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Authors: Danelle Harmon
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placed his palm against the door just behind her ear, effectively trapping her between his arm and dark, ruthless face. His voice dropped to a seductive whisper. "You see, I adore dangerous women."
Eva tensed, her heart beginning to race. "You may not adore them so much if one decides to kill you."
"Ah, yes. Kill me. That is a threat you seem to revisit quite often, madam. Perhaps, before this night is over, you will convince me of how . . ." — he smiled — ". . . dangerous you really are."
She gave him a level stare. "I would be most happy to."
He merely laughed, and Eva felt a brief stab of fury that he would dismiss her so lightly. But then, he had done much the same when she'd broken into his apartments back at the castle, blatantly turning his back on her when she held a gun on him, as if to prove that he did not take her as seriously as she did herself.
But then, that's one of the reasons you're so fascinated by him isn't it? Because he respects but not fears you, as so many other men do. Because he is totally unfazed by the fact that you could so easily kill him. You enjoy his courage. You have met your match, Eva.
And she would best her match. She would.
She merely smiled at him and glanced pointedly at his arm. It was still blocking her way. After a deliberate pause, he finally removed it. Eva pushed open the door. A fire burned in the hearth, and a candle stood on a lowboy with curved, spindly legs in the French fashion, its light casting a warm orange glow over the lacquered wood, across the fine Turkish carpet on the floor, and bringing out the lights and shadows from the heavy drapes at the windows and around the bed.
"Have you no maid?" Blackheath asked, raising a brow.
"I gave her the night off. It took her hours to prepare me for the evening. She deserved no less."
He was standing just behind her. She could feel his heat. His hunger. He was very close, and though Eva was a tall woman, he somehow managed to make her feel quite diminutive indeed. She resisted the urge to shudder. She must be mad to be doing this. Mad to let the Duke of Blackheath into her bedroom. Into her life. But she was doing this for her country. And there were far less agreeable things she could do than inviting one of the deadliest men in England into her bed.
Detachment. It was the only way to both enjoy Blackheath's body and keep her own heart safely locked up where he could never reach it. Detachment. It was the only way that she'd be able to keep from fantasizing that he was something he was not, to keep from imagining things that could never be, to keep from dreaming of something that would never happen.
Detachment.
And then he was kissing her, and she knew she was fighting a losing battle, for there was no way anyone could detach from this .
His hands, so broad, skillful and warm, cradled her jaw, her cheeks, tilting her head up to his. She lost herself to the kiss. Her senses began to swim, and from some distant part of herself, she felt pressure behind her legs. A moment later he had swept her up in his arms, her feet dangling, as he carried her effortlessly toward the bed.
Somewhat breathless, Eva struggled to reclaim control. " My terms, Blackheath."
"But of course."
"So put me down."
He smiled.
"Put me down, now ."
With a sigh, he did so, then stood eyeing her with a lazy, confident smile that made no promises whatsoever.
And yet, made all the promises in the world.
"Undress me," she said.
He raised a brow, clearly fascinated, despite himself.
"You men are always the ones to indulge us in your sexual fantasies. Well, tonight you will be indulged in mine."
"I do like the sound of that," he murmured, deeply amused. "I daresay I will enjoy your little . . . indulgences, Eva."
"I can assure you, you will."
She stood quite still, barely daring to breathe as he approached. He came right up to her, until he stood so close that she
Eva tensed, her heart beginning to race. "You may not adore them so much if one decides to kill you."
"Ah, yes. Kill me. That is a threat you seem to revisit quite often, madam. Perhaps, before this night is over, you will convince me of how . . ." — he smiled — ". . . dangerous you really are."
She gave him a level stare. "I would be most happy to."
He merely laughed, and Eva felt a brief stab of fury that he would dismiss her so lightly. But then, he had done much the same when she'd broken into his apartments back at the castle, blatantly turning his back on her when she held a gun on him, as if to prove that he did not take her as seriously as she did herself.
But then, that's one of the reasons you're so fascinated by him isn't it? Because he respects but not fears you, as so many other men do. Because he is totally unfazed by the fact that you could so easily kill him. You enjoy his courage. You have met your match, Eva.
And she would best her match. She would.
She merely smiled at him and glanced pointedly at his arm. It was still blocking her way. After a deliberate pause, he finally removed it. Eva pushed open the door. A fire burned in the hearth, and a candle stood on a lowboy with curved, spindly legs in the French fashion, its light casting a warm orange glow over the lacquered wood, across the fine Turkish carpet on the floor, and bringing out the lights and shadows from the heavy drapes at the windows and around the bed.
"Have you no maid?" Blackheath asked, raising a brow.
"I gave her the night off. It took her hours to prepare me for the evening. She deserved no less."
He was standing just behind her. She could feel his heat. His hunger. He was very close, and though Eva was a tall woman, he somehow managed to make her feel quite diminutive indeed. She resisted the urge to shudder. She must be mad to be doing this. Mad to let the Duke of Blackheath into her bedroom. Into her life. But she was doing this for her country. And there were far less agreeable things she could do than inviting one of the deadliest men in England into her bed.
Detachment. It was the only way to both enjoy Blackheath's body and keep her own heart safely locked up where he could never reach it. Detachment. It was the only way that she'd be able to keep from fantasizing that he was something he was not, to keep from imagining things that could never be, to keep from dreaming of something that would never happen.
Detachment.
And then he was kissing her, and she knew she was fighting a losing battle, for there was no way anyone could detach from this .
His hands, so broad, skillful and warm, cradled her jaw, her cheeks, tilting her head up to his. She lost herself to the kiss. Her senses began to swim, and from some distant part of herself, she felt pressure behind her legs. A moment later he had swept her up in his arms, her feet dangling, as he carried her effortlessly toward the bed.
Somewhat breathless, Eva struggled to reclaim control. " My terms, Blackheath."
"But of course."
"So put me down."
He smiled.
"Put me down, now ."
With a sigh, he did so, then stood eyeing her with a lazy, confident smile that made no promises whatsoever.
And yet, made all the promises in the world.
"Undress me," she said.
He raised a brow, clearly fascinated, despite himself.
"You men are always the ones to indulge us in your sexual fantasies. Well, tonight you will be indulged in mine."
"I do like the sound of that," he murmured, deeply amused. "I daresay I will enjoy your little . . . indulgences, Eva."
"I can assure you, you will."
She stood quite still, barely daring to breathe as he approached. He came right up to her, until he stood so close that she
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