Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)
“What is this place?” she asked as he settled her on the gold settee beside the massive black marble fireplace.
He moved to light the logs already stacked in the fireplace, chuckling at her astonished tone.
“My home.”
“Your home?”
Turning, he leaned against the carved mantel and regarded her with a lift of his brows.
“Despite the rumors, I do not crawl from the pits of hell each evening.”
She waved a hand toward the delicate jade figurines perched on a satinwood table.
“This hardly suits the image of the Beggar Czar.”
“True—” he shrugged “—which is why I have several residences spread throughout the city. Each of them serve their own specific purpose.”
“And what purpose does this residence serve? Your private brothel?”
“If that were true it would be an abysmal failure.”
She jerked as if he had slapped her. “I suppose that is yet another insult at my lack of attractiveness?”
He frowned, prowling toward the settee. Was the woman demented? She was the most tempting, most exquisitely beautiful female he had ever encountered.
“On the contrary, moya dusha, it is the highest compliment.” He sat on the cushion next to her stiff body, turning to study her wounded hazel eyes. “You are the only female beyond my cook to ever step over the threshold. In fact, there are less than a handful of people who even know of this house. I come here when I desire to be alone.”
“Then why have you brought me here?”
With experienced ease, he reached to unbutton her cloak, tossing it aside, not at all surprised to discover her swathed in yet another layer of brown wool beneath.
“A dangerous question, Emma Linley-Kirov.”
He felt her shiver as he turned his attention to the buttons that lined the gown from her chin to beneath the soft swell of her bosom.
“For goodness’ sake, what are you doing?”
His blood heated as he slowly peeled back the heavy material to reveal the satin beauty beneath.
“Attempting to understand why you would believe for a moment I find you lacking in appeal.”
“You have accused me of being a shrill-tongued spinster, a selfish martyr—” Her recriminations faded to a breathless sigh when he pressed his lips to the base of her throat.
“A delectable innocent who I have imagined unwrapping from your woolen layers a hundred times.”
Her hands lifted to lie against his chest, but she made no effort to push him away.
“You complained when I did not hide myself.”
“Of course.” He stroked his lips to the hollow beneath her ear, his fingers continuing to unbutton the body of her gown. “Only I am allowed to enjoy your most intimate beauty.”
“I think you enjoy mocking me.”
“If you need proof of my desire I am happy to oblige.”
“That is not—” She squeaked in alarm as he effortlessly pressed her back onto the cushions of the settee, following downward to cover her with his larger body. “Oh. Good Lord.”
Good Lord, indeed.