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Copyright ©2003 by Jaide Fox

First published by New Concepts Publishing, March 2003

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WINTER THAW

by

Jaide Fox

(c) copyright Jaide Fox, March 2003

New Concepts Publishing

Cover art by Eliza Black, March 2003

4729 Humphreys Rd.

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

CHAPTER ONE

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Alexandria, Virginia 1821

Winter Stevens gasped as Vincent Giovanni unveiled his creation to her at long last, whipping the cover

cloth to the side with a flourish that threw a fine mist of dust into the air. The air born particles drifted

through the beam of sunlight that poured through the open window, shining on the painting like a spotlight.

Looking upon it, Winter felt a bolt of shock akin to lightening pass through her body. As if she'd

suddenly been transformed into petrified wood, Winter found she could not move, could not blink, could

not even breathe.

It was a monstrosity.

"I call it The Ice Princess,” Mr. Giovanni said proudly, apparently pleased with Winter's reaction. He

seemed to be laboring under the assumption that she was stunned speechless with admiration.

Thaw set in. For a moment, Winter felt herself hovering between a faint and violent illness. Her stomach

clenched in a painful knot as she continued to gape wide-eyed at the painting, backing slowly away in

disbelief until she bumped into a chair and collapsed into it. She wanted to cover her eyes, but she was

powerless to look away.

Blissfully unaware of her initial, and subsequent, reaction, Giovanni remained engrossed for some

moments in studying his latest masterpiece.

Winter took a deep breath, attempting calm, fighting down the panic that threatened to overwhelm her.

She would not by ruled by her emotions, least of all by stark terror. She swallowed, trying to unstick her

tongue from the roof of her mouth. She realized after a moment that her tongue felt swollen and

uncooperative for the simple reason that her mouth had gone dry as dust. She swallowed convulsively,

several times, and managed to gather a little moisture into her mouth. “Mr. Giovanni, why have you ...

what happened to my ... why has my portrait been composed as a nude?” she managed faintly.

His accent was heavy, but his English was flawless. She knew she couldn't have misunderstood his

intentions when he'd sought her out as a model. She'd been so thrilled, so defiant of her mother's stern

admonition that she could not, under any circumstances, pose for the brilliant artist. He had never

mentioned anything of this sort, nor could she reconcile the genteel old man with any deviousness of

character. Why then, had he donethis ?

She had not—definitely NOT posed for him without her clothes! And yet, the painting depicted a

woman completely without shame, lounging in a pile of dark, supple furs, clothed only in her hair.

Crystalline walls protected her from the harsh, beautiful winter raging outside. There was such exquisite

detail in her face and form—no one would believe that she'd been wearing her best walking dress as

she'd posed for him. No one would believe that this ... this monstrosity was the result of nothing more

than the man's vivid imagination ... no one would doubt that she had posed nude for him.

He nodded, so engrossed in his admiration of his handiwork it was obvious he had not heard one word

out of three. “Nude, yes! Is it not perfection? Is it not exquisite? At first I was doubtful, but I do not

regret that I allowed myself to be persuaded ... I believe you are one of my best subjects. In truth, your

unusual coloring intrigued me from the beginning. I may like to paint you again someday.” He thought

about it a moment. “Though in a different setting, of course."

Winter nearly strangled on her incredulity. Was the man mad? She wouldnever do something like this

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again if she managed to recover. Why would he think she wouldever sit for him again?

Scandal. The foul word clung to her thoughts like a stench. It was the only thing her mind could wholly

grasp. She deeply regretted going against her mother's wishes now, for deceiving her mother into

believing these past weeks that she'd been going to the park with her friend, Sarah. In truth, she had no

friend named Sarah.

When she thought back on the lengths she had gone to, only to find ruination!

Her mother must never find out. She'd had far too much heartache in her lifetime to weather her

daughter's deceit and ruination. It wouldn't matter that she was an innocent still. Never mind that Vincent

Giovanni was at least thirty years her senior, no one would believe theyhadn't been lovers after viewing

his painting of her. It reeked of intimacy.

Her stomach heaved. She clamped a hand to her lips, placing her other hand protectively over her

stomach, soothing the ulcer she could already imagine forming.

Her thoughts were chaotic in her desperation to find a way out of the mess she'd gotten herself in to.

Abruptly, a solution presented itself, uplifting her spirits. All was not lost! It wasn't too late. She could

destroy the portrait before anyone else saw it. Once she pried it away from him, she would burn it in

private with none the wiser. “Thank you, Mr. Giovanni. It is beautiful. Now, for payment—"

"It has already been taken care of, Miss Stevens.” He faced her, smiling.

Hope soared, but she tamped it down to reality. He'd worked long on this project, she couldn't allow

him to simply give it to her, even if it was what she wanted. “No, I cannot allow you to give me such a

gift.” Years of pride dictated she not accept charity, nor could she allow him to go unpaid even if she'd

been inclined to accept charity. It was unfortunate she had not had the foresight to stow away more of

her meager allowance. If she hadn't had to pay for conveyance to his studio.... That was over and done

now and could not be helped. She had saved what she could. It would have to be enough.

He chuckled then and covered the painting once more.

She was grateful. It was unnerving to see herself so depicted. His amusement, however, confused her.
Questions burned her tongue for want of asking, but, from his attitude, she felt he was building to some

revelation. She could feel trouble brewing like a storm about to erupt.

Finally, he settled himself down behind his desk, devoting his full attention to her.

"The Ice Princess was a commissioned piece of work. You were requested specifically as the model. I

had no choice but to seek you out and invite you to sit for me. It was fortunate for us both that you

agreed."

Dear god! Winter shook her head, trying to make sense of his speech. Someone had PAID the man to

destroy her? Someone had specifically requested her, had plotted to ruin her by commissioning a nude of

her? She'd never suspected something so vile ... not even in her nightmares.

An ache began pounding behind her eyes. She was ruined. She had ruined her family—her mother's

good name. It was all they'd had left and now they would not even have that much because of her willful

disregard for her mother's warnings. How could she have been such a vain fool?

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"Who commissioned this ... this...?”Atrocity . If someone had deliberately set out to ruin them, she had

to know who it was. And why. She could think of no reason for hatching such a plot. What could they

possibly hope to gain by defiling her family name and destroying her reputation?

Blackmail?

She shook the thought off. That was absurd. It was common knowledge that they had no money to pay.

"I am afraid I can't divulge that information.” He steepled his hands, his face gone serious as he studied

her, eyes strangely saddened.

Winter felt that he wanted to tell her the truth, but something, orsomeone , prevented it. What person

could have such a hold? Only one with power and riches—enough to crush anyone in their path. Enough

to crush her. She prayed that she was wrong in her fears.

"Mr. Giovanni....” She paused, working up the courage to beg. “Whoever it is, you must not allow him

to take it, Mr. Giovanni. I'll be ruined, my family shamed,” she pleaded, knowing it was useless. Mr.

Giovanni could not have failed to realize what the portrait meant ... ultimate disgrace. For whatever

reason, he was under the conspirator's power and could not help her now even if he had wanted to. His

next words confirmed her worst fears.

"I have no choice. But, you need not worry. He assured me it was for a private collection. He gave me

his word of honor, or I would not have agreed under any circumstances."

"His word?” Winter echoed faintly, wondering a little wildly if Mr. Giovanni was feeble minded. What

good was the word of honor of a blackmailer? A defiler of a young woman's reputation? The urge to

laugh was almost insurmountable, and she knew hysteria threatened. She was not such a beauty as to

make someone desire a portrait of her, in innocence. This personmeant to plot her ruin. And had paid

handsomely for it. Winter and her mother had only a modest income. She knew without being told

Giovanni had been well compensated, and she couldn't blame him for succumbing to the needs of his

purse. Would that she could earn some sort of income for her own family.... She would have never been

placed in this predicament, never been so powerless.

Still, she could not simply allow thiscollector to have the painting. She would find out the man's name,

somehow, and appeal to his sense of honor and propriety ... if it was even

possible—beg—threaten—whatever it took.

Winter shook herself. She could not let doubt creep into her now. She had to believe she would

succeed. Tomorrow, she would return with a clear head and try to wheedle the information she needed

from Giovanni.

With that thought bolstering her, Winter rose from her seat and shook his hand. “Thank you, Mr.

Giovanni. It has been an ... enlightening experience.” If she never saw him again, it would be too soon.

Vile deceiver .

It made her ill even to think what lengths she would have to go to to pry the information from the man.

She collected her cloak from the rack as a servant was summoned to see her out. Silently, he escorted

her through the halls to the front entrance, though she needed no assistance, familiar as she'd become

with Giovanni's studio. She moved woodenly, her thoughts chaotic with plans as she exited the house and

followed the walkway to the street.

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Frigid wind howled and gusted, tearing her hair loose from her chignon to blow in the wind, tangling over

her face as she walked. She clutched her worn cloak tight to her chest, watching the ground as she

moved, avoiding the sheen of ice that treacherously coated the worn brickwork. She blew away the thick

tendrils of hair obscuring her vision, but it wasn't until she had run into him that she noticed the man

headed for Giovanni's studio.

He caught her as she stumbled into him, his strong hands gripping her silk encased arms, steadying her,

his long, tapered fingers trapping locks of her pale hair that twined about his digits as if with a life of their
own. Something about him struck her as familiar, his pleasant scent teasing her nostrils with their intimate

proximity as she leaned into the broad shield of his body and recovered her balance on the slick

cobblestone.

"Excuse me,” she mumbled, curiosity prompting her to peer up into his down turned face as he towered

above her. She found herself gazing into a familiar pair of dark eyes, filled with mocking amusement.

Shocked recognition made the breath freeze in her lungs. Her mind screamed the warning to run, but she

found her legs had turned to jelly and could not obey.

Winter jerked from his grasp as though scorched by a heated iron.

He smiled darkly, his black cape and thick, midnight hair fluttering around him as a gust of wind swept
between them. Surrounded by movement and immediacy, he seemed to retain a sense of stillness as he

watched her, almost anticipatory of what she would do next. As though he wished she would run so that

he could pursue her.

It washim . The man who'd haunted her conscience and her dreams with guilt for a year after she'd first

known him. A man she had completely forgotten in the ensuing tragedy she'd suffered with her father's

death. Or at least, she'd told herself she'd forgotten him.

His name whispered in her mind like a curse and a caress.

Logan Cordell.

This man ... she'd wished never to see him again. His very name filled her with a deep shame at what

she'd allowed to happen. It had been years since she'd seen him, not since she'd been a green girl on her

first season. She'd been no more than eighteen at the time, and it seemed a lifetime ago. Despite the
passage of time, however, she saw that every sensuous nuance of his face and form were the same.

She blinked away the memories, studying him now and realized that she had been wrong. He had

changed over the years. His eyes no longer laughed, they mocked. The laugh lines around his mouth that
she had once found so intriguing crinkled now in derisive amusement. The charming rogue had vanished.

In his place was a man who had hardened, and she wondered with horror if she'd been the cause.

But he wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be in England, settling his estranged father's

affairs ... and living out his life there to the end of his days.

His presence here confirmed just how dire her situation was. She knew immediately who had

commissioned the nude portrait—understood the irony of the painting's theme. It could be the only

reason why he would come to Giovanni's residence.

A sickening certainty engulfed her, bringing with it raging emotions she could scarcely recognize as

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belonging to herself. With an effort, she controlled the urge to yield to them just as she'd always

done—and always would.

"We meet again, Miss Stevens.” His voice rolled over her like black velvet, vibrating with intensity,

seductive and warm as it had ever been in her memories. He took her hand where it hung limply by her

side and pressed his lips to the back of it, the heat of his breath warming her hand through the silken lace.

