Just For Her. Katherine O' NealЧитать онлайн книгу.
They said, when they inspected the hats later, that each bullet hit squarely in the middle of each of the brass badges on the hats. You could just as easily have killed them, but instead you sent them retreating in terror, while at the same time letting them know you could kill them. Nice-Matin said the Panther was the best shot on the Côte d’Azur, if not in all of France.”
“Keystone Cops, all of them. Not a deadly shot in the bunch. Which, I shouldn’t have to remind you, Dominic DeRohan is.”
“But I have faith in you,” she insisted. “Oh, I know it sounds deranged, and I don’t blame you for thinking me mad.”
In a bitter tone, he said, “I don’t think you’re mad. I think you saw an opportunity and took it. After all, I’m just a common thief. What does it matter if I get myself killed dispatching your husband?”
Was it her imagination, or did he actually sound hurt?
“You couldn’t be more wrong.”
“How am I wrong?”
“To imagine that I think of you as dispensable. On the contrary, it’s as if you’d just stepped out of my dreams.”
“You must have dark dreams then. I pity you. I know, because my dreams are full of demons as well.”
She gazed into the darkness, wondering what he looked like, wondering why, if he was masked, he felt the need for such total blackness in which to hide. “Have you ever read Byron?” she asked.
“Byron who?”
“Lord Byron. He’s one of the romantic poets. He created a character they call the ‘Byronic Hero.’ An idealized but darkly flawed character, brooding, an outcast or outlaw with a lack of respect for rank or social institutions. A loner with a troubled past. But he’s also larger than life. A dynamic figure who takes what he wants and sweeps away the obstacles in his path. He defies convention and doesn’t care what others think. I’ve been reading about a man like that for as long as I can remember. But I’ve never seen such a man in real life. Until tonight. Do you remember what I said when I was trying to keep you from leaving?”
“That you want me to kill your husband.”
“No. I said, ‘I want a hero.’ It’s the first line of Byron’s Don Juan. Somehow, when I first heard stories of your exploits, I thought you might be that hero. That’s why I spread the false rumor I hoped would bring you here. I knew you were the one man who could defeat DeRohan. Perhaps the only man.”
“A noble epitaph to write upon my tombstone.”
Her face, which had been glowing with hope a moment before, fell. “You refuse to help me?”
“You’ve given me no compelling reason. Not even the prospect of a few meager pieces from your collection of baubles.”
“But I’ve told you I can pay you.”
“Thief I may be, but I’d like to think I’m not vile enough to kill a man for money. No, lady. I’m afraid there’s only one payment I would consider for my services in this matter.”
Her heart quickened. “And what is that?”
“You.”
The word he’d spoken hung between them. Suddenly the night air was charged with something raw, something so potent she felt her breasts tighten. “Don’t be absurd.”
“You think it absurd that I might want your body?”
No man—not even Edwin—had ever spoken to her so frankly before. Taken aback, she averted her embarrassed gaze, attempting to disengage herself from this sticky turn in the conversation with some semblance of grace. “You wouldn’t want me.”
“Why not?”
“Must I tell you?” she asked helplessly, hoping he’d be gentleman enough to drop the subject.
But he merely responded in an amused tone, “I think perhaps you’d better.”
She clasped her hands before her, squeezing the fingers tight. “I’m not…” Struggling to find a decorous way to say the words, she finally murmured, “I’m not experienced in such things.”
“Come now. DeRohan is one of the—what was it you called him?—profligate rakes of his age. Surely the wife of such a man would learn a few—”
“Our marriage is in name only. I swore to my husband the instant the ceremony was over that I would never allow him to touch me. I’ve never broken that vow.”
“But…you had lovers.”
“One lover. And we only had one…encounter before DeRohan found out and killed him for it.”
He rose to his feet and started toward her, coming into the dim light. He looked huge suddenly, stalking her way. “You expect me to believe that in your three years of married life, you only got fucked one time?”
The word shocked her, bringing her up short as if he’d just slapped her in the face. “Please do me the courtesy of not being crude.”
“I’m a crude man, lady. Answer the question.”
“Let’s just say—if we must—that I know nothing of the art of…love.”
“Or sex either, apparently.”
“Please, must you—?”
He didn’t even bother to listen to her protests. “Are you telling me the truth?”
“I swear it. Every word.”
He peered at her for so long, it seemed he would never reply, and she began to squirm beneath his scrutiny. Finally, in a husky voice, he told her, “If you were my wife, you wouldn’t be able to give such a testimony. I can assure you that.”
She suddenly caught the aroma of night jasmine that perfumed the air. She took a step back, coming up against the bed. “Please…don’t…”
He came closer, treading slowly. “So your husband neglects your education while he whiles away his nights with English whores.” He stood before her now. “And meanwhile the fallen princess languishes in her ivory tower, dreaming of an outlaw who takes what he wants and snarls at the uncaring world. Who’s man enough to wreak her vengeance for her.” He was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek as he spoke. She jerked her head away. But he touched her averted chin with a gloved finger, tilting it so she was forced to look at him. “There’s one thing you forgot to take into account in your fantasia romantica.”
“What’s that?” she gasped.
He took her hand and placed it on his crotch, where a raging erection burned her palm.
“This.”
Chapter 3
She tried to pull free, but his hand—massive in its leather armor—tightened on hers as he ground it into his swollen bulge. “Have you ever touched a man before? Of course you haven’t. Because you’re a lady, and ladies don’t sully themselves by taking a man’s cock in their hands.”
“You animal!” she cried, fighting to push him away, her breath coming in jerky outraged gasps.
His other hand snaked out and grabbed her by the hair. She tried to move away, but the bed pressed into the backs of her knees, halting her retreat. His fist tightened in the flowing locks and slowly, but with unremitting insistence, he eased her head back, holding it pinned as he pressed her hand into him. She felt him lunge and swell beneath her palm, a pulsing, live serpent straining to strike.
“That’s right,” he growled. “I’m a strong, sex-starved predatory beast who already has the scent of you in his blood. And because you’re a lady, you’re afraid. Because in your fantasies, your brave, tortured hero bows down and worships at your feet. He brings you flowers and reads you poetry. But he doesn’t dare touch you.