The Devil's Thief, page 28
She didn’t sound desperate. She sounded as if she were asking for a lamb shank at the butcher.
“What are you up to, Harry?” he asked again, realizing he knew as little about her now as she knew about him. “And why do you need a lover so desperately you’d proposition two different men in one night?”
Harry scoffed unconvincingly. “You’re being overly suspicious, Roger. I’ve told you what I want. A lover. You.”
“When it comes to you, Harry, I have my reasons for being overly suspicious.” He was more amused than angry now, which was good. “The last time I let you trick me I ended up concussed and missed my first term of school. You turned so cold and uninviting over there by the tree”—he pointed—“that I thought you could be a marble statue. So I don’t believe uncontrollable desire has you begging me to be your lover. Come on, spill. Are you in trouble?”
“I have no idea what you mean.” Roger just waited, saying nothing. Finally she shrugged. “My immediate surrender would hardly have intrigued you. I’m sure there have been many women who leapt into your bed at the slightest show of interest on your part. I seem to recall that was the case when we were younger, as well. Rebecca Tidwell would have committed any number of cardinal sins to earn merely a smile.”
Roger smiled at the memory of the oldest daughter of Mr. Tidwell, the local vicar in his youth. “We committed several sins together,” he confessed. “Although none of them cardinal, I don’t believe. Purely pleasurable.”
Harry snorted. “Precisely. Why should Rebecca Tidwell receive that which I am denied? Weren’t we friends, Roger?” She’d begun to sashay back to his side of the clearing and he jumped up, pacing her again, keeping the distance between them.
“Friends? Not exactly. You followed me around like an irksome puppy, and I was constantly getting you out of one scrape or another. And when you are young, an age difference of five years eliminates the possibility of friendship.” He cocked his head to the side as he regarded her curiously. “You are still reckless and foolhardy, Harry. You don’t know anything about me now. Perhaps you won’t like me anymore,” Roger argued logically. “Perhaps I am a rogue in sheep’s clothing, and guileless widows such as yourself should stay far, far away.”
“Impossible,” she said, dismissing his argument. “I’ve heard no rumors that you have become a murderer, a molester of women, or a card sharp. Barring those, I can think of nothing that would make me dislike you.”
“I am one of the Saint’s Devils,” he said simply.
“What on earth does that mean?” she demanded crossly. “Is that some sort of London code for men who wear sheepskin?”
“Not quite,” he said, highly amused by her inadvertent double entendre, “but close.” He huffed out a frustrated laugh as he ran his hand through his hair, still trying to cool his libido after his failed attempt to teach Harry a lesson. All this talk of lovers was sheer torture. “It’s just a silly nickname given to me and my friends back when we were in school. It means I am a notorious rake,” he explained patiently. “I seduce women and let myself be seduced as frequently as possible. I drink to excess, I gamble, and I pursue pleasure with single-minded intent.” There, that ought to discourage her. “In honor of our past acquaintance, I will not make you yet another conquest for my diary.”
Harry crossed her arms and let out an audible, “Ha.” Roger openly laughed at her. “That’s not fair,” she said, sounding like a barrister. “If you’ll bed everyone else in Christendom, why not me?” She pointed at herself for emphasis, drawing his eyes to her obvious womanly charms. She really was walking sin. “And a rake is exactly what I need. I need you.” She ticked the reasons off on her fingers. “One, I know you, quite well in fact. Two, I find you very attractive, and I know you find me equally attractive. Three, you are a rake. That means that you are well versed in the bedroom arts, and really, I must confess, I know next to nothing. So you shall teach me.”
“No, I shall not,” Roger said firmly. “And nothing you can do will change my mind, Harry.”
Photo: © Ginger Z Photography
Samantha Kane lives in North Carolina with her husband and three children. She is published in several romance genres including historical, contemporary, and science fiction. Her erotic Regency-set historical romances have won awards, including Best Historical from RWA’s erotic romance chapter Passionate Ink, and the Historical CAPA Best Book Award from The Romance Studio. She has a master’s degree in American history and taught high school social studies for ten years before becoming a full-time writer. You can visit Samantha Kane on her website, www.samanthakane.us/.
Read on for excerpts from more Loveswept titles …
Read on for an excerpt from Ruthie Knox’s
About Last Night
Chapter One
The Pigeon Man was usually here by now. Tuning out her companion’s self-serving story for a moment, Cath double-checked the LED display suspended over the station platform. Ten minutes until the train. In this woman’s company, it would feel like a lifetime.
Resigned to her fate, Cath crossed her legs and relaxed back against the bench. At least she could enjoy the unseasonably cool morning—the first break all week from the miserable July weather that had been tormenting London.
“… and they told me it was the most brilliant way to add a tactile element to protest action they’d ever heard of. I happened to mention you wanted to put the piece in your exhibit, but they didn’t know who you are,” Amanda said, her prep-school English accent turning the statement into an accusation.