She could almost feel the soft texture of his mouth and the rough shadow of whiskers through her thin

gloves, little barrier to the sensual assault he bore against her mind.

Every impulse urged her to snatch her hand away, but she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of a

response. He'd merely unsettled her, no more. She felt nothing for him now but an intense need to see

him strung up by his thumbs. She had not been dubbed an ice princess by him without good cause.

“Good day to you, Mr. Cordell,” she said with practiced calm as she withdrew her hand from his.

"What brings you to our mutual friend, Mr. Giovanni?” he asked, all innocence.

As if he didn't know. Her temple pounded again, the headache coming back in full force with the struggle

to maintain her facade.

He watched her with dark eyes, a half smile teasing the corner of his lips, as though he knew she'd

discovered his mischief and thought to gain a rise out of her on the spot.

What she wanted to do was slap his smug face clean off. Her palm itched with pure need, but she

remembered another time and place when she'd given in to her impulses. Had she retained better control
then, she would not be in this situation now. Far better to rage inside than give in to her dangerous urges.

“I was merely settling some private affairs,” she said through a forced smile, her face feeling as though it

would crack under the strain.

"I'm sure.” His voice held the allure of intimate knowledge—a secret shared between them.

If she were not a lady ... shewould slap him. She was already beginning to feel sorry she hadn't. Instead,

she said, “I had not heard you patronized Mr. Giovanni, nor that you had returned to town."

"Myinterests would no doubt surprise you.” He paused and raked a hand through his unfashionably long

hair curling in the wind. “As it happens, not all men of my profession areboorish oafs . I consider myself

a patron of the arts."

Winter thought she was going to be sick at the reminder. “If you'll excuse me, I must be going.” She

turned to go, but he blocked her escape with a hand on her upper arm—as if he had a right to touch her

as he willed, that some permission had been granted him. She pulled loose from his hand and regarded

him coldly.

"Do you require an escort? It has been long since I was in the city, but I am certain unmarried women of

genteel breeding do not wander its streets alone."

She recognized sarcasm when she heard it. Dare he suggest her actions at fault, when his own were so

odious? “Thank you, no. I've arranged for someone to come."

"Very well then. Perhaps you will allow me to call on you some time."

Her lips tightened. “Friendsare always welcome visitors,” she said snidely, hoping he was not too dense

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to perceive the obvious. He had never been a friend and was certainly not one now.

He bowed and left her as a coach pulled up on the street.

The skin on her neck prickled, and she could swear he watched her as she entered the coach to leave,

but she did not look back to confirm her suspicions. She had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of

knowing how much he unsettled her.

* * * *

From the window of Giovanni's studio, Logan watched Winter's carriage as it disappeared from sight, his

mood pensive.

"My Lord, you are not pleased with the painting?” Worry tinged Giovanni's voice.

Logan did not turn, continuing to stare out the window. “On the contrary, I could not be more pleased

with the results,” he said pensively. He rubbed a thumb along his whisker roughened chin absently, his

thoughts upon the subject of the painting and their late skirmish.

The painting, as exquisite and revealing as it was, could never compare to Winter. It depicted the beauty

of her face and figure, but it portrayed no more than a pretty shell. It could not capture her life's

essence—so palpable he could feel it when she was near.

And yet, he had not lied. He was most pleased with the results, for he had seen in her eyes that she

knew the hunter had come for her and she had found herself trapped in his snare.

The painting would be equal torment to them both—for he found it only served to heighten his hunger to

possess her, to see her naked and wanting, writhing with passion beneath him. It spurred his impatience

to break through that chill exterior she had cultivated so carefully to find the vibrant woman she hid.

She was just as he'd remembered, just as forbidden, just as tempting to touch.

Every memory of her, every secret longing he'd buried deep inside over the years pushed back into his

consciousness, to be relived with painful intensity. He should not have come back. His father had been

right in that at least, but, despite the years and miles that separated them, he'd found he could not forget

her. And finally he had known that he would have no peace unless he sought her out, finished what they'd

begun.

She had tormented him in her innocence, still did.

The smell of her hair drove him to distraction; her regal poise and cool stare; the seductive huskiness of

her voice, tinged with the lure of the South.... He'd spent countless waking nights imagining what he

would do when he met her again, what he would do when she was within his grasp....

It was madness to have come, insanity to have set his plot in motion. Or, if not, then he would surely be

driven to madness before he accomplished his goal, and he hadn't yet tasted her hidden delights. Her

disdain, the sharp intelligence she possessed that cut to the quick might well be the death of him, for it

had led him to this lunacy.

And yet he had no reservations regarding the course he had chosen for himself. He knew a wildcat lay

just beneath her prim, icy surface, waiting for him to free her from her self-imposed prison. That promise

drew him to her as surely as dying man to water.

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The question was, would he come out unscathed, as he always had?

It seemed unlikely, and yet that in itself was a part of the challenge, to have his revenge and come out

unscathed, as he had not before. But he also knew that Winter was a woman of hidden passion, that

could draw him in and slay him with his own sword. A man could spend a lifetime trying to unlock her

secrets. He relished the challenge of facing a foe his equal, when winning would be such sweet reward....

* * * *

Winter was nearly home when she realized she had done nothing more during the entire return trip than

stare blankly into space while the images of her meeting with Logan Cordell replayed itself over and over
in her mind. Each time it did, she thought of something far more clever that she could have said to set him

back on his heels. By the time she became aware of her surroundings once more, she'd had him groveling

at her feet, begging her forgiveness and offering up the painting, which she had promptly ripped to

shreds—and still withheld her forgiveness.

Reality set in at last. She had been blindsided and she had done little more than stare at him with the

frightened eyes of a rabbit caught in a snare, stammer and shake with fear. She seethed with anger, but

fear reared its ugly face once more, undermining her righteous anger, which should have given her

strength.

Winter could only wonder when Logan Cordell would strike again. She could scarcely bear thinking on

it, for each time she did it heightened her anxieties to the point that panic set in, but she knew she would

have to try to prepare for any eventuality. Perhaps nothing would come of it after all, she thought

hopefully, and she was worrying herself needlessly.

The lie did nothing to ease her fears. As foolhardy as she knew it must be to act hastily, she was fairly

certain that her nerves could not withstand the wiser course, to wait and see. She must think of

something. She couldn't help feeling that her situation could only worsen if she did nothing. But whatcould

she do?

On reaching home, she was greeted by her mother before she'd gotten fully inside and removed her

cloak.

Excited and breathless, her mother clasped her hands agitatedly. “Winter, you will not believe the news I

have heard this day! Come, sit in the parlor with me. I must tell you at once."

Winter couldn't imagine what her mother could have heard to discompose her so. They never had

visitors. Whatever friends they'd had before had disappeared in direct proportion with the money the

debt collectors had accumulated from her father's accounts after his death.

Naturally enough, her first thought was that her mother had somehow heard about the painting, and she

thought for several moments that she might faint. Fortunately her sense of guilt and fear had not totally

deprived her of her wits and she realized that her mother actually seemed excited by her news, not

hysterical.

She was able to regain a measure of composure as she hung her cloak up by the door before following

her mother. They entered the small room they referred to as the parlor and settled themselves near the

iron brazier, the glowing coals banishing the unseasonable chill they had never grown accustomed to even

though they'd lived here for the past eleven years. At times, she sorely missed Savannah's warmth.

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"Do you remember that gentleman from a few years back who wished to call on you—Mr. Cordell?”

Mrs. Abigail Stevens asked excitedly of her daughter.

Winter nodded, unable to speak. Had he already set the next step of his plan to ruin them in motion?

Had her mother discovered what her only daughter had been about?

"Your father thought him an unworthy suitor and you gave him the cut-direct, as any obedient daughter

would have. I confess, he did not seem low bred to me, as your father accused. I worried that we would

suffer repercussions from your father's actions, but naught came of it, and I never gave it another

thought.” She paused for effect, and Winter gritted her teeth in suspense, maintaining her ladylike facade

of cool interest with a supreme effort. “As it happens, and I hate to admit this, but your father was wrong

in his thinking."

Winter stared at her mother blankly for several moments before she could think of the response she

knew her more was waiting for to continue. “I'm afraid I don't understand you, Mama.” Where was her

mother going with this?

Abigail Stevens patted her daughter's hand. “Forgive me. I'm rambling, I know, and keeping you in

suspense. It has just shocked me so much. To think we have an English lord in our midst! For it

transpires that that is exactly what your Mr. Cordell is, my dear! A lord! Your father never trusted the

English after the war, you know. I suppose he must have thought Mr. Cordell a spy, even though the war

had been over so long."

Winter felt her jaw drop. Resolutely, she snapped it back in place. “No. No, it cannot be true. Someone

has played you false, Mama!"

"I would have thought so, too, my dear. But Mrs. Moxley has always given me sound information.

‘Twas she who called today. Apparently, when Mr. Cordell was in England settling his father's affairs, he

was also being instated as the new Earl of Remington."

Blood rushed to Winter's head as her pulse raced, sickening her with dread. She had wronged Logan

Cordell, and all because of a prejudice instilled upon her by her father.

No, she thought, striving for honesty, the fault could not be laid entirely on her father's doorstep. She had

accepted his judgment unquestioningly. She was just as guilty for her part. Her predisposition toward

recklessness lay at the root of most of her problems—it was why she always strove so hard to be the

perfect lady.

Yet time and again, she failed.

Winter worried her lip, listening vaguely to her mother as she babbled happily about the prospect of

having an English lord among them, too caught up in her own private drama to manage more than token

responses.

It was too late even to consider tendering her apologies. He would see any attempt to do so as nothing

more than a play to gain his sympathy now that she had placed his means of revenge in the palm of his

hand. That he would exact a measure of justice from her for her part in his humiliation, she had no doubt.

The question was, when?

CHAPTER TWO

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Merriweather Residence

Four years earlier

"He's watching you again, Winter,” Callie Merriweather said behind her elegantly gloved hand.

Underneath the glove, Winter knew she wore a glittering emerald—her engagement ring and the cause

for tonight's ball. “I would think it romantic had he not risen from the gutter."

Winter knew at once to whom Callie referred, and still she looked up without thinking, drawn to his

somber darkness, out of place in such gay surroundings. She caught his eye, immediately regretting her

thoughtless action. He'd think her interested in him—which she adamantly was not. “Impertinence bred

from the street, no doubt,” she said, turning away. Callie giggled, smoothing her perfectly coiffured hair.

Logan Cordell had haunted her every step the entire night, always watching her, always near at hand. He

looked at her as if he'd known her intimately. He had always looked at her that way, even when he'd first

been introduced into their social circle—

privately, she admitted that she had found him strangely familiar from the first time she had seen him,

intriguing, disturbingly attractive. His rise to wealth had been sudden, as though he'd come from nowhere

and landed in their midst like a phantom king.

It was unnerving the way he always watched her, attended every soiree to which she went. He never

approached, never spoke to her. But Winter could feel his gaze roaming over her body at every turn, and

it caused a thrill of both fear and anticipation to run recklessly through her.

She shook her head, pushing the scandalous thoughts aside, determined to enjoy the evening.

"Oh, here's Thomas. He'll want to speak privately, I'm sure. It was lovely talking with you, Winter.”

Callie kissed her friend's cheeks and went to greet her fiancÉ, leaving Winter alone.

Winter remained where she was, awaiting her parents’ return from the refreshment table. After a

moment, she casually glanced toward Logan Cordell once more, wondering if he was still staring at her.

She froze, stunned to see him walking toward her. Her heart skipped several beats and started pounding

in her chest, feeling as if it would crush the breath from her lungs.

Logan Cordell approached her with the darkness of a dangerous storm, and she found it just as

frightening. He'd seen his opening, for she had no one to shield her from him. Until this moment, she'd not

been alone the entire evening. He must have been watching and waiting for this exact moment.

