Her Secret Lover (Aphrodite's Club 2)

“I can search you again.” There was a hopeful note in his voice.

Antoinette fixed her brown eyes on the pale gleam behind his mask. Was he teasing? Her voice came out louder than she meant: “No!”

He sat back. His hair was wheat fair, with a curl that made it seem to dance around his head in the fading sunlight streaming in the open coach door. When she found herself wondering what it would feel like to run her fingers through it, Antoinette knew she must get him out of her coach.

“Please go…”

His smile hardened and his gaze dropped to her thighs. “You are holding me captive, Miss Dupre, and while I am enjoying it very much, it is making it difficult for me to go anywhere.”

His hand was still held in that intimate embrace. Antoinette opened her legs and wriggled away from him, pushing down her skirts. “How dare you?” she managed, her voice trembling as much as her hands.

“How dare I?” he repeated, and there was something in his voice that warned her to be careful. “Oh, I dare, little sparrow. I am a man who dares anything.”

“A man who manhandles helpless women!” she said shrilly, her composure cracking.

He laughed and said, “There’s nothing helpless about you. Perhaps the truth is you are enjoying yourself a little too much, Miss Dupre.”

The blood rushed to her head—she had to stop him. Antoinette flung herself at him.

He caught her wrists, easily restraining her. Her hair whipped about as she pushed forward again. He grunted and wrapped his strong arms around her, holding her tightly against him, her face buried so deeply into his chest that she could hardly breathe. But still she wriggled and struggled, fighting him and railing against the entire situation she found herself in.

He was too strong. The muscles in his shoulders and arms bunched, and she knew with frustration that he was holding back so as not to hurt her. That was when she gave up.

“Hush, sparrow.”

His voice was a deep rumble as he slipped his arm around her waist, supporting her, while he stroked her untidy hair from her face, and then smoothed her damp cheeks with the back of his hand. Until then she didn’t realize she was crying. Shattered, feeling like the only survivor of some dreadful shipwreck, she lifted her heavy lids and looked up.

He was bent over her, and now he groaned. She felt his mouth on hers, warm and passionate, exploring her lips and molding them to his, tasting her own salty tears. This forbidden desire had struck like lightning, and sensible, practical Antoinette didn’t know how to halt it. Worse, she didn’t want to.

She heard him sigh. “You are wasted on Lord Appleby.”

The coach door closed, softly, and when she dared to look again the highwayman was gone.

Trembling, frantic, she began to search about for the letter. She found it tucked behind her, crumpled but safe. She clutched it to her, relieved beyond words.

Does that mean he’ll come looking for it again?

The voice—her ancestress’s voice—made her start guiltily, because instead of being afraid at the prospect of another run-in with the highwayman, she was looking forward to it.

Chapter 2

She was still sitting there, stunned, when the coachman reached her, rubbing his freed hands, worry in his eyes as he took in her disheveled state.

“Are ye all right, me lady?”

Antoinette looked up at him. She hadn’t thought of this man as her friend, not after he had caught her trying to sneak out of the second-from-last coaching inn and unceremoniously bundled her back into the coach. “Don’t even think of running off, me lady,” he’d warned her. “I have orders to shoot, and so I will.”

“You’d shoot me?” she’d said in angry surprise.

“Aye.” His eyes had narrowed, he had bared his teeth, and she had believed him.

Now, far from being a monster, he looked tired and shaken.

“Me lady?”

“I believe I am in one piece, thank you.” If the highwayman expected her to faint or have a fit of hysterics, then he was mistaken; she was made of sterner stuff.

She’d had to be.