Her Secret Lover (Aphrodite's Club 2)

“I wish you’d said so before, I wouldn’t have bothered pretending you were the world’s greatest lover. Frankly, you could do with some lessons.”

“Antoinette,” he said through gritted teeth.

She folded her arms over her breasts and glared back at him. “I think it’s about time you told me the truth. What has Lord Appleby got that you want?”

He took a shaky breath, calming himself. “I want the letter, and in return he will give me Wexmoor Manor.”

There was a knife in her heart, or so it seemed. He mustn’t see it or know how she felt; she wouldn’t give him the victory. “Well, that is unfortunate. For you,” she managed in a light, chilly voice.

Gabriel wanted to shake her. Or kiss her. Her insults stung but he didn’t accept them. He might not be the world’s greatest lover, but she couldn’t fake what she’d felt when they made love. It had been special, and if she wanted to deny it now, then she had other reasons. Perhaps she needed to pretend it meant nothing so that she could go to her duke and play her part. In a way he could understand her need to do that even if he couldn’t accept it. But the letter was a different matter. She was going to take it to her new protector and use it as a bargaining tool, to keep Appleby from making trouble for them.

Such cold-blooded self-interest was breathtaking, and he couldn’t allow her to do it. That letter was his means of regaining Wexmoor Manor and Aphrodite’s Club, others were depending on him, and he would get it from her, one way or another.

“Give me the letter and I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” he said, leaning threateningly over her, his eyes only inches from hers. Her gaze widened, but try as he might, he could see no fear in her eyes, only a determination to match his own.

“I am tired now,” she said in a frosty voice. “Please leave me.”

Gabriel remained where he was, making sure she knew how angry he was. “You’ll give it to me,” he gritted. “That letter is my future.”

And hers, too, a voice reminded him.

Still she refused to flinch or turn away. Finally, with a sound of disgust, he left her, striding into the other cabin and slamming the door.

Antoinette slumped back, shaking, trying not to cry. All he cared about was the letter and getting his hands on Wexmoor Manor. That was all he had cared about from the very beginning, only she’d been too stupid to see it.

She had to get away from him. If she could persuade him to put her ashore she would be able to make her way home, somehow. She’d be alone, but it was better than being trapped on the Sea Witch with him. She didn’t trust him, she’d never trusted him, and she’d been right.

Worse than that, she didn’t trust herself when he was around. She was just as likely to throw herself naked into his arms. Antoinette couldn’t allow that to happen. She had too much pride for that.

She lay on the bed, the lantern swaying over her, and closed her eyes. Images of the day flitted through her mind, and it wasn’t until she reached the one of him standing on the deck with his back to her that she remembered something she could use.

There was a pistol tucked into his belt.

He had a pistol.

If she could get her hands on it she’d be able to force him into obeying her orders for a change. But where was it? Certainly not on him at the moment. Sitting up, she looked about her for his clothing, but he’d taken it with him. Quietly she made a search of the cupboards and drawers, but there were no weapons to be found and certainly no pistol.

He must have it with him then.

Antoinette knew she would have to get close enough to take it from him, and to do that she would have to lull him into believing she was harmless. It would need some thought and planning.

But then, she had all night.

Chapter 25

Gabriel scanned the sky. It was gray. The wind had picked up, too. It looked as if the weather was turning against them. He’d hauled anchor at dawn and they’d made little headway since. At this rate he’d be blown back to where he’d come from. And something else was worrying him.

Antoinette was sick.

When he’d slipped down to the cabin midway through the morning he’d found her groaning in the bed, her face another interesting shade of green. She didn’t even have the energy to abuse him when he lifted her head and tipped a few drops of brandy down her throat, although she coughed and spluttered.

“Let me off,” she begged him.

“We’re miles from the coast.”

“I don’t care. Set me adrift on a raft.”

He bit his lip on a smile. “Try to sleep.”