She regretted not having followed Callie now, even if she would have been intruding. Indecision gripped

her in a vice. Winter cast her gaze around, seeking escape before he could reach her, but how was she to

flee without looking like a hounded doe? Without casting propriety to the wind and attracting unwanted

attention to herself?

It struck her quite suddenly that she was behaving foolishly, worrying unnecessarily. Low born he might

be, but surely he was not so uncouth that he would forget himself in the midst of a crowd. She decided

she would not suffer the indignity of being chased. She lifted her chin and gave him a haughty stare as he

neared.

He smiled crookedly, as if he'd expected things would turn out this way. Being placed in this

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predicament infuriated her.

It had been impossible to remain unaware of his interest. She was uncomfortably aware that, had his

circumstances been different, she would have found it difficult to remain aloof to such a charming rogue.

But her father had been outraged by his obvious interest, had forbidden her to have any congress with the
man. And now, all her efforts to avoid an unpleasant scene were for naught, for he was a man who would

not be ignored.

Without breaking stride, he ignored her look of frozen dismissal, took her arm, pulled her to her feet and

dragged her onto the dance floor, all before she could so much as voice an objection. Stunned by his

unbelievable audacity, Winter realized, too late, that he had prevented any objections she might think to

make. To attempt to struggle now, to leave him on the dance floor, would only create the very scene she

had hoped to prevent.

She prayed her father had not just walked into the room and seen what had been nothing less than an

assault upon her person—prayed the dance would be a short one. It was not to be. The opening strains

of a waltz filtered through her shocked senses, and she found him guiding her into it, his stance as proper

as any gentleman's. But his eyes gleamed with wicked boldness, more intense than any man had ever

dared to look on her. The look in his eyes told her he was no gentleman and could not be depended

upon to behave as one—if she had remained in any doubt.

"I am not a china doll you can do with what you will, Mr. Cordell,” she gritted out behind a false smile,

her movements graceful despite her state, as she'd been schooled all her life—a lady was always calm

and collected, in every situation.

He was a graceful dancer. Had he not been who he was, she could have enjoyed it more.

"Certainly not, Miss Stevens.” His gaze drifted downward and came to rest on her breasts a lingering

moment before he returned his gaze to her face. “No man could ever doubt you anything but a flesh and

blood woman."

Despite her best efforts, she flushed with heat and color. His daring knew no bounds. “You are too

bold, sir!"

"Am I? I think you enjoy it."

"I'll thank you not to make assumptions about my person,” Winter said coldly, uncertain whether she

was angrier at herself—for it was true—or at him for being so poor mannered as to point out her failings.

His brows rose and a grin tugged at his lips, but he held his tongue, having the grace to allow her to

recover from her discomfiture. Winter couldn't help but notice, however, that as he guided her around the

dance floor, he seemed to draw her closer to him until she became certain her breasts were brushing

against his chest. His hand scorched her waist through the thin cotton of her gown, further distracting her,

creating havoc with her senses and her emotions.

"A woman like you deserves a real man. Not some pantywaist, which as far as I can see is all to be had

here."

She regarded him coldly, holding herself rigid in his arms. He seemed not to notice—or care. She should

not respond to such a crude statement. She knew the correct thing to do would be to pretend deafness.

And yet, she could not seem to stop herself. “You are coarse and rude,Sir . I suppose you fancy I would

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have an interest in you?"

"If you would allow me to ... ah ... penetrate the frost, yes,” he said, his eyes gleaming now with anger,

no doubt because Winter had resisted his considerable charm.

Winter's eyes widened. She missed a dance step. “That will never happen,” she finally managed to say,

retrieving her dignity with an effort.

"Why? Is Papa's little ice princess too pure to be dirtied by a real flesh and blood man's hands?"

The images his words created in her mind were more disturbing than the words themselves. She was so

outraged at his audacity in speaking to her as if she was a common woman of the streets that she

completely forgot herself, forgot where she was, forgot that no lady would behave so violently and

impulsively. She stopped abruptly, without thinking, and slapped him—in the middle of the dance floor,

surrounded by every gossip in town.

The impact of her hand on his cheek rose above the music—a deafening crack, drawing every eye in the

room. His cheek reddened, displaying the perfect imprint of her hand. The blood drained from her face

as she stared at him, horror stricken at what she'd done, unable to believe she'd allowed him to drive her

over the edge of calm, that she'd allowed him to drive her to such a state as to do something so

unthinkable, even if he had been deserved it.

Someone snickered. Then, as if it was contagious, first one person chuckled, then another, until Winter

thought she'd go mad with the laughter ringing in her ears. Logan's face hardened with anger, condemning

her, eyes black with fury.

Winter took a step back, turned and fled the room, tears of shame streaming down her face. Why, why

had she let him get to her? Regardless of his provocative remarks, he'd done nothing so horrible to

deserve such a public humiliation.

What had possessed her to behave so inexcusably? With such a total lack of decorum?

She pushed through the French doors at one side of the ballroom, ran out into the garden, tripping over

her long skirts in her haste to flee the scene she'd created. Her gown caught on a bramble rose and she

ripped it loose and continued on, seeking solace from the misery flooding her mind and soul. A gazebo

stood in the center of the grounds and she rushed for it, collapsing at last on a bench inside.

She rubbed the tears from her eyes and cheeks, taking deep, slow breaths until she was calm once

more. Everyone would talk now. It would spread like wildfire through the whole city by noon tomorrow.

They would speculate on what had happened, what he had said. Guilt assailed her. Her father would

know by now, know she'd been dancing with the common Englishman. He hated the English with a

passion. He'd never forgive her for making a spectacle of herself or disgracing him with such a vulgar

public display. She was such a fool!

Why had she allowed him to provoke her into such a vulgar outburst?

She was not prone to self-examination, and more inclined when she did to shy away from any truth that

troubled her, and yet it occurred to her after a few moments that it was not what Logan Cordell had said

so much as the way he had made her feel that had provoked her outburst. It had been fear—because she
had found herself responding in a way she never had to any other man—to a man it was unthinkable even

to consider as a possible prospect for matrimony—the sort of man who was far more likely to offer her

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insult than an honest proposal of marriage.

A rustle in the darkness caught her attention, and she looked up, her heart fluttering as a dark shadow
moved toward her. The shadow evolved itself into Logan and her heart pounded a little harder, though

with a different sort of fear.

She was stunned to find he'd followed her. In the dimness, she couldn't see the mark of her hand but

knew it must still be burning his flesh—a reminder she did not need at the present. She wished only to

forget this night had ever happened.

"What are you doing here?” she demanded, standing up angrily. “Was that display in the ballroom not

enough? I'll not have my reputation ruined because of you."

"You cannot get away so easily with humiliating a man in public,” he said, voice quiet with warning. He

stopped at the entrance of the gazebo, his look predatory.

"You deserved it for such improper behavior! Do not try to pretend otherwise, for I do not believe for a

moment that you are so ignorant of what is expected in decent society! Now please leave me alone."

Guilt flooded her at his accusation. It was all too true that she was as culpable as he was, that she had

publicly humiliated both of them when she could have handled the situation far better. She couldn't bear

the reminder of her own lapse.

He made no move to leave, his stance casual, almost relaxed, though his gaze was watchful. It angered

her all over again. He riled her with such ease, it was unnerving. When several moments passed and he

made no move to return to the ball, she said, “If you'll not go, I will."

She moved to push past him, but he caught her arm in a vice grip. His bare hands connected with the

cool skin of her arm like a brand.

"I'm glad to see your fire has not been bred out like the whole of society."

"You crude oaf. It is no concern of yours what—what ... fire I have. Let me go,” she gritted out, pulling

at her arm.

"But it is a matter I consider deeply my concern,” he murmured, his voice husky, seductive.

Without warning, he pushed her against the gazebo's support, trapping her arms in his embrace. Winter's

heart lurched, her pulse racing. She squirmed and stomped at his feet. He grunted with the impact, but,

instead of releasing her, he widened his stance, moving closer, until she stood nestled between his legs. A

strange hardness dug into her stomach that confused, frightened and, curiously, made her pulse pound a

little harder. He leaned close, his face mere inches from her own. His hot breath fanned across her cool

skin, causing a shiver of goosebumps to rise in response. Trapped, by his nearness, by a strange

weakness of her own limps, she could do nothing but look into his shadowy eyes, fighting down her

panic.

"I'll scream.” She tried to pull her head back, found she had nowhere to go.

"No, you won't.” He sounded so confident, so assured of his victory.

"I will."

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He pressed his hips firmly to hers as though emphasizing his point. “You haven't yet. Could it be you fear

being caught with my arms around you?"

The thought hadn't occurred to her, but now she realized just how deeply in trouble she was. After the

debacle on the dance floor, if they found her out here like this, her reputation would be compromised

beyond repair. “I fear nothing,” she whispered without conviction, hating the doubts he'd instilled in her.

"I think you do. I think fear you will enjoy this far more than you fear being caught, and possibly

compromised. Relax.” He kissed the corner of her mouth softly. “Don't fight this, and you will almost

certainly enjoy this as much as I."

He'd given her little choice but to acquiesce. She decided she would comply, but only to lull him into

believing he'd won so that he would drop his guard and she could escape.

He nibbled at her lips, relaxing her with his soft teasing before settling his mouth full upon hers. It was her

first kiss, the first time a man had held her in his arms. Forbidden pleasure rushed through her body like a

heady wine. She tingled everywhere his flesh connected with hers, her mouth, her breasts against his

chest. A sudden pulse throbbed in that secret place between her legs as he sucked at her bottom lip,

tugging it with his teeth. She whimpered, unable to control herself, and he growled low in his throat,

pushing his tongue inside her mouth.

She gasped into him and he rocked his hips against her, rubbing that mysterious hardness low on her

belly. Dimly, she knew what it was, some animal instinct inside her had responded to it, her body

welcomed its intrusion.

Dear god, she should not enjoy this so much, certainly not with him. She turned her head, breaking his

kiss, gasping for breath. “Stop,” she whispered, trembling. He'd done this to humiliate her, she realized

suddenly. He had wanted to show her she was no better than him, low, wicked ... And it had worked. A

wave of shame washed over her. She knew now she should have damned the consequences and

screamed for help.

He chuckled, releasing her, and she discovered her legs had gone weak, refused to fully support her.

She leaned against the gazebo, shaken, feeling the cold seeping into her bones, leaching away the heat

that had leapt up between them with his nearness, his kiss. She shivered and rubbed her arms, staring

numbly after him as he walked away, smug and satisfied—and begging for a dagger in the back.

"Never forget a crude oaf made you feel this way, Miss Stevens. Never."

* * * *

Winter tossed and turned in her bed, reliving every shameful moment of her past. Every detail was as

painfully, achingly clear, as powerful as if it had happened only yesterday. Her body ached with

remembered longing—as unwelcome now as it had been then, and she was furious at herself for desiring

him, for yearning for his kisses. Would she never escape those unbidden feelings he'd aroused in her so

long ago?

CHAPTER THREE

If she'd had the coin, Winter would have hired someone to clobber Logan Cordell as he left Giovanni's

studio with the painting and taken the canvas once he was down. Unfortunately, that had not been an

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option. Only the wealthy could afford the safety and clean conscience of having their work hired out.

Winter no longer fell in that category and had been left with no option but pursue the drastic ... and

dangerous herself. She simply couldn't wait around to see what he had planned.

The boy, Sam, she'd paid to watch Lord Remington's residence, had come with a message, assuring her

his lordship had left the premises to attend a card party at Mr. Wickston's. A more opportune time

would likely never arise again—at least not one that coincided with her level of desperation. Shehad to

get that painting. She had to do it now, before her courage failed her.

