Evening Star (Star Quartet 1)

“You can stop your playacting now, Helen or Molly. How does it feel to be the most expensive virgin in all of Rome? You had better be worth it.”

She stared at him, her eyes dark and wide. He was so large, terrifying, and he believed her a whore. Where was Uncle Daniele?

“Let me go,” she whispered.

“I think not, little one. I shan’t let you go until the sun rises, and perhaps not even then.” Alex pulled her roughly against his chest and forced her chin up. He covered her mouth with his and pressed his tongue against her tightly sealed lips. He felt her tremble, and forced himself to slow. He eased his hold and let his hands rove down her back.

Giana felt the change in him. His hands held the back of her neck, but he was not pushing her against him. She parted her lips to beg him to leave her alone, and felt his tongue slip inside her mouth, touching hers. She felt a shock of pleasure and gasped, horrified at herself.

Alex felt her respond to him. He lowered his hand to caress her through all her damned petticoats. He felt her shuddering against him, then, suddenly, she was fighting him, struggling wildly against him with all her strength, her fists striking his chest and shoulders.

Giana felt the auburn wig slip to one side She gasped and threw up a hand to right it.

Alex laughed, and jerked the wig off. “So, my sweet, you’ve black hair. It is quite lovely. Why did you wish to hide it? After all, I would have known the moment I had you naked.”

“You will get your two thousand dollars back I swear it. It is a mistake. Please, you must let me go.”

His dark eyes narrowed. “Stop this nonsense. I am no longer in the mood for your acting.” He gentled his voice, not really understanding why. “I will be easy with you, have no fear, little one. I felt you respond to my kiss. I will make you feel more, much more.” He heard her gasp, as if in outrage, and said in a hard voice, “I have always wanted to give a harlot her first lessons. Enough now.”

“No.” She threw herself at him, clawing at his face.

Alex felt her fingernails draw blood. He grabbed her wrists to protect himself, but she ducked her head down and bit him. She was kicking wildly at his shins. He drew back his fist and slammed it into her jaw. She crumpled where she stood.

He drew out his handkerchief and gingerly wiped away the few drops of blood on his cheek. He stared down at her for a moment. Her thick black hair, come loose from its confining pins, was spilled down her back.

“I must be a half-witted fool,” he said aloud. Jesus, he thought as he picked her up, how was he to carry an unconscious female in his arms through the lobby of his hotel? He held her in one arm and pressed his fingers over her jaw. She would have a bruise, but thankfully, he hadn’t broken anything. Why the devil had she attacked him?

He found himself admiring her creamy English complexion and the thick black lashes that fanned against her cheeks. His eyes fell to her slender neck and to the bodice of her gown, ripped open in their struggle. To his surprise, the torn chemise beneath was plain white linen, with not a frill or a row of lace.

Her firm young breasts rose and fell. His fingers rested against them before he drew the chemise over her. He carried her through the side entrance of the huge house, nodding to a servant to fetch his carriage. He felt a drizzling rain against his cheek. He cursed softly, shrugged out of his coat, and covered her with it.

As he waited, he found himself wondering if she had prized herself so highly she did not expect to have to strip. He held her tightly against his chest, protecting her from the rain. He heard a sudden noise and whipped about. But he was too late. He felt a crash of pain in his head.

“Giana. Giana. Child, are you all right?”

Daniele shoved Alexander Saxton’s body away and pulled Giana into his arms, shaking her.

Giana felt an instant of terror and lashed out at him.

“Stop it, Giana, it is I, Daniele.”

“Oh, thank God,” she gasped, struggling to her knees. “Why? I don’t understand—”

“I will explain everything to you, Giana. Come, let us get out of here.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No, he will just have a sore head on the morrow. Quickly, Giana.”

Alex heard the name through the veil of pain that clouded his mind. Giana. What an odd name, he thought.

Chapter 8

London, 1847

Giana took in a deep breath of fresh September morning air. She delighted in its crisp coolness, though she shivered in her summer cloak. She allowed the coachman, Abel, to assist her from the brougham, and stood quietly for a moment beneath a full-branched oak tree on the west side of Hyde Park. She watched the few elegantly dressed gentlemen and ladies who were promenading along the walkways. How delightful it was that every word she heard was English. She tilted her face up to catch a sliver of sun that broke through the blanket of leaves above her.

“Giana.” She smiled as she turned to look at Randall Bennett striding toward her. He was, she thought, as devastatingly handsome as she remembered, exquisite in smartly tailored buff riding clothes and black riding boots. She wondered vaguely where he had left his horse, or if