Explosive by Charlotte Mede

Author:Charlotte Mede
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Blackburn stood tall in the shadows of the entrance to the conservatory, his reflection multiplied in the room's paneled mirrors. The lean grace was already too familiar to her, the candlelight revealing the face she wished she would never have to set eyes on again. And Blackburn's smile, she saw with escalating panic, didn't even begin to reach the hard blue of his eyes.

"So pleased you could join us at such short notice." Le Comte rose from the table. "I trust you received my invitation late this morning, Blackburn. As it is, it's been a while since we sat down together and dined, no?"

"The invitation did come as a surprise, as did Mademoiselle's hasty departure," he said in the dark voice that Devon was trying to forget. He presented himself like a mistral in the stale and perfumed air of the conservatory, radiating a cool but menacing power.

Helplessly, Devon traced the set of his profile, foolishly noting the strong, straight nose, the wide, deep-set eyes. He arrogantly ignored the Frenchman's offer of a chair, remaining standing, his broad shoulders and obdurate jaw reminding de Maupassant and Devon that they were playing with a still unknown quantity, one that had proven intractable in the past.

Blackburn bowed briefly over her hand, taking in her outrageous costume, her hair swept up in burnished curls that tumbled in artful disarray over her shoulders. She knew she gave the impression of luxuriant, available flesh. She could read it in his eyes.

"It is what you wanted," she murmured defensively and for his ears alone, her eyes meeting his with defiance, forcing her movements to be leisured and unhurried as she self-consciously adjusted the velvet ribbon around her neck.

"Don't you really mean to say that you made your choice, reneging once again on your promise?" The words were low, rich with accusation. "And wasting very little time."

How much she wanted him to believe that she would never give herself to the Frenchman. For any reason. And yet how patently, sickeningly absurd. She had always known that Blackburn would send her to Le Comte's bed, or to the hangman's noose, without a second thought.

As coolly as he had sent his brother to his death.

Yet it remained inexplicable and irrational, her desire for him coalescing into one simple wish: to dive into his arms and remain there, sheltered against the wall of his chest. They were so close that she could reach out and touch that sinfully sensual mouth that had given her so much pleasure. At that moment, she despised herself, despised herself for still wanting him, for feeling the unwelcome excitement and tension that his nearness ignited in her like a match to gunpowder.

She remembered his hot words as he took her on the floor in front of the fire. She remembered his hardness filling her to oblivion, a fog of sensuality clouding her brain.

And she hoped he couldn't read her mind.

Both men were watching her and she felt their cunning pervade the room like a scent.

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