It very nearly did fail her as she took out the disguise she'd found for herself and examined it. Trousers!

She felt faint only thinking about the consequences should she be recognized in such disgraceful attire, but

the possibility of being seen with no attire whatsoever, should that painting be displayed, bolstered her

flagging spirit.

She dressed in the discarded livery of one of their servants, from a time when such could be afforded,

slipping on the midnight blue breeches, as well as a shirt and matching jacket. The wool was warm

enough she could easily stand the cold outside, and hopefully no one would take much note of a servant

roaming the streets.

She could think of nothing to do with her hair but tie it back and tuck it into her jacket, and cover her

head with a cap. Satisfied she could easily blend in with her surroundings, she crept quietly out of her

room and out of the house with none the wiser.

She did not have enough confidence in her disguise to try to catch a hack in her neighborhood—not that

she could have found one so late in the evening. Instead, she made her way to the station not far from the

park and rode to his townhouse from there. The entire time she felt her belly working itself into a tangle of

knots. She was unused to being so nervous, and it did not settle well with her.

Nearly an hour after she'd first received Sam's message, she stood across the street facing the darkened

residence, hidden in the shadows. A glow in the front entrance told her the servants had left candles

burning for their master's return. At this hour, she'd likely not encounter them were she careful, for they

should be abed. Avoiding the servant's quarters should suffice for her safety.

Swallowing her heart, which seemed to have lodged itself in her throat, she dashed across the street to

the weathered brick house. As a child, she and her friends had played here often, and she'd visited the

home as a young adult until the family been forced to move away after the war. It saddened her to think

they were gone now. How ironic that an English nobleman now owned this home.

Shaking off her distracting thoughts, she went to the window of the parlor on the right side of the

townhouse. She prayed no changes had been made to the structure since Logan had appropriated the

place and moved in. If he hadn't, she should be able to access the house with little difficulty. She

remembered the window in that room had stuck in the sill and had never been able to be locked down

fully. A hard tug could pull it open. She and her friend had discovered it one day when they had sneaked

out of the house to avoid the governess.

Reaching the window, she pressed her hands against the lip and pushed up with as much strength as she

could muster. It shifted, moving up almost silently, and she nearly jumped with joy, working it higher and

higher until she could fit through the opening.

She slipped inside, pausing to allow her eyes to adjust to the gloom before proceeding further, trying to

decide where she would start her search.

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It seemed unlikely he would have had such a monstrosity hung in any of the public rooms. Poor taste

aside, if he hung it where any might see, he could not hope to hold it over her in threat. The servants

would gossip. The whole town would know within hours of its placement.

It was possible that he had simply hidden it away. On the other hand, Logan struck her as the sort of

man who would prefer to keep his ‘weapon’ close. She felt certain he would have it in his room. No

doubt, as a man, he enjoyed looking on a woman's naked form.

It was strangely disturbing to think of a man not her husband seeing what god had given her.

'Twas best not to dwell on such matters.

Taking one of the candles left burning on a side table, she crept up the stairs to the main hall on the

second floor. The servants quarters were on the third floor, she knew, so she would not need to look

there. Wax dripped onto her fingers, stinging her, but she ignored it, looking around the restored house to

gain her bearings. The suite of rooms set aside for the master and mistress of the house were located at

the end of the hall, two bedrooms separated by a conjoined sitting room. She'd gone there once in a

game of hide and seek, a game never finished when they'd been caught.

Winter found his room easily. It was just as she remembered. Crouching as if she would receive a blow,

she opened the door slowly, pushing it open on noiseless, well oiled hinges.

Thankfully the room was empty. Letting out a pent-up breath, she moved cautiously inside, closing the

door behind her. She set the candle on a dresser near the door. Turning, she saw the bed. It seemed to

loom, obscenely huge in the space, and she could only imagine what sort of wickedness had been

performed between its sheets.

Revolting man.

A block chest sat at the foot of the bed, an embroidered cushion inset on the top as an alternate seat. It

looked like something a woman would have, strangely out of place. She wondered if perhaps it had

belonged to his mother. Winter opened it, holding her breath in expectancy that she would find the rolled

canvas there, but she found only summer garments stored inside. She shut it gingerly, looking around for

another possibility.

Abruptly, a faint, hollow rapping reached her ears. Like a deer who suddenly catches the scent of the

hunter, her head came up with a jerk. She listened intently, but could hear little beyond the sudden

thumping of her pulse in her ears. She finally identified the sound, however, as footsteps. She held her

breath, frozen immobile as the footsteps became louder, came nearer, ceasing abruptly as they paused

outside the door. Slowly, the knob began to turn. Winter stifled a gasp, looked wildly around for a place

to hide and finally dove under the bed, unable to think beyond the immediate need to hide.

She'd barely scrambled under the bed when the door opened. She put her cheek to the floor, peering

beneath the dust ruffle. Black booted feet came into her view. They stopped in the doorway. For a

moment she thought, a little hopefully, that perhaps it was merely a servant, come to check to see if his

master had returned.

The hope died almost instantly. No servant wore boots like these, of the finest of leather, polished until

one could almost see their reflection.

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It had to be Logan.

But why had he stopped at the door?

In dawning horror, she remembered leaving the burning candle stick on the dresser by the door. She

clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp, felt her face draining of blood. What other evidence had

she left of her intrusion? What a careless fool she'd been!

Why, why had he come back to the house so early?

An agonizing moment ticked by. Winter stopped breathing, awaiting discovery.

He did nothing but shut the door. She started breathing again, shallowly as she watched his movements,

but her breath sounded so loud in her ears she feared he would hear her. The light flickered as he picked

up the candle, then the room brightened as another candle was lit.

Contrary to the frightening images her mind had conjured, he did not drop instantly to his knee and

snatch the dust ruffle up.

Her hammering pulse began returning to normal when she wasn't immediately discovered. Perhaps he

thought a servant had left the candle for him. There was still some hope she could get out without being

caught. If she waited until he slept, she was certain she would have a good chance.

He walked around the bed to the chest, dropping his jacket to the floor with a soft rustle not a foot from

her head, moving behind her where she couldn't see. She remained perfectly still, barely breathing,

listening intently. Strong hands gripped her suddenly by the ankles with surprising strength. Winter yelped,

clutching with her nails at the carpet for a handhold, but she was yanked from under the bed with little

effort. Stunned, she lay frozen on the floor, blinking up at him as he crouched above her, one knee

braced on the floor.

He smiled crookedly, making no move to rise, his dark eyes gleaming with unholy amusement. “What

have we here?"

CHAPTER FOUR

Winter said nothing, could only gape at him while slow thaw set in to her frozen limbs.

"Now what,” he murmured thoughtfully, “would a livery boy be doing under my bed?"

Winter's heart leapt with a mixture of hope and disbelief. Could it possibly be that he hadn't recognized

her? Was her disguise that good? The room that dim? She licked her lips, but before her harried mind

could conjure a convincing lie, Logan leaned forward, as causally as you please, and placed a hand on

one breast, squeezing gently.

"Ah ... I thought you a little too pretty for a boy.” His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “A lady bird, then.

The question is, have you come to rob me? Or, had you planned to earn your coin?"

Still frozen, unable to think of much beyond the fact that his hand remained on her breast, Winter felt her

jaw drop. If there had ever been a time in her life when she had needed her wits about her, her

unflappable calm, that time was now. Unfortunately, she seemed to have left both behind in her room at

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home, where she should have been at this very moment, cursing Logan Cordell for a blackguard, instead

of lying on the floor of the blackguard's room with his hand on her breast.

Logan tilted his head. “I'm not certain but what you're a bit too boyish for my tastes,” he murmured

thoughtfully. Moving his hand over her breast experimentally, he cupped it, as if judging the weight of it,

then tested her other breast. He hesitated a moment and ran his hand down, along her sides, over her

belly. When his hand cupped her femininity, Winter jack knifed up right, instinctively swinging at him.

He caught her hand mid-air. A deep, wicked, chuckle rumbled from his chest.

Winter screamed her outrage.

He clapped a hand to her mouth. “Unless you want all of my servants in here gaping at you, I'd suggest

you practice a little decorum."

Winter glared daggers at him, muttering against his palm.

Slowly, he moved his hand away from her mouth, reached up and snatched the cap from her head,

dangling it before her nose on his fingers. “Why, Miss Stevens! I'm shocked! It is you, is it not?"

Winter snatched her cap from his hand. “As if you didn't know, you vile blackguard!"

He pretended shock. “Such language ... and from a ... ah ... lady."

Winter gasped, outraged. “How dare you!"

"I could ask the same of you, my dear,” Logan said, apparently unfazed. “What brings you to my humble

home?"

"As if you didn't know, you ... you complete scoundrel!"

Logan studied her a long moment. “As it happens, I had a feeling you would come tonight. Admittedly,

I'd thought you might have something else on your mind besides seduction. Were you going to wait until I

undressed before coming out from your hiding place? I must tell you, you needn't have bothered with

such an elaborate ploy. I do not account myself as an easy mark, but, for the right woman, I can be had."

"I'll just bet you can,” Winter said acidly, hardly believing his arrogance. Handsome men always had that

particular conceit, as if all women were dying to give in to them. She'd encountered it far too often in the

past few years since her father's death had left them vulnerable to such attacks.

Abruptly, he hooked his hands under her arms and pulled her to her feet, his palms sliding down to her
waist, caressing the sides of her breasts. “Apparently, my memory fails me. I would never have thought

you, of all women, would be one to engage in a clandestine affair, Winter."

Winter slapped his hands away and backed up a step to look up at him with false bravado. “As if I

would ever let you touch me, you ... you....” She couldn't think of anything bad enough to call him that

would also fall under the category of ladylike dialogue.

He frowned, studying her thoughtfully a moment. “Did you come here to apologize?"

A start of surprise went through her. She had considered it, but that was before he'd behaved so badly.

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“No."

"I see.” He rubbed his chin as if puzzling the riddle.

"What made you so certain I would come?"

He advanced on her, trapping her against the bed. The only way to escape now was go through him—or

across the bed. She swallowed, glancing quickly at that route and vowing not to stray there.

He lifted his brows. “The cherished memories we share? Unfinished business?"

Was he so delusional he thought she didn't know he had the painting? She studied him, trying to decide

whether it was a possibility, or just hopefulness on her part. She'd smelled brandy on his breath. Perhaps

he was so clouded with drink—and lust, she could still gain what she'd come for? If she could distract

him long enough....

But what liberties would she have to allow to distract him?

She focused on him assessingly and discovered that he had transferred his attention from her face to the

clothing she wore, his gaze heated and thorough as it skated down her length. Her skin tingled from his

lingering look, and she regretted choosing the form fitting outfit, aware suddenly just how tightly it hugged

her legs and hips, the turn of her waist.

"You don't know how much it pleases me to find you in here."

"I can imagine,” she said wryly, watching transfixed as he casually removed his waistcoat. He untied his

cravat, throwing it atop the waist coat before loosening the neck of his shirt. She dropped her gaze,

embarrassed at her own boldness and the knowing look he gave her, but her eyes immediately settled on

a bulge straining against the front of his breeches. She swallowed, her throat gone dry, knowing

instinctively the danger his arousal presented.

Her plans, her boldness, shriveled away at the thought of what he would do. How much could she trust

that good breeding would reign in his lust?

He reached for her, and she startled, scrambling atop the bed to escape him before it even occurred to

her that doing so was exactly what he wanted. He lunged for her, his greater reach catching her easily.

She gave a strangled cry and kicked him in the shoulder, missing his face by inches. He rolled her on her

stomach, straddling her buttocks, trapping her hands beneath her stomach. She could get no leverage to

fight him and growled in frustration.

"Where is the proper lady now I wonder?” he taunted, mocking her.

