Don't Tempt Me (Georgian #4)

Don't Tempt Me (Georgian #4) Page 7

“Mademoiselle.”

She shivered as the sensual inflection with which he spoke wrapped around her like a lover’s embrace.

“Mr. Quinn,” she greeted, her voice husky and inviting.

Quinn’s gaze narrowed into an examining perusal. Without warning, he caught her elbow and pulled her away from the wall. She was so startled by his action that she was unable to voice a protest.

At least that was what she told herself. She wasn’t yet prepared to admit that she wanted to be claimed by a man such as him. A man whose polished exterior encased raw masculinity.

He led her through the crowd and down a hallway, opening a closed door and pushing her ahead of him into the room. The interior was dark, and for a moment, she was blinded by the dearth of illumination after the blaze of the massive ballroom chandeliers.

Her eyes slowly adjusted to the softer moonlight spilling in through the windows. When she could see, she stepped farther into the large, liberally furnished library. The smell of leather and parchment teased her nostrils, reinforcing the sensation of being primitively claimed.

The door latch clicked into place and she jumped, her nerves stretched too thin. The sounds of laughter and music faded from her perception, leaving her aware only of Quinn and the fact that they were alone together.

“What game are you playing?” he asked gruffly.

“I was staring,” she admitted, turning to face him. She appreciated having the light behind her, which shielded her features in shadow while revealing the whole of his. “But then, every woman here was doing the same.”

“But you are not just any woman, are you?” he growled, coming toward her.

So . . . he knew who she was. That surprised her. Her mother had insisted they hide their identities. They stayed with a friend instead of at their own property and were using an assumed surname. Her mother said it would prevent her father from becoming angry with them for deviating from their stated destination—Spain. She would have agreed to anything in order to come to Paris. In all of her life, her family had never visited here.

But then . . . If Quinn knew her true identity, why would he pull her away from the festivities in such a public manner?

“You approached me,” she pointed out. “You could have kept your distance.”

“I am here because of you.” He caught her elbows and jerked her roughly into him. “If you had stayed out of mischief for a few days longer, I would have been far from France now.”

She frowned. What was he talking about? She would have asked if he had not placed his hands on her. No man had ever been so bold as to accost the daughter of the Vicomte de Grenier. She could hardly believe Quinn had done it, but she could not jerk away because the sensations elicited by his proximity stunned her. He was so hard, like stone. She could not have expected that.

As her breathing quickened, she felt herself sway into him, her chest pressing into his. It was madness. He was a stranger and he seemed to be angry.

But she felt safe with him, regardless.

For a long, taut moment Quinn did not move. Then he yanked her toward the window, impatiently pushing the sheer curtain aside so that moonlight touched her face. With a tug of his fingers, he untied the ribbons of her mask and it fell away, leaving her exposed. She suddenly felt naked, but not nearly naked enough. She felt a reckless, goading need to strip off every article of clothing while he watched. It was heady to be the focus of such heated, avid interest from so handsome a man.

He loomed over her, scowling, his mouth set in a grim line. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he snapped.

She swallowed hard. “Like what?”

Quinn made an aggravated noise, dropped the curtain, and caught her about the waist. “As if you want me in your bed.”

Mon Dieu, what did one say to that?

“You are . . . very attractive, Mr. Quinn.”

“ ‘Mr. Quinn,’ is it?” he purred, his large hands cupping her spine, making her feel tiny and delicate. Conquered. “I always knew you were mad.”

Her tongue darted out to wet her dry lips and he froze, his gaze burning.

“What game are you playing?” he asked again. This time, she heard something else in his tone. Something darker. Undeniably arousing.

“I—I think we are both c-confused,” she said.

He moved, cupping the back of her neck and the side of her hip, mantling her body with his. “I’m bloody well confused, curse you.” He tugged, forcing her spine to arch, leaning over her so that she had no leverage to move.

Every inhale was his exhale. Every movement was an enticement, their bodies sliding against each other in a wanton dance. She felt a fever in her blood, a conflagration that had started with that first smoldering glance in the ballroom.

“Do you want to be fucked?” he purred, his head lowering so that his lips touched her jaw. The caress was divine and wicked at once, making her shiver with delighted apprehension. “Because you are begging for it, witch, and I am insane enough in this moment to indulge you.”

“I—I . . .”

