Read Online A Rogue's Proposal by Stephanie Laurens - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Stephanie Laurens
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sensations assailing her stomach, and the insistent flickering of her nerves. Along with the other unwanted, unwelcome remnants of her girlish obsession with him.
He’d been her ideal gentleman since she’d been ten and had found a book of Michelangelo’s works in the library. She’d found one sculpture that had embodied her vision of a handsome male. Except that Demon was handsomer. His shoulders were wider, his chest broader and more finely muscled, his hips narrower, his legs longer, harder—altogether better defined. As for the rest, she’d surmised from his reputation that he was better endowed there, too. His easygoing attitudes, his love of horses and his involvement with the world of horse racing had all served to deepen her interest.
She hadn’t, however, ever made the mistake of imagining he returned it, or ever would. He was eleven years her senior, and could have his pick of the most beautiful and sophisticated ladies in the ton; it would be foolish beyond permission to imagine he would ever look at her. But she would marry one day—one day soon; she was very ready to love and be loved. She was already twenty, waiting, hoping. And if she had her way, she would marry a gentleman exactly like Demon. He, however, was an unattainable idol, entirely beyond her reach.
“This”—she gestured—“shady contact of Dillon’s. Presumably he’s not a local. Perhaps a search of the hotels and inns—”
“I’ve already got that in hand.”
“Oh.” She glanced up and met Demon’s gaze; for a moment, his blue eyes remained sharp, keen, then he looked ahead.
“I’ll check, but it’s unlikely we’ll find much by that route. This is, after all, Newmarket, a place that abounds in inns and taverns, and that attracts its fair share of shady characters, most of whom aren’t local.”
Flick grimaced and looked forward—they’d ambled through the gardens. The stables lay ahead, framed by a series of wooden arches over which wisteria grew. Stepping onto the path leading beneath the arches, she mused, “This contact—who would he be? One of the syndicate, or another pawn?”
“Not one of the syndicate.” Demon strolled beside her, his strides long and lazy, his hands, somewhat surprisingly, in his trouser pockets. His gaze was on the gravel. “Whoever they are, the syndicate won’t want for money, and the last thing they’d risk is exposure. No—the man will be a hireling. Perhaps a permanent employee. That, for us, would be best.”
“So once we identify him, we’ll have the best chance of following him back to his masters?”
Demon nodded. Then he looked up and stopped. They’d reached the end of the arches.
Flick glanced up, squinting into the sunlight that shone from over his shoulder. He was looking at her; she couldn’t see his features, but she could feel his gaze, could sense his sheer physical presence through every pore. She was used to working with large horses; standing near him reminded her of them—he exuded the same aura of potent physical power, which could, if provoked, be dangerous. Luckily, neither horses nor he posed any danger to her. Inwardly lamenting her continuing sensitivity, she raised a hand and shaded her eyes.
And looked into his.
Her breath caught; for an instant, she felt disoriented—unclear who she was, who he was, and how things really were. Then something shifted in the blue; she blinked, and regained her mental footing. Yet he continued to look at her—not precisely seriously, but intently, the expression in his eyes one she neither recognized nor understood.
She was about to raise a brow when, his gaze still steady on her face, he asked, “Now you know the full story of Dillon’s involvement, do you regret agreeing to help him?”
“Regret?” Considering the question, she raised both brows. “I don’t think the concept applies. I’ve always helped him—he’s made something of a career of getting into unexpectedly complicated scrapes.”
He’d been her ideal gentleman since she’d been ten and had found a book of Michelangelo’s works in the library. She’d found one sculpture that had embodied her vision of a handsome male. Except that Demon was handsomer. His shoulders were wider, his chest broader and more finely muscled, his hips narrower, his legs longer, harder—altogether better defined. As for the rest, she’d surmised from his reputation that he was better endowed there, too. His easygoing attitudes, his love of horses and his involvement with the world of horse racing had all served to deepen her interest.
She hadn’t, however, ever made the mistake of imagining he returned it, or ever would. He was eleven years her senior, and could have his pick of the most beautiful and sophisticated ladies in the ton; it would be foolish beyond permission to imagine he would ever look at her. But she would marry one day—one day soon; she was very ready to love and be loved. She was already twenty, waiting, hoping. And if she had her way, she would marry a gentleman exactly like Demon. He, however, was an unattainable idol, entirely beyond her reach.
“This”—she gestured—“shady contact of Dillon’s. Presumably he’s not a local. Perhaps a search of the hotels and inns—”
“I’ve already got that in hand.”
“Oh.” She glanced up and met Demon’s gaze; for a moment, his blue eyes remained sharp, keen, then he looked ahead.
“I’ll check, but it’s unlikely we’ll find much by that route. This is, after all, Newmarket, a place that abounds in inns and taverns, and that attracts its fair share of shady characters, most of whom aren’t local.”
Flick grimaced and looked forward—they’d ambled through the gardens. The stables lay ahead, framed by a series of wooden arches over which wisteria grew. Stepping onto the path leading beneath the arches, she mused, “This contact—who would he be? One of the syndicate, or another pawn?”
“Not one of the syndicate.” Demon strolled beside her, his strides long and lazy, his hands, somewhat surprisingly, in his trouser pockets. His gaze was on the gravel. “Whoever they are, the syndicate won’t want for money, and the last thing they’d risk is exposure. No—the man will be a hireling. Perhaps a permanent employee. That, for us, would be best.”
“So once we identify him, we’ll have the best chance of following him back to his masters?”
Demon nodded. Then he looked up and stopped. They’d reached the end of the arches.
Flick glanced up, squinting into the sunlight that shone from over his shoulder. He was looking at her; she couldn’t see his features, but she could feel his gaze, could sense his sheer physical presence through every pore. She was used to working with large horses; standing near him reminded her of them—he exuded the same aura of potent physical power, which could, if provoked, be dangerous. Luckily, neither horses nor he posed any danger to her. Inwardly lamenting her continuing sensitivity, she raised a hand and shaded her eyes.
And looked into his.
Her breath caught; for an instant, she felt disoriented—unclear who she was, who he was, and how things really were. Then something shifted in the blue; she blinked, and regained her mental footing. Yet he continued to look at her—not precisely seriously, but intently, the expression in his eyes one she neither recognized nor understood.
She was about to raise a brow when, his gaze still steady on her face, he asked, “Now you know the full story of Dillon’s involvement, do you regret agreeing to help him?”
“Regret?” Considering the question, she raised both brows. “I don’t think the concept applies. I’ve always helped him—he’s made something of a career of getting into unexpectedly complicated scrapes.”
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