"I will show you if you but let me up."

He laughed. He actually laughed at her. His hands gripped her waist, holding her in place, his fingers

inches from the tops of her buttock cheeks.

"Stop touching me like that,” she ground out, blowing loose tendrils of hair from her eyes. She couldn't

see anything but the bed.

"Like what? This?” His hand slipped lower, and she went rigid all over.

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"Yes,” she said through gritted teeth.

"Yes, touch you?” He bent, speaking low into her ear. “You should have told me this was what you

wanted. I would have accommodated you sooner."

"This is not what I want,” she yelped, her voice muffled by the bed. Her mind whirled as panic raged

through her. She struggled, trying to free her hands, trying to buck him from her back and finally

collapsed weakly to the bed in exhaustion.

Moments ticked off, and he did not move. Her rapid breathing slowed as she realized he'd made no

attempt to ravish her on the spot. The need to know what was going on finally outweighed her reluctance

to behave in any predictable manner.

What is he going to do, she wondered, turning her head to the side. She could see nothing from her

limited field of vision, however. She blew her tangled hair from her face, to no avail.

"Should you be punished for breaking into my house?” he said finally, his voice tight, sounding strained.

"You are not my father!"

"No. I most definitely have no paternal feelings for you, but something must be done.” He was silent a

moment, as though contemplating what he would do.

"Call the guard if you are so eager for justice,” she gritted out desperately, certain nothing could be

worse than her current predicament. She wanted to strangle him for holding her this way. How dare he

think he could do anything he wanted to her, to insinuate that he could punish her. She'd rather be

publicly whipped than allow him his way.

"Ease down. I'm of no mind to cause you injury, though I'll admit I find the idea of paddling your bottom

more than a little intriguing."

"You bastard."

"I assure you, my parents were married. Save your tongue for other things, sweet Winter. I would think

a moment."

She tensed, expecting that he had lied and would deliver a blow to her buttocks. Instead, after several

minutes passed in tensed expectation, he began rubbing her back, his fingers working deep into her

muscles, easing the stress knotting them. Despite her reservations, despite her initial tensing at his touch,

Winter felt her muscles begin to relax with a will of their own, found that it was actually a pleasant

sensation having his strong hands kneading her.

She'd just begun to truly enjoy his ministrations when he stopped, shifting atop her so that he lay against

her, pulling her hands from beneath her where they had been trapped, lifting her arms above her head and

clamping them to the bed. She tensed as a hard object pressed against the cleft of her buttocks, as he

began to move against her, his breath harsh against her ears, sending shivers of sensation through her. His

arms covered hers, his hands gripping her hands, his body shuddering—with tension, or his efforts to

support his weight so that he didn't crush her, she wasn't certain. But her body responded as if it were no

longer hers to control, a strange excitement seizing her, causing her pulse to race, her breath to catch in

her throat.

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A strange fog seemed to cloud her mind. She found herself moving, almost unconsciously, with him.

Becoming aware of what she was doing, Winter stopped, trying to calm her racing heart, trying to regain

control of her raging senses.

As abruptly as he'd begun, he stopped, rolling off of her and coming to his feet beside the bed. He

grasped her, rolling her onto her back to face him. She stared at him for several moments, unmoving and

finally sat up with the careful movements of a mouse suddenly freed by a cat, regarding him warily,

shakily smoothing her jacket down where it had ridden up her chest.

His eyes flashed a warning, and she stilled. “If you give yourself to me willingly, we will go down to my

study afterwards and you can take the painting and go. I will not plague you again."

Shaken from his caresses, Winter stared at him blankly for several moments, certain she hadn't heard

him correctly. His expression was deadly serious, however, his eyes dark, hot, hungry.

She should have felt outraged ... not breathless and confused.

She should have leapt to her feet and slapped his face, for the liberties he'd taken, for his assumption that

she would willingly give herself to him only to get her hands on the painting.

The problem was, she wasn't outraged.

She wasn't even altogether certain she wasn't tempted to agree, only for the sake of more of his

dangerous caresses.

That was her first clue that her wits had gone a begging. She needed, somehow, to remove herself from

his proximity before something completely insane began to seem like a totally rational solution to her

problem.

"I ... I need a moment ... to collect myself,” she said, moving to the side of the bed and standing slowly,

watching him warily.

He made no move to stop her.

"Take all the time you need.” He smiled a little crookedly and lay down on the bed, propping on an

elbow as he watched her open the door to the sitting room and leave.

She closed the door behind her, collapsed against it, breathing a deep sigh of thankfulness. For many

moments, she simply stared at nothing, trying to regain control of her weak, trembling body.

As calmness overtook her, however, it occurred to her that she had succeeded. Without any attempt on

her part to seduce him with her wiles, he had fallen for her scheme. He honestly believed she would give

in to him—trust a man to think he need only show himself willing and a woman would swoon to

accommodate him!

Now she knew where the painting was. She nearly giggled with relief, feeling almost drunk with all that

had happened. Treading softly, she went to the opposite door and found to her relief that it was

unlocked. She slipped inside the mistress’ bedroom and from there out into the hall.

Chuckling inside as she pictured him awaiting her to join him in bed—something that would never

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happen—she crept back down the stairs and to the first floor, searching with a candle until she'd found

the study.

It was a masculine abode, dark wainscoting on the walls, trophies on high, shelves lined with books and

a cabinet bar in one corner. There was no obvious hiding spot that she could see. She headed for the

cabinet behind his desk and rifled through the deep compartments, finding nothing. Her hopes started to

sink. There were only so many places she could look before he wondered at her continued absence.

"Looking for this?” a distinctly familiar male voice taunted behind her, freezing the blood in her veins.

CHAPTER FIVE

Winter whirled around to find Logan leaning casually in the door frame. He was smiling, a self satisfied

smile that made her long to slap him. A rolled canvas was tucked under one arm.

Oh, how she hated him!

Winter straightened from her crouch, squaring her shoulders, narrowing her eyes.

"I forgot to tell you ... I'd thought of leaving it here, but then I began to wonder if that wouldn't be too

easy. And I found I was loathe to spoil your surprise, Winter. You do like surprises, don't you?"

Winter swallowed with some difficulty, trying to control her temper. “I most emphatically do not, my

lord,” she managed to say, almost coolly.

"Always the lady, even in your men's wear. I have a carriage awaiting you outside. Go now, or you may

never get your hands on this.” He waved it in the air, tormenting her with its nearness, so close and yet

unreachable. She itched to grab it and run, just to see what would happen.

She'd never had a chance. He'd known all along what she was about, known from the first that it was

her, disguise or not. He'd lain a trap for her and she'd fallen into it like a complete nitwit.

He'd merely been toying with her, teasing with the thought that she might still have a possibility of

success.

With her back ram rod straight, she stalked out, determined more than ever that he not see her falter, all

sorts of black thoughts crowding her mind with the tortures she'd enjoy inflicting upon him.

"You'll hear from me ... soon,” he called after her, laughing.

She hoped to god she did not.

* * * *

Logan's amusement disappeared the moment Winter had gone. Despite his incessant teasing, he felt her

absence like an old wound ripped freshly open, raw, hurting—possibly never to heal. Nursing a brandy,

he went back to his study and unrolled the canvas, looking on Giovanni's creation. He smoothed his

fingers over her painted curves, imagining how soft her skin would feel, imagined her welcoming his touch

with that beguiling smile he so rarely saw—and never for him.

He threw back the remainder of his drink, pushing the canvas aside, tormented by what he could never

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have. He'd known from the first that she still hated him. He wasn't altogether certain he could blame her.

He looked back on the brash young man that he'd been and hated himself. He had been so cocky. His

success had gone completely to his head. With nothing more than his wits and his hands, he had created

his own wealth, achieved what few men in his circumstances could. The result had been that he'd become

a much sought after matrimonial prize in a society that would have scorned him had he been penniless.

He had enjoyed being courted, but he'd had no interest in finding himself a wife until the moment he saw

Winter Stevens. From that moment on, he'd been determined to have her, become obsessed with it.

Unfortunately, his cockiness had not withstood her first cool look, her chilly dismissal of him as if he was

beneath her interest, as if he was no more than a stable hand. His ego had been crushed, his confidence

shattered.

It had taken him months to gather the nerve to approach her, to find a moment when she wasn't

surrounded. He had not dared approach her when others were near, because he'd fully expected

annihilation and wanted no witnesses.

But he'd had just enough liquor in him that night to breed courage, and his first success had led to

cockiness.

He was well aware that, in his anger, he'd said things no gentleman should ever say to a lady.

And even so he'd been stunned when she'd so far forgotten herself as to publicly humiliate him.

He'd hated her for that—thought he hated her. Time had worn his humiliation down to an embarrassing

lesson in gentlemanly behavior.

His hatred had not outlived his anger of that night. He still wanted her and no amount of time, it seemed,

was going to change that.

He felt a little ill when he thought of the look in her eyes. Even if she did desire him, it would never be

enough.

He poured himself another drink and downed it, enjoying the numbness the liquor afforded, the way it

dulled his rage.

It was stupid to have pressed her tonight—too soon after her initial shock. He'd done nothing but

frustrate himself and alienate her further.

And that had never been his intention.

She might hate herself for responding to him, but she had—just as she had the first time that he'd kissed

her. He knew that it was not merely his own desires that made him believe she wanted him. He had

thought, if he could only break through that facade of coldness, he would have her.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair, closing his eyes. An image of the

past flashed through his mind, of opportunities lost, never to be regained. She'd had a pure and generous

heart once, untainted by the filth of society. He had sensed it, been drawn to it.

And yet, she'd broken that image at the ball, so long ago, proved she was no better than any of the

others.

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What a fool he was to believe it still lay hidden, deep inside her, that he could find it.

Heavy with drink by now, he began to feel himself drifting into unconsciousness, the memory of their first

meeting teasing his mind. He wondered if she had any idea of the service she'd done him that night, of

who he really was.

CHAPTER SIX

Despite her fury at being thwarted, under other circumstances, Winter might well have been thoroughly

routed. She would almost certainly have despised him, and gone to great lengths to snub him, but she

would have had a great deal of difficulty summoning the nerve for a second battle of wills.

However, despite her reluctance to lock horns with Logan again, she found she simply could not wait for

her doom to come to her. His elusive reference to a surprise set her so on edge that that she could

scarcely sleep that night for worrying what form his surprise would take.

She knew that had been his intention, damn his hide, to torment her with doubts.

By the following night, Winter found that she was on the verge of nervous exhaustion, waiting for the ax

to fall. Finally, she decided that enough was enough. She would not stay cowering in her room waiting for

him to do his worst. She had no one to rescue her from her dilemma but herself.

That painting would burn tonight.

She knew it would never occur to him to think she would be so foolish as to try to sneak into the

townhouse once again to retrieve the painting. She was certain he was convinced that he'd frightened her

away, cowed her into submission. It was that arrogance on which she was counting.

Winter took no chances when she returned to his residence. She'd dressed once again in the boy's

clothing she'd used the first time. It had certainly not fooled Logan for a moment. However, it was

sufficient as a disguise for her gender on the streets, she felt sure, and it was far easier to get around in
breeches than skirts and crinolines. She took great care to make certain no one followed her, glancing
continuously over her shoulder. Once she'd reached the neighborhood, she had taken up a position of

observation and watched, shivering in the cold, chaffing her hands for warmth, but determined that this

time she would not act too hastily and risk failure.

She had seen Logan's carriage drive away. Still, she waited, watching the servants as they made the

rounds through the house for a last check before bed, watching as they dimmed lamps, extinguished

candles and locked up, saw their own rooms brighten with candle glow then go dark as they went to

bed.

She was numb with cold by the time she decided it was time to set her plan into motion.

