Don't Tempt Me (Georgian 4)

“We have not returned.” Her splayed fingers brushed nervously over her skirts. He was watching her like a hawk, focused and predatory. “My mother suggested a holiday in Spain to distract us from our grief. I begged her to stop in Paris, so I could see it.”

“Begged?”

“My mother is not fond of the city.”

“Why?”

“I do not know.” She stood. “When will I be allowed to question you?”

“When I am finished.”

Simon lifted his glass and drank, his throat working with every swallow. Lynette found the sight erotic, which deepened her agitation. She was aroused, confused, and piqued by his arrogance all at the same time.

“Was your mother the other woman with you last night?” he asked, his voice gruff from the burn of the liquor.

“Yes.”

“I find it extremely odd that a vicomtess would take her unwed daughter to an orgy.”

“It was not an orgy.”

“It bloody well was!” he snapped, revealing a fury she had not noted before. “And you nearly lost your virginity there.”

She bit back a retort even as her face heated. “She was reluctant.” Her reply was petulant, her pride bruised by his condemnation.

“That did not stop her.”

“No. Do you wish to know why?” she asked crossly. “Or would you rather continue to frighten me with your boorish temper?”

His nostrils flared. “You are far from frightened.”

Setting his glass down, Simon stalked toward her with a deliberate, sensual stride. It stole her breath the way he exuded an undeniable carnal invitation. The response of her body altered the fit of her clothes, making her corset and bodice far too tight for comfort.

“If you come any closer,” she drawled, “I might seduce you.”

Simon paused midstep, eyes wide with shock at her boldness, and she smiled.

“Witch,” he hissed.

“Mon chéri.” Her hand rose to her heart and her lips made a moue. “You wound me.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “I see similarities between you and Lysette Rousseau.”

Her smile faded. “But, you see, aside from the physical traits afforded to us by our birth, Lysette and I were very different.”

“You were the quiet one.” There was no question in his tone.

“No,” she corrected, “I was the mischief maker.”

She could see how that shocked him, which in turn created questions for her. “Mademoiselle Rousseau is not timid and studious?”

“Timid?” He snorted. “Not nearly. However, she is somewhat studious, with a fondness for reading historical volumes.”

“Is she wed or widowed?”

“Neither.” Simon withdrew to the console again, but his steps appeared to be weighted with reluctance to part from her. Or so she fancied. “She told me she does not enjoy men.”

“Truly? How odd.” Lynette wrinkled her nose again and Simon growled.

“What is it?” she queried, perplexed as to the cause of his aggravation.

“Have you any notion of what that turned-up nose does to a man?”

She blinked. A great many compliments had been paid to her over the course of her life. However, her habit of wrinkling her nose while contemplating had never been the subject of platitudes.

His resentful infatuation was touching, and Lynette’s mouth curved upward. “Have you any notion of what your ill-temper does to me?”

“You flirt with danger,” he warned.

“I flirt always. It is my nature.”

“Not any longer.” He turned his back to her and downed his libation.

“Was that possessiveness I heard, mon chéri?”

“You assume I meant that you will no longer flirt at all.” Simon faced her and crossed his arms. “Perhaps I meant you will no longer flirt with me.”

Her head tilted to the side. “How dull that would be, non?”

“I doubt life is ever dull around you.”

The more she teased him, the more dangerous he became. She could sense the lust in him coiling tighter with each word she spoke, readying for the moment when he would pounce. The alcohol might have eased him somewhat, but not enough to render him harmless.

Simon Quinn could never be harmless.

Lynette directed the conversation back to the mysterious Lysette, knowing she was out of her depth. “She does not like men, you say.”

“That is what she said,” he rumbled.

“Did she like you?”

“I doubt it.”

“She must truly be touched, then.”

“Of course.” He grinned. “A woman would have to be insane not to want me.”

Lynette laughed and felt the pressure between them lessen. Not that the tension was uncomfortable. Far from it.

“You should go,” he said, unfolding. “While I can still let you.”

“What of Mademoiselle Rousseau? You said you would take me to her.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I said I should like to see you together. I did not say I would facilitate such a meeting.”

Her hands settled on her waist. “Why not?”

“Because she is dangerous and unsettled, as are the individuals she works for. I have no idea what the sight of you will do to her mind. I will not risk you for a whim.”

“A whim?” she scoffed. “Would you call it a whim to learn that there is another man in the world, in the same city, who is identical to you in appearance? Now compound that with the person bearing the name of your sibling—”

“I have no siblings,” he retorted, his jaw clenching. “I have no family, no name of any value, no property.”

She stared at him, knowing there was only one reason a man listed his marital value. “You are a mercenary,” she murmured, repeating Solange.

“Yes.” His squared shoulders dared her to want him after such a revelation.

She still did, of course.

“I will pay you,” she said.

“Damned if you will! For what?”

“For taking me to see her. I could be concealed in a carriage—”

Moving with the lightning speed that continued to catch her unawares, he snatched her close and shook her. “What do you intend to pay me with?” he snarled.

Lynette met his livid gaze, unflinching. “You know very well what I have to barter.”

His fingers tightened in the delicate flesh of her upper arms, then he pushed her away, causing her to stumble. “Curse you. I am attempting to be honorable.”

“Honor is a cold bedmate.”

“Is your innocence worth so little that you would concede it to the likes of me?”

“Perhaps my sister is worth so much, I would pay any price for her.”

“Is she dead or not? It cannot be both.” Simon’s hands went to his lean hips, a pose that widened the neck opening of his shirt and revealed a tantalizing glimpse of his tawny skin.

“I saw her buried.”

“Did you see her body?”

Lynette shook her head. “I wanted to. I begged to. But I was told she was too badly burned in the fire.” Her eyes stung and she blinked rapidly to hold back tears. “My mother saw her.”

“Do you trust your mother?” His tone had softened, as did his handsome features.

“In a fashion.” Despite her efforts, a tear fell. She swiped at it with the back of her hand. “But there is much I do not know. Much she will not tell me. Such as why she fears Paris.”

“Fears?” He was alert now, intensely so.

“We are staying with Solange. No one knows we are here. I am to tell no one my name—”