Excerpt from To Tempt
a Scotman - Zebra Books, August 2007!
Yorkshire,
June 1844
. . . The man
stood only a few feet inside the door, tall and dark and glowering at
Prescott. That alone was interesting. No one glowered at her brother's
butler. Prescott controlled access to a young and powerful duke.
Alexandra felt
her prickling interest grow stronger. She edged a little farther into
the room.
"If you'd care
to leave a card, sir--"
"I do not have
a card." The man's eyes flicked toward her, pinned her for a bare moment.
He could not suspect who she was in her current attire, with her black
hair pulled into a tight knot and the jacket hiding her curves. Still,
Alexandra straightened at the brush of that silver gaze, even as it
moved back to Prescott. The butler stood silent, not the least affected
by the man's coolness. Ten seconds passed. Then twenty.
With a stiff
shrug, the stranger finally gave in to the impossibility of intimidating
Prescott. "Please tell her I need to speak with her. I'm at the Red
Rose."
She watched
as he turned, felt the soft tug of her impetuous nature. Who in the
world was he? He should have been cowed by the butler's utter indifference,
but he looked self-assured to the very fiber of his being even as he
was turned away.
His brown hair
needed trimming and he appeared to have forgotten his cravat as well
as his calling card, but the perfect cut of his brown coat spoke of
wealth. And a Scot's burr softened his deep voice---and sped her pulse.
Surely her brother
would never speak of her to someone he didn't trust. "Prescott."
Ever unflappable,
Prescott simply stepped aside. "My lady. A Mr. Collin Blackburn to see
you."
"Thank you,
Prescott."
Collin Blackburn
froze at the sound of her voice. She watched him turn and step back
inside, watched his eyes slide past her to search the corners of the
huge entry for a more likely figure, but when he realized who she was,
only the barest lift of russet brows betrayed his shock. "Lady Alexandra."
She let him
stare a moment, let him take in the oddness of her attire. No gentleman
had ever seen her in riding breeches before, none other than her brother.
She was dressed inappropriately, indecently even, but it mattered not
in the least. She was a fallen woman. She'd earned the freedom to do
as she pleased, so she let him look his fill and took the chance to
study him as well.
He stood as
tall as her brother but wider. Wide shoulders, broad chest. Definitely
no padding in that coat. His body wasn't bulky though. He was, in a
word, solid.
His face looked
purely masculine. Not handsome exactly, but stark and compelling. The
slightly crooked nose spoke of an old fight, but his high cheekbones
and wide mouth turned the mind to more pleasurable pursuits. She glanced
back to the clear gray eyes that studied her so intently and saw his
pupils tighten when he met her gaze.
"Thank you
for seeing me."
"Prescott, would
you have tea brought to the office, please? Mr. Blackburn?" Gesturing
back toward the hall, she spun on her heel to lead the way. Her long
red coat opened as she turned, and she felt the hem brush against the
buff riding breeches that hugged the curve of her thigh and hip. There
was no mistaking the widening of his eyes, even at the corner of her
vision. He'd had quite the view.
Gritting her
teeth against the thrill that chased through her, Alexandra buttoned
the coat and hurried toward the door of her cramped office. The morning
room would be more appropriate, she supposed, but not dressed like this.
Her men's clothes would be a startling sight against a backdrop of flowered
upholstery.
Alexandra stepped
into the office and waved Blackburn toward a pair of chairs by the window.
He waited until she took the chair opposite his, then sat and crossed
a booted ankle over his knee.
"What did you
wish to discuss with me, Mr. Blackburn?"
He let a heartbeat
pass, then another. He watched her and frowned. A lock of hair fell
over his brow when he finally inclined his head. "I'm here to ask a
few questions."
"Questions?"
"About Damien
St. Claire."
The name tightened
the muscles of her jaw in a painful bunch. Blood rushed to her ears,
roared like crashing waves. She couldn't move for a long moment, couldn't
make her throat work. A deep breath forced it open. "I think that you
should leave," she said very carefully, very evenly.
Blackburn shook
his head, began to protest, but she stood and stabbed a finger at the
door. "No. It's obvious my brother did not send you here. Leave. You
can find your way out." She pushed past him to the desk and dropped
into the seat behind it, hands frantically shuffling papers. A rush
of hurt surged in her chest. Why would she think he'd be different than
any other man?
Standing with
slow purpose, he stepped toward her and leaned to rest his fists on
the desktop. His jaw looked as hard as hers felt. "Lady Alexandra, I
need to know what happened between you and St. Claire--and John Tibbenham."
"Truly? How
does it involve you?" Making an obvious show of widening her eyes, she
looked up at him with mock dismay. "Oh, I'm sorry. You must have been
one of my lovers. I find it so hard to recall them all."
His eyes narrowed
as if her words had been a slap, then a sneer twisted his mouth as he
leaned close. "Believe me, my lady. If I'd been one of your lovers,
you'd remember it."
"Really?" Alexandra
let her gaze drift down to rest on the front of his trousers.
His fists tightened
to rock on her desk. "Dinna think--" he began, but she cut him off again.
"You are not
the first man to come here on the scent of easy prey. A ruined woman
who just happens to be an heiress? Is that what you were thinking? Not
very original, Mr. Blackburn. Please get out of my home."
"John Tibbenham
was my brother."
Alexandra stared
at him for a moment, rage trapped like ice in her chest, cracking against
her ribs. When his words sunk past the roar of blood in her ears, she
flinched and looked down, back to her rumpled papers, away from the
hate in his eyes. The heat that had rushed to her cheeks drained away.
John's brother.
He had mentioned a half-brother once, as they'd trotted through a long
country dance. Not the night he'd died. Perhaps the night before.
And here are the first few paragraphs of the
award-winning love scene. I cannot, in all good conscience, post more.:
"Into the tub."
Alex brushed
past him as she walked, letting her arm rub against his shirt, against
the solid mass of his chest beneath it. She loved the effect she had
on this man, loved that she could control his very breath--make him
gasp or pant or stop breathing altogether.
She stepped
over the edge and let one foot sink into stinging-hot water. Collin
watched, eyes locked on the water lapping at her knee. Alex pulled her
other leg in and eased down. When she touched bottom, the water came
just to her ribs, tiny waves sloshing against the underside of her breasts.
He stared.
His gaze heated
her nipples, seemed to scrape against them until something twisted in
her belly, something almost painful and as hot and liquid as the water
that swirled about her. When his eyes slid up to hold hers, the silver
wildness of them caught her breath and deepened the pain in her belly.
She'd never
seen his eyes like this, glinting gray on black, hot and icy cold at
once. She suddenly felt in danger of being burned by the fire she'd
so recklessly tended. He was not a plaything; he was a man, a man she'd
pushed to the limits of temper and control. Alex shivered in the hot
water and closed her eyes against the danger.
The cool air
of the room shifted. He was moving, circling her. Her muscles vibrated
in anxious tension as she waited for a touch, for anything.
"Lean forward."
She jerked at
the shock of his words behind her, felt the water rippling against her
skin as the light weight of her hair was lifted from her back. She felt
him dip a hand into the water, heard the slippery squish of wet soap
and then those slick fingers took her in their grip, trailing a cloud
of steamy lavender.
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