Shaking, panting with fear, feeling decidedly ill, Winter finally crossed the street, thankful for the cloaking

darkness despite the fact that the darkness alone had contributed greatly to her fear. A board on the

porch creaked as she came up the stairs. She froze, listening and finally decided the creak had not been

as loud as it had seemed, had probably been enhanced by her anxiety. Moving once more, she

approached the parlor window with silent stealth. There, she paused once more, surveying the yard, the

street, the shadows around the shrubbery. Nothing moved that she couldn't immediately identify.

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Crouching, she grasped the window and slowly, carefully pushed it open, gratified to find he'd not

discovered her entry into his house the last time.

She paused to listen again once she had the window open.

The house was as silent as a tomb. Relief flooded her.

She almost chuckled, thinking of his expression when he found out she'd come back and taken the

painting. How fitting that his colossal conceit would be the cause of his failure.

She hooked a leg over the sill, sitting on it as she eased her other leg inside. With both feet planted

firmly, she straightened, pausing to listen once more. A hand reached out from the dark, grabbing her arm

in a firm grip then twirled her away from the window. She came up against the parlor wall with a jarring

thump. A body slammed full length into hers, trapping her against the wall.

Winter sucked in a breath to scream and a hand clamped over her mouth, smothering her cry. She

strained her eyes wide, but could see nothing in the inky room but shadows and the indistinct outline of a

man.

"I thought I'd made it clear last night not to return, Winter.” His voice was soft, an amused edge to its

tone.

It washim . Damn him to hell! How had he caught her this time? She'd been so careful....

"You'll not scream?"

She nodded as much as her restriction would allow and he released her. The sound of him moving

across the room reached her and then a flint was struck and a dim wash of light flooded the room as he lit

a candle.

"How did you know I'd come tonight?” Winter demanded. “I saw you leave...."

"Did you?” He paused for a moment, allowing that to sink in. “Apparently you're laboring under the

misconception that you're dealing with a greenhorn. I knew last night that you would try this again. You
have a stubborn streak a mile wide. It's one of your most admirable traits, I think, certainly one of your

more convenient characteristics. It makes you somewhat more predictable, you see."

Winter glared at him, her jaw setting belligerently. “I am not stubborn."

His brows rose skeptically, but he didn't belabor the point. “Now, why have you come back, I

wonder?” he asked pensively as he moved around the room, lighting candles until she could see him

clearly in the golden glow.

He was dressed, she saw, in a gentleman's evening attire—a facade, of course. No gentleman would

behave this way. Fleetingly, she considered her own behavior and knew it lacking, but she was inclined

to dismiss it.He'd driven her to desperate measures. There were no books on etiquette to guide a young

lady through such a situation for the simple reason that ladies rarely found themselves in her position,

having to safeguard her own reputation. Without a protector, without guidance in how to handle it, she

knew of nothing to do but pursue a course as repugnant to her as it was necessary. For her mother's

sake if not her own, she could not give up.

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She inched toward the window.

"You know why,” she said, not daring to glance at the window for fear of giving away her intentions yet

again.

"I'd like to hear the truth from those lush lips of yours. It would be a pleasant change, don't you think?"

Winter's eyes narrowed, but she wasn't about to allow him to bait her into doing something rash. He was

far enough away she had a chance of escaping. Recklessly, she rushed for the window. She'd gotten

halfway out when he reached her and grasped her around the waist, hauling her inside kicking and flailing

her arms. He deposited her on the floor and slammed the window shut.

He looked down at her, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, behaving as if nothing had happened. “Well? Was

it to apologize?"

Winter struggled to her feet, glaring at him. Surreptitiously, she rubbed her butt, which had taken the

brunt of her fall.

"Apologize for what?” She said, stalling for time. She knew she had to answer him—for he'd dog her

until she did, but she didn't have to like it. “I came for my painting,” she said through gritted teeth,

casually looking for another venue of escape but seeing nothing immediate.

It occurred to her that if she had a weapon, she could bludgeon him into unconsciousness, but she

doubted he'd wait around for her to find something appropriate. He was too fast, and his reach was too

long to give her much hope of seizing something suitable and using it before he could take it away from

her. The differences in their size

had never been more apparent before now, when she was seemingly at his mercy.

"Your painting? I beg to differ, Winter. If you've come for the painting, you've come to stealmy painting.

Come, sit here with me.” Logan sat on a small sofa and patted the space beside him, his smile easy,

charming—one that could easily seduce the unwary.

Winter wasn't fooled, but she recognized defeat when she saw it. She moved to the sofa and sat beside

him, stiff and unbending, as far from him as she could get on the narrow width of the seat's cushion. She

stared unblinking ahead, but watched him surreptitiously from the corner of her eye.

"I paid for the painting, requested the design. It is mine,” he continued non-chalantly, stretching, then

draping his arm across the back of the seat.

Winter was well aware the scoundrel had commissioned the painting, that it had been entirely his idea

that Giovanni had created something so scandalous, but she couldn't see that that entitled him to own

something so damaging to her. “It was done of me. That transfers ownership."

"So youdid pose nude for it? I had wondered. I admit, I was just a bit shocked. I knew you had fire in

you, beneath that facade of ice, but I confess it hadn't occurred to me that you were quite so free

spirited.” He shifted casually, as though merely seeking a more comfortable position, but the movement

brought his leg into intimate contact with her own.

Just as casually, Winter moved her leg fractionally. She turned to glare at him, resisting the urge to

assault him. “You know very well I did no such thing!"

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He chuckled. “In fact, I do. But, of course, no one save you and I and Giovanni know that for the truth

and somehow I think, if it were ever to come to light, no one would believe any of us, should we try to

dispute it.” He shrugged. “And, of course, that has nothing to do with our current situation. We are still at

an impasse ... and you have broken into my house yet again."

Winter looked away, glaring at the floor. “I am not going to allow you to punish me."

"I wouldn't dream of it, my sweet ice princess."

"Don't call me that!” Winter snapped.

"What would you have me call you? Perhaps ... lover?"

She looked at him, her eyes narrowed. “You are overstepping your bounds, my lord."

"As you have?"

She didn't answer, knowing he was right.

He chuckled, easing closer and placing his hand on her thigh. “I have a solution to this, though I begin to

think you may not like it."

Winter stared down at his hand as if a snake had crawled into her lap, so stunned by his gall she couldn't

even think how to respond to it. How dare he even think that she might consider his outrageous proposal,

or insinuate that she might merely ‘not like’ it! She sputtered and stood up. “I wish to go ... NOW."

Logan sighed. “You're fortunate that I'm even willing to grant you this boon."

She didn't know whether to be relieved or sorry that he didn't pursue the proposal further. Instead, he

stood and walked her to the front entrance, his hand on the back of her waist for guidance.

He opened the door but blocked her escape, turning her to face him, gripping her shoulders firmly. “It

should be obvious to you by now that I have no intentions of either giving you the painting, nor allowing

you to steal it. If you come again without invitation, I will assume you have come with the intention of

fulfilling my proposal and sharing my bed. Am I being clear enough for you?"

Winter pulled away from him, squared her shoulders and pushed past him to walk outside before facing

him again. “Crystal,” she said, regarding him coldly.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Winter kept her “promise” to Logan, if blackmailing a person into compliance could be called that. She

did not make any more attempts to retrieve the painting herself. He'd effectively blocked that avenue, and
she didn't like to think how narrowly she had escaped each time. If he'd chosen to, he could have had her

arrested ... or done something far worse while she was under his power. He hadn't, and that had

mystified her as much as it aggravated.

She could do nothing now but wait to see what surprise he would contrive for her.

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For a week, Winter lived in a state of gut-wrenching suspense, refusing to go out, contriving an ‘illness’

to stave off her mother's questions, and suspicions so that she could hide in her room—in truth, her illness

wasn't entirely contrived, for she could neither eat, nor sleep, nor even rest for the anxieties plaguing her

as she awaited her doom. She felt certain he intended something public and horrible, but days passed and
no whispers of scandal were printed in the papers or spread through the streets. The servants didn't begin

to look at her with knowing smiles, or thinly veiled sneers. There were no illicit visits. Nothing happened.

When another week went by, Winter's nerves began to ease. Perhaps she'd been wrong and Lord

Remington had forgiven her transgressions and foolishness, she thought a little hopefully.

Then the invitation arrived by messenger, and the dread came back full force.

There was to be a ball in honor of Lord Remington's return, in honor of his new title. The creme de la

creme of society would be in attendance.

Winter was expected to be there—as directed by a personal note from the devil himself. She would

almost have preferred a firing squad, but it occurred to her that she had no choice but to obey the

summons. She must do whatever it took to get her hands on that painting and trust that the ball itself was

not to be the ‘surprise’ he'd threatened.

It occurred to her, naturally, that she might be underestimating Logan again, that it might have been his
intentions all along to make as public a spectacle as he could manage, setting the painting on prominent

display and summoning all of society to his home for a viewing, or unveiling it at some point during the
evening. But she was rather more inclined, given his behavior thus far, to believe that he was not done

toying with her yet, that he had a far more wicked plan in mind.

He'd made absolutely no secret of the fact that he expected her to purchase her reputation with her

virtue. He might merely have been toying with her even in that, trying to see if he could make her yield so

that he could then reject her offer on the grounds that it was not enough, and proceed to display the

painting, annihilating her reputation. He might dangle it over her head indefinitely, demanding she remain

his mistress until he tired of her.

The possibilities seemed virtually limitless and ultimately destructive to herself, but she could see no point

in trying to figure out his eventual goal. It would not help her in any way that she could see to know his

intentions, other than, possibly, giving her some peace.

It seemed enough, for the moment, to assume that it would be relatively safe to attend the ball she'd been

summoned to with the belief that the ax was not to fall on that occasion.

At any rate, it seemed unlikely that she would get another opportunity to search for the painting.

As useless as hindsight was, she realized she should not have said the things she had that night long ago,

should not have done what she did. Young and foolish went hand in hand, but she saw now she had been

unnecessarily harsh, too wrapped up in her own fear of failing, her confusion about the feelings he

aroused in her, and her father's good opinion to spare a thought for the effect her behavior would have on

him. And she would pay for it. The bloom of bliss and wealth had shriveled into awful awareness and

powerlessness ... the inability to stop her fate from rushing to greet her. Would that she could undo the

past....

A small box addressed to her and signed by anadmirer arrived the day of the ball. Winter knew

immediately who had sent it. She was tempted to throw it away without looking inside, but curiosity got

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the best of her and she opened the box. Enclosed in the velvet depths was a silver chain.

Drawing it out, she saw the chain held a charm: a silver snowflake that glittered with the brilliant fire of

white diamonds ... the ice princess.

Winter stared at it, feeling anger surge through her as she looked on it. Unconsciously, her hand curled

into a fist around it. She was on the point of hurling it across the room when a thought occurred to her

and stopped her.

She opened her palm, staring down at it once more. He was so certain she was cold, calculating ...

unfeeling, only because she had thoughtlessly injured him once.

Perhaps she should be an ice princess? Perhaps she should show him just how cold she could be. She

held it up, allowing it to sway gently, smiling as she studied the cold glitter of the diamonds.Let it be a

talisman against him , she thought. She smiled at the thought.

Despite her bravado, the moment she put it on she felt immediately like a noose had tightened around

her throat.

She dismissed her misgivings, deciding he would not find her an easy target to humiliate or ruin. A

painting and jewelry did not mean he owned her, regardless of what he might think. He would regret

ensnaring her in his designs. She would make certain of it.

