasure. "I followed you in here from the street."

"Why?" Her tone was straightforward, and he silently thanked her for not being coquettish.

"I saw you outside under a streetlight. I liked the way you smiled."

"And you just happened to have this with you?" She reached up, skimming her fingertips along the edge of his mask, but he caught her wrist, lowering it before releasing her.

"I liberated it from a passing patron when I saw you enter." The drop of his mask fluttered above his upper lip, and he'd quickly determined that no one could discern the extent of his scarred visage when courtesans had sought his attention in the crowd filling the Hive. When they'd hindered his progress, he'd been tempted to lift his mask to frighten them away.

"Truly?" Her lips slid into that mysterious half grin, and the need to see the rest of her face burned in him. "So the entire time I saw you searching the crowd, you were looking forme ?" Her accent was unusual—English upper class mixed with a tinge of French.

"Aye, for you," he said. "You were watching me from your vantage?"

"Raptly," she said, again straightforward, again surprising him.

The idea of her noticing him gave him an odd sense of gratification. "You're no' from London, are you?" When she shook her head, he asked, "Why are you here?"