Read Online Consumed by Fire by Anne Stuart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anne Stuart
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the future—he’d never be able to maintain a normal marriage, not with his disaster of a life, so bigamy wasn’t a problem.
It had to be legal, or she’d still be fair game. And they had to stay married, or Claudia could still go after her. He knew Claudia well, and she wouldn’t give up easily—she could hold a grudge for years. But he sure as hell wasn’t about to keep Evangeline with him, tell her who and what he was. No, he was simply going to sweep her off her feet, remove her from this town before she realized anything had happened to her old friend Mr. Corsini, marry her, and jilt her.
It was a pain, but it shouldn’t take more than a couple of days, and it had amazing side benefits. He hadn’t fucked such an innocent in . . . hell, he didn’t know if he ever had. It was going to be . . . enjoyable to teach her.
He pulled her pliant, sleeping body closer, the noisy, weak fan making little progress against the heat. It didn’t matter. His throbbing hard-on didn’t matter. He’d have to get her out of here early, but he could let himself sleep for a few short hours, his body wrapped around hers. He had a plan, and it was almost foolproof—he’d never make the mistake of thinking anything was totally without risk. He’d have a busy couple of days of bureaucracy and sex, and then back to business as usual.
He breathed in the scent of her skin and smiled against her flesh. He’d consider it a vacation, the first he’d had in four years. He let his lips drift against her temple. She was going to be quite a treat.
Three days later Evangeline rolled over in the huge bed in their suite at the Hotel Danieli, stretching luxuriously. She had no idea where the sheets and covers were—they’d kicked them off during the night—and she didn’t care. For the first time in her life she liked her nudity. She felt sleek and catlike, her hair was a cloud, not a rat’s nest, her body well loved and marked by him. It was nothing compared to the bite mark on his shoulder. She’d drawn blood and never realized it, and now it was a dark bruise.
It should have made her sick, but James liked it. He’d wanted her to bite him again if she felt the need to scream, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She’d smothered her cries against his chest, against the pillow, against the mattress. She rolled onto her stomach, pressing her face against the sheet as she remembered. God, where had her brain gone? All she could think about was sex; all she could think about was James.
The last three days had been insane. He’d insisted on leaving Villa Ragarra at the crack of dawn, before anyone but Silvio was up. The clothes they’d left in the bathing room had been washed and dried and were waiting for them, neatly folded, at the front desk. James had tried to pay her bill but she’d emerged from her sex-dazed haze to insist it go on her own pathetic credit card. Then they’d headed off into the sunrise, taking the surprisingly powerful Fiat, and she’d slept beside him, not questioning anything. She’d been fully prepared to argue if he brought up the idea of marriage again, but when he woke her up, they had already parked in the Piazelle Roma, at the very entrance of Venice, and it was time for breakfast. He somehow managed to find something more substantial than the usual pastry and coffee favored by the Venetians, and then she found herself in a small church off the Campo Manin, with a kindly looking priest waiting for them.
She’d been too astonished to protest at first. And then James had kissed her, hard, said “Trust me,” and she did. It was a ceremony, an act, but nothing legal or binding. It couldn’t have been. They would have had to jump through hoops to do that, and James had assured her they’d have a real ceremony when they got back to the States. She’d gone along with it, not protesting, blinded by emotions she was hesitant to name.
She couldn’t really imagine it. Couldn’t imagine
It had to be legal, or she’d still be fair game. And they had to stay married, or Claudia could still go after her. He knew Claudia well, and she wouldn’t give up easily—she could hold a grudge for years. But he sure as hell wasn’t about to keep Evangeline with him, tell her who and what he was. No, he was simply going to sweep her off her feet, remove her from this town before she realized anything had happened to her old friend Mr. Corsini, marry her, and jilt her.
It was a pain, but it shouldn’t take more than a couple of days, and it had amazing side benefits. He hadn’t fucked such an innocent in . . . hell, he didn’t know if he ever had. It was going to be . . . enjoyable to teach her.
He pulled her pliant, sleeping body closer, the noisy, weak fan making little progress against the heat. It didn’t matter. His throbbing hard-on didn’t matter. He’d have to get her out of here early, but he could let himself sleep for a few short hours, his body wrapped around hers. He had a plan, and it was almost foolproof—he’d never make the mistake of thinking anything was totally without risk. He’d have a busy couple of days of bureaucracy and sex, and then back to business as usual.
He breathed in the scent of her skin and smiled against her flesh. He’d consider it a vacation, the first he’d had in four years. He let his lips drift against her temple. She was going to be quite a treat.
Three days later Evangeline rolled over in the huge bed in their suite at the Hotel Danieli, stretching luxuriously. She had no idea where the sheets and covers were—they’d kicked them off during the night—and she didn’t care. For the first time in her life she liked her nudity. She felt sleek and catlike, her hair was a cloud, not a rat’s nest, her body well loved and marked by him. It was nothing compared to the bite mark on his shoulder. She’d drawn blood and never realized it, and now it was a dark bruise.
It should have made her sick, but James liked it. He’d wanted her to bite him again if she felt the need to scream, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She’d smothered her cries against his chest, against the pillow, against the mattress. She rolled onto her stomach, pressing her face against the sheet as she remembered. God, where had her brain gone? All she could think about was sex; all she could think about was James.
The last three days had been insane. He’d insisted on leaving Villa Ragarra at the crack of dawn, before anyone but Silvio was up. The clothes they’d left in the bathing room had been washed and dried and were waiting for them, neatly folded, at the front desk. James had tried to pay her bill but she’d emerged from her sex-dazed haze to insist it go on her own pathetic credit card. Then they’d headed off into the sunrise, taking the surprisingly powerful Fiat, and she’d slept beside him, not questioning anything. She’d been fully prepared to argue if he brought up the idea of marriage again, but when he woke her up, they had already parked in the Piazelle Roma, at the very entrance of Venice, and it was time for breakfast. He somehow managed to find something more substantial than the usual pastry and coffee favored by the Venetians, and then she found herself in a small church off the Campo Manin, with a kindly looking priest waiting for them.
She’d been too astonished to protest at first. And then James had kissed her, hard, said “Trust me,” and she did. It was a ceremony, an act, but nothing legal or binding. It couldn’t have been. They would have had to jump through hoops to do that, and James had assured her they’d have a real ceremony when they got back to the States. She’d gone along with it, not protesting, blinded by emotions she was hesitant to name.
She couldn’t really imagine it. Couldn’t imagine
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