The night of the ball arrived, warmer than the day had been, as if the fires of hell worked in accordance

with Logan Cordell, awaiting her entrance to their depths with open arms. She was as prepared as she

could be, given the situation. She wore her best gown. It had been fashionable two seasons ago, and she

knew full well that all of society would consider it a sign of her poverty that she had worn it again, but

there was nothing to be done about it. She and her mother did not have the coin to spend frivolously on

new gowns when the old ones were still of some use. And, in truth, she had long since ceased to suffer a

great deal of anxiety over what her peers thought ... or, at least that was what she regularly told herself,

hoping that, eventually, it would be true.

On this night, it was. She had far too much to worry about already to spare much thought to her

impoverished circumstances. Her family's straightened circumstances was a known fact, impossible to

hide anymore. It was one thing, however, to find oneself in straightened circumstances, and quite another

to have one's morals called into question. She might not be considered a good matrimonial match, but at

least, if she could keep her reputation in tact, she was still considered genteel, and relatively safe from

indecent proposals.

One whiff of doubt about her morals and she would have wolves crawling out of the woodwork trying to

give her a slip on the shoulder.

The deep wine gown was daring. At the time she'd had it made, she had been protected by her father

and his wealth and had known that no matter how audacious, no one would dare question her wearing it.

That was no longer the case, of course, and she was not entirely comfortable about her choice, but her

options were extremely limited. In any case, she was determined to look her best, to taunt Logan, to

tempt him with something he could never have.

The square cut neckline enhanced her cleavage and the burgundy velvet made her fair skin and pale,

silvery hair seem almost luminescent in contrast. She wore the mass of her hair piled atop her head, with

several long strands free to curl enticingly down her bare neck. The necklace nestled just above the valley

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of her breasts like a snake awaiting its prey.

She hoped Logan would not be able to take his eyes off of it.

Her mother noticed the necklace, but refrained from comment, merely casting Winter an inquiring,

worried look. Winter said nothing, neither to confirm or to ease her mother's fears. She hated to add to

the lies she'd already told her mother. Ignorancewas bliss in this matter.

She and her mother reached the ball fashionably late, along with the multitude. Not surprisingly, Lord

Remington's home was thronged with society, and, despite the cool winter weather, the house was

almost stiflingly hot with the press of so many bodies.

Strains of music streamed through the air, fighting the bustle and noise of the masses dancing and talking

in every inch of space. It was unusual to have such a grand ball at this time of the year, and everyone was

enjoying themselves immensely. Hot house flowers in crystal vases decorated the tables about the room,

cloying the air with their sweet fragrance.

Lit with hundreds of candles to the brilliance almost of daylight, the house was larger than she'd

remembered.

What insanity had led her to believe she could search the entire house without being caught?

"Isn't this exciting, Winter?” Abigail Stevens beamed at her daughter, enchanted by her surroundings and

the sense that all was right with her world.

Winter knew better but nodded in agreement. The noise and heat of too many bodies was already

making her head spin, and she had not had the first dance. She needed to breathe fresh air before she

collapsed. She pressed a cool hand to her cheek. “Mama, please forgive me, but I must take some air."

Her mother's face fell. Winter didn't want to ruin the rare outing for her.

"Perhaps it was a mistake we came."

"No, I only need a moment,” Winter assured her. “Look, there comes Mrs. Moxley.” The stout matron

waddled toward them, beckoning them to approach.

Her mother still didn't look certain leaving her alone was a sound idea.

Winter smiled gently. “I have been to balls before, Mama. I can handle myself alone for a few minutes.

You enjoy your talk with Mrs. Moxley, and I will find you later."

Leaving them, Winter made her way through the throng to a set of French doors, discovering it opened

out onto an empty balcony. Relieved that she wouldn't have to share it, she leaned on the railing,

imagining she could almost see the river from her vantage point. The brisk air cooled the flush of her

cheeks and fingered through her hair, loosening it's binding pins.

A sense of peace settled over her.

The doors opened behind her, releasing a torrent of light before they closed once more and the curtains

fell back in place. Winter turned, expecting to see her mother.

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"I thought you would not come,” Logan said, his voice low, seductive as a purr ... and dangerous as a

panther on the prowl.

"I didn't think I had a choice—after receiving your summons.” She turned away from him, striving for

that icy composure he was constantly taunting her with.

Logan watched her struggle to regain calm, but then he had suspected from the first that she was not the

ice princess she would have the world believe.

He couldn't help but be pleased to know that no one, save him, had ever managed to shake her from her

icy composure.

She was breathtaking tonight. The dull glow behind them limned her silvery hair with a pale gold,

burnished her flushed skin, the curve of her cheek. She was more enticing than he'd remembered—her
body that of a woman full grown. Around her neck, she wore his gift, a mark of possession, his brand.

It pleased him endlessly that she had acknowledged his victory by wearing it.

Desire flooded through Logan in an debilitating tide at the images that conjured, of complete possession,

of her total surrender. The blood rushed into his groin, his shaft growing hard with need, with the ache to

impale her virgin flesh and claim her completely.

He had not entertained such thoughts in years. That he was willing to compromise his morals to possess

her caused him a fleeting pang of regret that he quickly suppressed. Her innocence could not save her

any more than it could save him. He could not free himself from her until he had possessed her.

Logan moved closer, crowding into her, eager to feel her unconscious response to his nearness. He

stopped just short of touching her, but less than a hand span separated them. Her scent invaded his

senses. He could almost feel the brush of her body against his with each labored breath. It was delicious

torture. He welcomed it ... welcomed the risk of losing his hard won control.

Heat leapt between them almost instantly, awakened, and he nearly groaned with the wanting of her. He
knew he could take her right now with none the wiser, and she would welcome his touch like the wanton

he knew lay buried inside her. “Is it so terrible to obey a man's demands?"

Winter ignored the tremble of her body, the heightened awareness of his heat, his unmistakable scent as

he leaned close. “I've walked that road before. It did not ... turn out as I had hoped.” She swallowed

painfully before continuing, “I want to know what your intentions are, Lord Remington."

"You would not wish to know my intentions."

"I do. My reputation is in jeopardy."

"You suggest the fault is mine? You went to Giovanni quite willingly."

"It would not have happened had you not lain your trap, my lord."

"It would not have happened if you were, in truth, the virtuous woman you present to the world.” He

paused a moment, then said. “Do you not think formalities between us somewhat absurd, under the

circumstances? You must call me Logan. Surely we have passed a stage where some familiarity is called

for?"

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Winter shook her head. “No. I will concede no more than I must. I do notwish to know you, now or

ever."

Anger flashed through him, dousing his desire like ice water thrown into his face. She wielded her icy

composure with the deadly precision of a blade, giving no thought to the consequences of her actions.

Any doubts that Logan had harbored regarding the advisability of continuing as he'd begun vanished.

She had not changed. He had wanted her heart—still did—but he acknowledged a doubt that she had a

heart to possess. If he could have nothing but possession of her body, so be it. He would have that much,

at least. He would melt the ice she wore like armor, knew, despite her protests, that she was not

impervious to him.

"You will know me all too well before I am through with you.” He withdrew from her and went to the

doors, his anger barely contained. “I expect you to come to my study within the next ten minutes. If you

do not, you will forfeit your chance at regaining the painting you so desperately want."

* * * *

A servant showed Winter how to gain discreet entrance to Lord Remington's private study. Tentatively,

she knocked lightly on the door and entered with a cautious step when he bade her come in.

Her gaze was drawn to him immediately upon her entrance, his presence commanding her attention as

no man ever should. He arched one dark brow wickedly, pleased and oh so smug that she'd heeded his

command.

He did not bother to rise, but continued lounging casually, insolently behind his desk in an ornately

carved chair that his massive size dominated, the breadth of his shoulders dwarfing the delicate

workmanship. He'd carelessly loosed his hair from its ribbon, and the inky locks hung about his

shoulders, lending him the appearance of a gentleman pirate. Dangerous. Wild. Untamed and

unpredictable.

Despite his pose of indolence, his eyes gleamed with the watchfulness of a predator, noting, she was

certain, her every nervous movement as she stepped into the room and shut the door behind her. It was

almost as though he could sense her carefully concealed nervousness, or read her thoughts and knew it

was a fear of a different sort that compelled her wariness. Never had she flirted with danger as she did

now. Her amateurish attempts at thievery could not compare to the hazard of a private meeting with him

in the midst of a party. She was so close to discovery ... to ruination.

She hesitated a moment when she had closed the door, and finally leaned back against it, unwilling to

risk the possible consequences of approaching nearer to him.

Reluctantly, her gaze was drawn to the wall above him by a glimpse of bare flesh. On the heavily

wainscoted walls hung the bane of her existence, framed in dark cherry wood. Her naked depiction was

in plain view of anyone who entered his domain, and she knew he'd done it purposefully to throw her into

turmoil.

He'd succeeded gloriously.

She felt both sick and faint as the blood rushed away from her head, but she could not seem to tear her

gaze from it.

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Not for the first time, she wondered why he'd done it. He was wealthy and titled. He could have any

woman of his choosing. Why had he settled on her to torment?

Her behavior had been inexcusable, but he could have had his revenge years ago. He'd done nothing

then. Why had he suddenly decided to now?

"Have you grown suddenly timid? Or, are you afraid of me?"

Winter dragged her gaze from the painting and looked at him.

He was smiling, she saw, toying with her. As if he had only waited for her full attention, he allowed his

gaze to move over her body in a way that was familiar, as suggestive as a caress, near tangible with

potency.

His presumption stiffened Winter's spine. How dare he look at her that way, as if he owned her and was

assessing his property! She thought angrily. Pushing away from the door, she moved to stand on the

opposite side of the desk from him. “No, I do not,” she said quietly, her voice cold with anger.

His brows rose, his gaze hardening to a more predatory gleam. “A wiser woman would,” he said just as

quietly. Standing, he rounded the desk, moving far closer than the boundaries of polite society allowed,

until he towered over her, their bodies almost touching.

Winter held her ground, unwilling to retreat from his approach and allow him to think, know, that her

bravado was nothing more than a facade. She was certain his intention was to intimidate her, and it was

working, but she refused to allow him the satisfaction of knowing he'd succeeded. Tilting her face up, she

met his bold stare with a cold glare of defiance.

A slow smile curled his lips, that half smile that annoyed her as much as it made her insides quiver. He

seemed to enjoy making her squirm at every opportunity. “You wish to have that painting?” Logan asked

almost casually, as if he was asking her nothing more sinister than the state of the weather. But she saw

the sharp, watchful gleam in his eyes, knew he would detect the most minute sign that he had pierced her

shell.

"You know I do.” She glanced at it over his shoulder, wishing a simple look could set it ablaze and end

her torment.

He sat back on the desk, swinging on leg. “The question is, how much is such a masterpiece worth to

you? What payment could you give me?."

Hope leapt in her veins when Logan mentioned a possibility of settlement, but

Winter felt those hopes sink almost as quickly. She knew, just by the look in his eyes, that he would

demand something exorbitant, some price she could never pay.

Perhaps all he really wanted to do was make her grovel, to shame and degrade her as she had shamed

him. Very likely, he would not accept any offer she made, but she realized she had to try, if only to spare

her mother from sharing in her downfall. She would simply have to find a way to pay his price, whatever

it might be. She licked her lips, took a deep breath and tried. “I have little to pay with, not nearly enough,

I'm sure, to compensate you. But ... Is there naught more than gold you wish for? Perhaps some

service—"

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His eyes lit, and he interrupted her, “What do you propose, Miss Stevens?"

Winter felt a blush suffuse her cheeks, then rush away again, leaving her weak kneed. “I-I'm not sure

what you mean. I meant only that I have limited funds at my disposal."

She knew exactly what he meant, hinted at so bluntly. She was not a complete fool. He had told her

very plainly that he would accept her body as payment.

"As I thought. The years have been unkind to you."

His expression as he spoke was surprisingly tender. He reached up to cup her cheek, but she drew back
before he could touch her. The tenderness was unexpected—she could almost believe he felt pity for her,

but knew better by now than to believe anything but the worst of him.