Cath perked up. “I’m with the V and A. They know the V and A, right?” She was a small cog, but she worked for a big machine. Surely even Amanda’s hard-core activist cronies had heard of the Victoria and Albert Museum’s world-renowned collection, even if they hadn’t heard of the upcoming exhibit on the history of hand knitting that Cath had been hired to assist with.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Amanda said dismissively, and Cath spotted the sun gleaming off the bald pate of the Pigeon Man as he made his way up the steps. He took his place in front of the map kiosk and fixed his eyes on the ground. Calm today, then. When he didn’t talk, the Pigeon Man could pass for normal. It was when he launched into agitated conversation with a stranger that he began thrusting his head forward in a bird-like manner and his beady eyes and beaky nose took on greater prominence.
He pulled a candy bar out of his pocket, and she remembered it was Friday. He was often late on Fridays, no doubt because he stopped at the newsstand to buy himself some end-of-the-week chocolate.
The thought caught her up short. Shit, did she really know the habits of the train station regulars that well? She did a quick survey of the sparsely populated platform. Emo Boy was wearing his favorite pair of skinny jeans this morning, and Princess had gotten her roots touched up.
Sadly, yes, she did.
“The next person who comes up the steps will be an older lady carrying a purse the size of a bus and a bakery bag with a croissant in it,” Cath said.
“What?”
“It’s a prediction.”
“You’re clairvoyant now?” Amanda asked, her pert nose in the air.
“Sure.” Cath was beginning to see how her pathetic store of knowledge might come in handy. “I know who’s coming up the stairs next, and I know you’re going to do the right thing and give me that straitjacket for the exhibit.”
Thinking of the exhibit reminded her that she and her boss, Judith, would be pawing through sweaters from storage this morning. Cath rummaged through her bag for her antihistamines, freed two from their hermetic blisters, and swallowed them with a sip of water. Curatorial work could be sneezy. She’d learned to arrive prepared.
As she slipped her water bottle back into her bag, Bus Purse came into view, right on schedule.
Amanda frowned and straightened up, trying to get a better view of the steps. “You can see down to the high street. That’s how you knew she was coming.”
“You’re closer than I am. Can you see down there?”
The frown deepened. “Well, you must be using a mirror or something. It’s not as if you’re capable of magic.”
“Wanna bet?” Cath answered, warming to the challenge.
Magic had never been her specialty, but she wanted that straitjacket. It had been featured in a widely covered protest demonstration Amanda and her buddies had staged outside the prime minister’s residence a few years ago, and it would look fabulous on display, the perfect visual complement to the story the museum’s exhibit would tell.
Unfortunately, Amanda had a stranglehold on the thing, and Cath had known her long enough to understand she got a kick out of stringing people along.
On the other hand, she was also competitive and narcissistic, which made her the sort of woman who rarely turned down a bet.
“How about this?” Cath asked. “If I correctly predict the next two people up those steps, you give me the jacket.” It was possible. Just. Greenwich was way out in Zone Four on the London transport map, far enough from the city center to avoid being a true commuter suburb. The station platform never got too crowded, even during rush hour. Most of the regulars for this particular train had already arrived. The question was, Who was missing?
Amanda’s eyes narrowed. “What do I get if you’re wrong?”
“I’ll stop bugging you about the straitjacket.”
This was a lie, but no lapsed Catholic from Chicago’s South Side was above lying for a good cause, and Cath considered her career a good cause.
Amanda leaned forward, all excitement now, and said, “Make it three and you’re on.”
The first one was easy. Cath heard the musical clang of the ticket machine dispensing change down at street level and knew it had to be the dog guy from the park, because he always took the 7:09 from Greenwich to Bank on Fridays, and he bought his single ticket from the vending machine with cash.
“Old guy in a fedora,” she said.
He came up the steps and made his way to the empty bench next to them.
Amanda inclined her head, acknowledging one down.
Next up was tricky. Normally, it would be the girl with the two-tone hair, but it was late summer, and people took vacations. The girl had been missing all week. Cath imagined her on a beach in Spain, soaking up the sun in a red bikini. What if she was back, though?
The booming laugh of Bill at the ticket window carried up the stairs. The Merry Widow, then. Bill was a friendly guy, but he pulled out all the stops for the Widow.
“Redhead with three inches of cleavage,” Cath said.
The Merry Widow rose into view, proud bosom bobbing.
Amanda gave a low whistle of appreciation.
Cath glanced at the station’s clock and repressed a smile. She only needed one more to complete the hat trick, and you could set your watch by the next guy.
“Tall blond man in an expensive suit, Financial Times under his arm,” she said, then added, “Possibly a cyborg.”
Thirty seconds ticked by, and City rose into view, punctual as ever and way too good looking to be human.
Cath had a soft spot for City. From the moment she’d spotted him waiting for the train to Bank last winter, he’d intrigued her. She’d given him the nickname as a nod to his profession, because everything about him announced he worked in the City of London, the square-mile financial district at the center of the metropolis: the dignified wool overcoat and scarf he’d worn all winter, the shined shoes, the ever-present newspaper. Aristocratically remote, he was Prince Charming in a suit.
