Cheryl Holt by Too Hot to Handle

Author:Too Hot to Handle [Handle, Too Hot to]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

13

Michael tiptoed out of Emily’s room and quietly closed the door. He’d finally driven them both to the point of exhaustion, and she was sleeping.

Dawn was breaking, and he’d stayed much later than was wise, but he hadn’t been able to force himself away. The encounter had been too glorious, the bliss too welcome.

Like the cur he was, he turned to slink up the rear stairs when, to his horror, a door opened down the hall. He froze, curious as to who else could be sneaking around at such an ungodly hour. In view of his disheveled condition, there was no way to pretend he hadn’t just crept out of Emily’s bed, so what excuse could he make?

To his utter amazement, his brother emerged, skulking out in the same despicable fashion as Michael. Across the lengthy expanse of carpet, they studied each other. They were both in the same pathetic shape—rumpled and scarcely dressed—and it was apparent that Alex had spent the evening fornicating, too.

Michael struggled to recollect whose room Alex had been in, and he was sickened to surmise that it was occupied by Emily’s sister.

If Michael cared about anyone, it was Alex, but his brother wasn’t the same as he’d been before the war. In his current state, Alex was the last man Michael would want cavorting with Mary Livingston. Only trouble could result.

Mrs. Livingston was sheltered under Michael’s roof, living under his protection, and he couldn’t let her be illused. Alex could have no honorable intentions. When he married, he would wed for money, which had been the plan until his fiancée had tossed him over. In a thousand years Mrs. Livingston couldn’t provide Alex with what he needed.

Michael waved toward the stairs, indicating that he was going down, and that Alex should follow, and Michael scowled so that Alex knew it wasn’t a request, but a command. Michael was still the elder sibling and strong enough to pound Alex into submission if he was too recalcitrant.

Michael departed and headed to the family dining parlor, where he surprised a maid who was up and preparing the kitchen. He ordered the American-style coffee Alex preferred, then sat down to wait.

It took Alex an eternity to appear, and when he entered, he was insolent and taunting. In the lamplight, he looked like death warmed over, his skin pasty, his clothes soiled, his hands shaking.

Without a greeting, he proceeded to the sideboard, poured himself a brandy, and raised it toward Michael as if toasting him.

“Hair of the dog,” Alex grumbled. “Would you like one?”

“No.”

In a single motion, Alex swigged the contents; then he refilled his glass and did the same. By the third serving, he was enjoying a beneficial effect. His pallor had receded; his quaking had lessened.

When had Alex fallen to such a dreadful level? Why hadn’t Michael noticed? His beloved brother was wasting away, right before his very eyes!

Michael gestured to the chair opposite, and Alex seated himself. The maid delivered their coffee, and as soon as she left, Alex fetched the brandy and mixed his half-and-half.

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