Quinn turned his head and kissed her, hard, his lips mashing against hers. There was no finesse, no tenderness. Her mouth was bruised by his volatility and ardor. She should have been frightened. He seemed barely leashed, his emotions swaying from irritation to consuming desire.

She whimpered, her hands fisting in his jacket to keep him close. Enamored with the taste of him, she licked his lips and he groaned, his hips grinding restlessly into her. She surrendered weakly and he gentled his approach, seemingly soothed by her capitulation.

“Tell me what you are involved in,” he murmured, his teeth nipping at the corner of her mouth.

“You,” she breathed, tilting her head to deepen the contact. She felt drunk. The room spun behind her closed eyelids and she suspected she would crumble if he weren’t holding her so tightly.

Quinn turned slightly and sat in a nearby slipper chair. The change in position stole her balance and she settled between his spread legs nearly prone.

“Why now?” he asked, nibbling his way to her ear.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and bared her throat. His hot, open mouth suckled the tender skin and she writhed in mindless pleasure. “Mr. Quinn . . .”

He chuckled, surprising her with the warmth of the sound. “Who knew you burned so hotly beneath all that ice?”

“Kiss me again,” she begged, more infatuated with his mouth now that she had experienced its skill.

“We must leave, before I lift your skirts and take you here.”

“No—”

Quinn suckled her lower lip and her body softened further, becoming hot and damp and aching. “Then let us retire to a more private venue, Lysette. Before lust rules my better sense.”

Lysette.

She stilled, the beat of her heart arrested by the sound of the name that was not her own.

The sudden understanding of all his questions horrified her. Simon Quinn knew her sister. Her twin. Her dearest friend and most agonizing loss.

For Lysette was dead, her body entombed in a beautifully sculpted crypt in Poland.

How, then, did Quinn know her and believe her to be alive?

Chapter 2

The coast of France, three days earlier . . .

Lysette Rousseau, an accomplished assassin, inhaled the sea air through the cabin window and wondered why her rapidly approaching demise did not frighten her. Her livelihood had shown her many faces of death. Most had been terror-stricken and accompanied by desperate pleas for mercy. She attempted to dredge up similar attachment to her own life and felt nothing. Death would be a reprieve; she could think of it no other way.

The ship she was prisoner upon would dock on the coast of France by morning. What awaited her there was unknown. She had been sent on a mission to recover information in England and was instead captured. Two more French agents had been held behind as leverage. Another was dead by her hand. It was quite possible, given the disastrous results, that this night would be her last. Yet the knowledge had such little impact, she scarcely felt it.

She was not a woman to ruminate over her emotions, but she did ponder how her lack of memory had become a lack of joie de vivre. Her past prior to two years ago was a mystery to her. Without roots to ground her and give her an anchor, Lysette was adrift. Aimless. Perhaps some would find it strange that an existence fueled by the power of others would be so exhausting, but for her it was.

The lock turned in the door behind her and her keeper entered.

“I have brought you supper,” Simon Quinn said in a voice designed to lead women to ruin. The sensuality of the low, deep tone was not an affectation; it was inherent to the man.

Lysette turned to face him, noting how his simple attire of shirtsleeves and breeches together with his dark, unbound hair gave him the appearance of a pirate. In truth he was a mercenary who had spent the last several years in service to the Crown of England. That made him her opponent in a fashion, yet she felt safer with him than with any other man. He felt no sexual attraction to her, a state proven by the last few months of near constant proximity to each other. She had even offered sex to him once, and he had declined. Due to his lack of interest, she almost liked him. Almost.

“I am not hungry,” she said, watching as he set a plate of salted meat and hard biscuits on the round table in the corner.

A black brow lifted and brilliant blue eyes assessed her from head to toe. Simon was Irish, his breeding evident in both his coloring and the inflection that tinged his every word. He was stunningly attractive and dangerously charming. He could offer a woman the world with a single smile . . . with the caveat that it was only a temporary gift. Simon was not a man to become a permanent fixture in anyone’s life. That sense of transience was a potent lure. She’d watched women fall into his lap without any effort on his part.

“You need to eat,” he said.

“The rolling of the ship does not sit well with my stomach.”

He ran a hand through his inky locks, the gesture rife with frustration. The movement of his arm was graceful, the large biceps flexing powerfully. Simon bore the form of a common laborer, which attracted more women than it repelled. Lysette admired it with the same offhand attention with which she contemplated death.