Amanda applauded, whether for her or for City, Cath couldn’t tell. She suppressed a triumphant grin and allowed herself a moment to watch him pass. He gave her his usual stiff nod, the greeting they’d long since settled on for their semi-regular encounters.
She’d never heard City talk or seen him crack a smile. He didn’t even fidget, just stood stoically in place until the train pulled up, then stared straight ahead once seated in the car. Cool as a cucumber and veddy, veddy English. At least, that’s how she imagined him when she wrote about him in her journal. She’d bet her next paltry paycheck he had a posh accent, an expensive education, and a boring job moving piles of money around. He was her polar opposite.
Still, she always kept an eye out for him. She saw City two or three mornings a week, either here or at Greenwich Park, where both of them liked to run. In motion, he was a beautiful thing, a Scandinavian god with flushed cheeks. She loved that flash of pink on his face—such an endearing crack in his cool perfection. It made her want to muss his hair and tie his shoelaces together when he wasn’t looking, just to see what would happen.
And now he’d helped her win access to the piece she so badly wanted for the exhibit. You really had to love him.
“When can I pick that jacket up?” she asked Amanda, turning back to face her.
“Hmm?” Amanda was still staring at City. “Oh, right.” Her mouth tightened, her eyes growing cagey. “That was a good trick. How long have you been practicing?”
“First time,” she answered honestly. Far from impressive, her ability to predict who’d arrive next on the train platform was evidence of how sad her life had become. She was a people-watcher by nature, and now that she’d cleaned up her act, she had nothing better to do than make up stories about the strangers who shared her morning commute.
The saddest part was, she didn’t always take this train. If she’d run into Amanda while waiting for the 6:43 or the 7:43 instead of the 7:09, Cath still would have stood a good chance of pulling off the trick, predicting the arrival of an entirely different set of familiar strangers.
She didn’t have to tell Amanda that, though.
“You really want that jacket,” Amanda said. “It’s important to you.”
Cath stared at City’s broad shoulders beneath his suit coat and shrugged, feigning a nonchalance she didn’t feel.
Should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy. Nothing ever is.
“We’re friends, right?” Amanda asked, throwing an arm across the back of the bench.
They weren’t friends. They’d had a handful of mutual acquaintances a few years ago. These days, Cath pantomimed familiarity when they ran into each other around Greenwich so that she could legitimately harass Amanda for the straitjacket.
Cath didn’t have any friends. She had a roommate who didn’t like her, a socially awkward boss who did, and an empty life that revolved around her job.
“Sure,” she said, because it was what she was supposed to say.
“And you need a favor.”
Just smile and nod, Talarico.
She tamped down her temper, refrained from pointing out that she’d just won her favor fair and square, and did as her good sense instructed.
“We’ll do a trade.” Amanda grinned, a smile that announced, This is the best idea anyone’s ever had. “Eric and I are going to a concert tonight at a club with his cousin. He’s in town from Newcastle for the weekend. We could really use a fourth.”
A garbled announcement of the train’s approach came over the loudspeaker, and Cath kept her expression neutral as she stood and shouldered her bag.
Christ on a crutch. She’d walked into a blind date.
For any normal woman, this wouldn’t be a problem. No one wanted to be set up with some random warm body from Newcastle, of course, but spending an evening being hit on, ignored, or bored out of her skull ought to have been a fair exchange for getting her way.
For Cath, though, Amanda’s proposal was worse than a problem. It was a disaster waiting to happen.
She hadn’t been on a date in two years. No concerts, no bars, no men. These were the rules that set New Cath apart from her irresponsible predecessor—the restrictions that kept her from making the kind of mistakes that had necessitated the creation of New Cath in the first place.
Cath didn’t want to break the rules. She needed the rules.
But she needed that straitjacket more. It would be a coup for the exhibit, which meant it would win Judith’s gratitude, and Judith’s gratitude was Cath’s ticket into a permanent curatorial position.
She had to do it.
“Sounds like fun,” she said, her cheerful tone the first of many frauds the evening would no doubt entail.
Surely she could spend one night with a guy in a club without doing anything she’d regret.
Read on for an excerpt from Elisabeth Barrett’s
Blaze of Winter
CHAPTER 1
Of all the possible pranks a person could pull in the Star Harbor Library, putting a dead fish in the heating vent ranked high on the list of ones to try. And Theodore Grayson would know. He’d played that very trick twenty years ago, with his brothers Cole and Seb as his partners-in-crime. Still, the risk—considerable, given that every wall vent in the main room was visible from the circulation desk—had been worth the payout. His large frame tucked into a carrel at the very scene of his youthful misconduct, Theo smiled at the memory.
They had done the deed in the middle of one of Star Harbor’s coldest winters, and with the heat on full blast, it had taken precisely thirty-seven hours for the smell to become overpowering. Even better, he and his brothers had all been present to witness the prank’s outcome—the unholy stench, a furious search for the source, and finally, a full evacuation of the library. And as any good trickster—Theo himself included—would acknowledge, a key component of every good prank was the payout.
The payout. The completion. The end. If only he could achieve the same with this damned book he should be writing. His smile faded fast.
