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Authors: Elaine Barbieri
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have her—because he wanted her more than any other woman he’d ever known.
But reality intruded.
Aware that his physical condition was growing more desperate by the moment, Drew limped toward the door.
He did not turn back as she repeated, “You’re making a mistake.”
Somehow he wished she had said more.
Her throat tight, Tricia watched while Drew attempted to minimize his limp as he walked out into the hallway. The moments just past had shaken her. She had not felt even a touch of embarrassment as she had watched him dress . . . as he had slid his powerful arms into his shirt and buttoned it across his chest with fumbling fingers . . . as he had thrust his long, muscular legs into the Confederate gray of his pants while concealing his pain. She remembered that he had looked intently into her eyes as he had boldly buttoned the closure on his trousers. She recalled the feelings that had sprung to life inside her, unnamed feelings that had raised a flush to her cheeks—feelings that had left her somehow empty and incomplete when he had turned to grasp his gunbelt and secure it around his hips.
She had been desperate when he turned towardthe door, and she had called out, “You’re making a mistake.”
Her eyes grew moist when it suddenly became startlingly clear in her mind that her warning had had nothing to do with the condition of his infected leg.
She followed his unsteady progress down the stairs toward the front door.
She held her breath when he drew it open.
She gasped when he hesitated, then collapsed heavily on the doorstep.
Chapter Four
“I told you the last time you came that I didn’t want you to come here again!”
Seething, Simon pulled Angie inside the door of his mansion. It was late, and his very respectable doorstep was all but invisible from the street at that time of night; there was little possibility that anyone had seen Angie there. Even his servants were asleep—but Angie had known full well how angry her coming would make him. He had lost control and had punished her on the spot the last time, in the most intimate of ways—the only way a woman like Angie was capable of understanding—but that seemed to have made little difference.
It occurred to him that Angie’s arrival at his mansion tonight was her way of evening the score with him. That thought was more dangerous for the dissolute whore than she could possibly realize.
Simon pulled Angie into his study and closed thedoor quietly behind them while maintaining control by sheer strength of will. He had had a long, difficult day. The situation with the consortium had taken an unexpected turn. A few of the men were smarter than he had thought. They were holding out against his advice, trying to convince others that steps were needed to ensure Galveston’s future, that Galveston’s natural harbor did not assure its commercial success. He had smiled at Jonathan Grimel when the distinguished
fool
formally asked the consortium to consider that concern. Simon had pretended amusement at the supposedly preposterous thought, while inwardly he had raged.
Angie’s arrival threatened the respectability that was so important to his plans at this time—and she knew it.
Making no attempt to hide his foul mood, he addressed Angie hotly.
“All right, tell me why you’re here. I warn you, it had better be good.”
Testing the limits of his patience, Angie replied with deliberate evasiveness, “I suppose that means you’re not flattered that I came looking for you when I could be sleeping in my fine little room instead.”
“Your fine little room,” Simon sneered. “You mean the room where you’ll take on any and every man who shows up on Chantalle’s doorstep, and where you’re never truly satisfied until I visit you?”
Angie shrugged a sultry shoulder, allowing her neckline to gape in a way that displayed her breasts enticingly. “There’s some truth to that.”
Bitch . . . she was baiting him.
His flushed expression
But reality intruded.
Aware that his physical condition was growing more desperate by the moment, Drew limped toward the door.
He did not turn back as she repeated, “You’re making a mistake.”
Somehow he wished she had said more.
Her throat tight, Tricia watched while Drew attempted to minimize his limp as he walked out into the hallway. The moments just past had shaken her. She had not felt even a touch of embarrassment as she had watched him dress . . . as he had slid his powerful arms into his shirt and buttoned it across his chest with fumbling fingers . . . as he had thrust his long, muscular legs into the Confederate gray of his pants while concealing his pain. She remembered that he had looked intently into her eyes as he had boldly buttoned the closure on his trousers. She recalled the feelings that had sprung to life inside her, unnamed feelings that had raised a flush to her cheeks—feelings that had left her somehow empty and incomplete when he had turned to grasp his gunbelt and secure it around his hips.
She had been desperate when he turned towardthe door, and she had called out, “You’re making a mistake.”
Her eyes grew moist when it suddenly became startlingly clear in her mind that her warning had had nothing to do with the condition of his infected leg.
She followed his unsteady progress down the stairs toward the front door.
She held her breath when he drew it open.
She gasped when he hesitated, then collapsed heavily on the doorstep.
Chapter Four
“I told you the last time you came that I didn’t want you to come here again!”
Seething, Simon pulled Angie inside the door of his mansion. It was late, and his very respectable doorstep was all but invisible from the street at that time of night; there was little possibility that anyone had seen Angie there. Even his servants were asleep—but Angie had known full well how angry her coming would make him. He had lost control and had punished her on the spot the last time, in the most intimate of ways—the only way a woman like Angie was capable of understanding—but that seemed to have made little difference.
It occurred to him that Angie’s arrival at his mansion tonight was her way of evening the score with him. That thought was more dangerous for the dissolute whore than she could possibly realize.
Simon pulled Angie into his study and closed thedoor quietly behind them while maintaining control by sheer strength of will. He had had a long, difficult day. The situation with the consortium had taken an unexpected turn. A few of the men were smarter than he had thought. They were holding out against his advice, trying to convince others that steps were needed to ensure Galveston’s future, that Galveston’s natural harbor did not assure its commercial success. He had smiled at Jonathan Grimel when the distinguished
fool
formally asked the consortium to consider that concern. Simon had pretended amusement at the supposedly preposterous thought, while inwardly he had raged.
Angie’s arrival threatened the respectability that was so important to his plans at this time—and she knew it.
Making no attempt to hide his foul mood, he addressed Angie hotly.
“All right, tell me why you’re here. I warn you, it had better be good.”
Testing the limits of his patience, Angie replied with deliberate evasiveness, “I suppose that means you’re not flattered that I came looking for you when I could be sleeping in my fine little room instead.”
“Your fine little room,” Simon sneered. “You mean the room where you’ll take on any and every man who shows up on Chantalle’s doorstep, and where you’re never truly satisfied until I visit you?”
Angie shrugged a sultry shoulder, allowing her neckline to gape in a way that displayed her breasts enticingly. “There’s some truth to that.”
Bitch . . . she was baiting him.
His flushed expression
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