He dropped his hand, his face hardening, his fist clenching by his side. With an effort he regained his

careless facade. “As it happens, I would not consider any price ... in coin for such a piece. There is only

one thing you could give me...."

Logan allowed his gaze to roam her length suggestively. Like a merchant examining the wares, he studied

her face, the slender column of her throat, the rounded tops of her breasts, her narrow waist.

Winter felt her pulse quicken with awareness, felt her heart beating hard in her chest even as her breath

caught in her throat. She realized suddenly that she had completely underestimated him once again. He

had suggested she allow him to bed her, but always in a manner that had allowed her to persuade herself

that he was not completely serious, that he was only tormenting her to watch her squirm, that he would

not go so far as to seriously suggest she give herself to him. Regardless, she thought she had made it plain

that she was unwilling to bed him.

He met her eyes once again, his look heated. “Submit to me, Winter. In every way I demand."

CHAPTER EIGHT

"No.” Winter shook her head, closed her eyes. He'd narrowed her options down to this one choice, and

it was impossible for her to fulfill. “Why would you do this? I have done nothing so terrible as to warrant

what you ask of me."

He'd hatedThe Ton in England, so much so he'd turned his back on his homeland ... and his father. He'd

wanted to succeed on his own merits,earn respect, not have it handed to him on a silver platter. When

Winter had cut him at that party, it was as if all the sacrifices he'd made had been for naught. That

blessed time from before, when she had shown kindness and empathy for a fellow human being, had

been erased as if it had never been. Even in America—land of the free—status and position were

everything.

He swallowed down his hatred of her from that time. She wouldnever understand him—He had been

wrong. She was like all the rest. Nothing had any value to her beyond her status and reputation, and like

everyone else in ‘high’ society, she expected her desires to be of utmost concern to everyone ... and

served up to her on a silver platter with no effort on her part to achieve them.

The little game he'd planned would do nothing to melt the ice at her core that surrounded her heart,

because she did not have one. The only purpose it would serve would be to satisfy his need to see her

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brought down from her pedestal ... would satisfy the need that had been burning inside him for six long,

agonizing years.

The disappointment was crushing, the pain almost more than he could bear. He hadn't realized until this

moment how desperately he had wanted to believe that he could win her heart if only he could force her

give him a chance. Without that, there would be no true victory.

He swallowed his disappointment, allowed his anger to lead him, realizing that he was determined to

take the victory he could.

"You need not know my reasons, Winter. Suffice it to say, this is the price you will pay to hide your dirty

secret and protect your precious reputation."

"You ask too much. I ... hate ... you,” she whispered. She couldn't help but wonder if her attempts at

stealing the painting had given him this idea. He'd been so eager to take her then....

"Do you? Hate is a strong emotion, a fire that burns in your soul. Do you truly hate me?"

Logan ran a finger up her bare arm. His touch raised goosebumps in its wake.

"I hate what you are doing to me.” Heat flared over her skin, delicious, tingling. No man had ever dared

touch her as Logan did. She hated him for causing her to respond when her mind screamed against it.

He looked interested. “What am I doing to you?"

She swallowed hard. “You are making me feel things I should not."

"And that is unforgivable,” he whispered hoarsely, feeling his shaft harden with painful intensity at her

admission. He wanted to crush her against him, until her last defense crumbled and she welcomed his

embrace. But, more than that, he wanted to tease her until she begged him to do what he wanted with

her. “You can earn your painting back, Winter. Wouldn't you like to earn something, for once in your

life?"

Winter trembled, ignoring the pleasurable shivers whispering over her skin as he continued to stroke her

arm in a leisurely way.

The offer tempted her. God knew, it did. She could admit that much to herself, at least. When he'd

caught her in his bedroom, mounted her, something had broken inside that she couldn't fix. He'd

unleashed feelings inside her long ago, awakened them again in that moment to build with every moment

that passed in his presence.

The thought of obeying his demands in every way sent a rush of liquid heat to flood between her legs,

made her womb ache with need she'd been forbidden to feel. She'd fallen somehow, into temptation—a

dark wanting only he could free her from. If she'd been the lady she once was, she would have slapped

him. As it was, it took every ounce of strength she possessed not to give in to her traitorous thoughts.

Winter shook, opened her eyes to look on him once more. “You would have me become a whore."

He rose from the desk, moved around behind her, leaning close to smell her hair, skated the palm of his

hand gently across her nape. The tender skin came alive under the brief caress, tingled where he touched

her, as though his fingers vibrated with untapped energy. “It need not come to that,” he whispered against

her ear, his hot breath teasing her neck, producing deep shivers inside her.

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"Do I have your promise? Your oath?” She faced him, discovered his mouth mere inches from her own,

his lips curled in a sultry smile. He was too close, but he wouldn't allow her escape. Not yet.

"Upon my honor, such as it is. I will leave you as virginal as I have found you, a maiden still ... unless you

offer your maidenhead to me.” He straightened, distancing himself until she could breathe again.

Relief flooded her. “That will never happen,” she said with confidence. She had to come out of this game

ahead. To give herself to him completely would mean complete disgrace, and she couldn't allow that to

happen, no matter how much she might secretly long for his possession. It was folly even to consider his

outrageous proposal, let alone give in to it, but she had no other choice. He'd backed her into a corner.

She could fight him, but then she would lose. This was the only way she could win. And she had no

doubts who would be the victor.

"Do not make promises you cannot keep.” At her glare, he grinned darkly and said, “Now, our bargain.

You must promise to come to me, to submit to my demands for ... two weeks. Afterwards, I will

relinquish the painting to you and you need never see me again. But, keep in mind that I will expect you

to stand by our bargain. Whatever I ask of you—anything I ask, you will perform willingly."

It was the same length of time the papers had twittered about his public set down. Any doubts she'd

entertained about the clarity of his memory were banished. He hadn't forgotten anything. She nodded,

cautious, regretting the course taken already. “I agree."

"Good. Now we will prove your sincerity."

Her heart stopped at the look he gave her ... devouring, eager for the game to begin. “Now? We

cannot, my mother awaits,” Winter said, suddenly breathless. She backed toward the door, toward

freedom, unwilling to take her eyes off him long enough to run. The seriousness of her situation hadn't

quite caught up to her until now. She was alone with him—he could do anything he wanted, and she

would be powerless to stop him. Only a thin shred of honor stood in his way, and how much could she

trust it's stretched limits when he'd been the one to force her into this arrangement?

He advanced on her, blocked her evasion when she would have darted away, backed her up until she

was pressed firmly against the door and he'd crowded out all chance at flight. He propped his arms

against the door on either side of her head and leaned forward, caging her. “She can wait a moment

longer. ‘Tis just a simple test...."

A corner of his mouth hitched higher as he studied her ... her dishabille ... her breathlessness ... and a

sardonic black brow raised in amusement at her agitation.

"I do not think it wise....” She avoided his mouth as he bent toward her, turning her face away. He

stopped before touching her cheek, smelled her flushed skin before pulling back to regard her.

"So ... no honor among thieves? We have only just agreed and already you renege on your promise. The

agreement was—willingly—otherwise we have no agreement and I summon a servant to hang the

painting in my gallery."

She sighed, recognizing defeat and hating him for it. “What would you have of me?” she said softly,

afraid of the answer.

"Wet your lips.” His hungry gaze settled on her mouth. Her sex spasmed with pleasure at his look. Her

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thighs clenched against the unbidden feeling.

Slowly, self-conscious, she timidly flicked her tongue out to touch her bottom lip. His eyes darkened

with lust. His reaction to the simple gesture was intoxicating.

"More,” he demanded, his voice roughened with need. “I want you hot and wet when I enter you."

Winter nearly moaned at his hoarse command, felt her thighs slicken with the images he conjured. Her

sex pulsed with desire, and he had not even touched her. Breathing raggedly, she obeyed, running her

tongue over the sensitive skin.

It seemed his undoing. With a hoarse groan, he bent toward her, pressing her roughly into the door with

his hard body as he claimed her lips in a ravenous kiss.

She didn't know why, but she had expected something more gentlemanly, more circumspect. A jolt of

shock went through her as his mouth covered hers, hungry, demanding. She felt as if she was melting

under the scorching heat of his mouth, with the press of his iron chest against her soft, aching breasts. Her

nipples hardened to tight buds that throbbed unbearably.

Logan tugged at her bottom lip, sucking and teasing the tender flesh, his mouth tasting her like she was a

rare delicacy. She felt as though he would devour her, one sense at the time. And she thrilled at the

prospect, hate burning away with his kiss. He drew his arms around her and crushed her body to his ...

so close ... but not nearly enough.

She needed—wanted—more. Lost to thought, all awareness save her awareness of his mouth, she clung

to him, her body begging when her words could not. He pushed her higher against the door, wedging a

hard thigh between her legs for support, moving the rigid muscles across the center of her sex in shocking

precision. A sudden wave of pleasure rocked her core. She gasped against his mouth and he plunged his

tongue inside with a liquid glide.

Guided by instinct, she closed her mouth around his tongue, sucking, enjoying its rough texture, the taste

of brandy and his own wildness, moving her hands over his broad shoulders. The need to touch him

everywhere was near unbearable, and her hands crept down his back, hovering at his waistline. He

groaned in response to her awkward caress.

Abruptly, he pulled away, breathing raggedly, his chest heaving as he struggled for control.

It felt like he'd taken a piece of her with him when he withdrew, like he'd ripped a wound in her that

would never heal. And she was afraid he had. Winter was cold, colder than she'd ever felt in her life. If

he hadn't stopped, would she? Shivering, she rubbed a hand across her mouth, feeling miserable, tainted.

She should never have agreed to his conditions.

He wouldn't look at her as he urged her away from the door and opened it. “Go now, while you still can.

I expect you to come tomorrow. I will send a coach for you at the park. The same time you held your

appointment with Vincent Giovanni. Do nothing to arouse your mother's suspicions if you value your

reputation."

Winter nodded, torn between an urge to deny his wants and risk the public's censure ... and an equal

urge to embrace what he desired. She fled the room before she could do anything irreversible. She felt

drained, emotionally as much as physically. He'd stolen something from her. Her respect for her life, for

her position as a lady. How would she ever get through this and remain Winter Stevens?

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CHAPTER NINE

Winter left early the next day to visit “Sarah.” Her mother suspected nothing. Indeed, she was happy for

her daughter to have a social life when times seemed so dismal. Winter felt lower than low for her

deception. It had all started with her damnable pride, but the deception to have her way paled beside the

deception she now practiced. She knew she didn't deserve to be happy—she deserved punishment for

her wrong-doing. Logan Cordell was her punishment ... and it was fitting.

It made her want to scream and rage at the role she'd been dealt in life.

She wished she was someone who could do whatever she liked, to live each day with freedom from

society's dictates. But she couldn't change who she was, any more than he could. He would never believe

she was sorry for what she'd done, that the instant she had struck him, she'd regretted it. He would think

her apology only a ruse to have her way without paying. Had their places been reversed, she would not

believe it herself.

An extorted apology wasn't remorse. It was self-preservation and that was the only way he would see it.

If she had only sought him outthen and humbled herself with an apology none of this would ever have

happened. He might have accepted her apology then, would at least have seen it as voluntary.

No, she had no choice now. She would keep her promise to him, as she knew she must. Whatever else

she was, she always kept her promises.

A black coach arrived at the park and picked her up at the appointed hour. It bore no signs of

distinction, so she would not be noticed riding in a peer of the city's conveyance. Or at least, she hoped

not. One could never tell if a gossip monger was on one's tail.

She nervously twirled a tendril of hair in one hand during the ride, wondering if Logan would keep his

vow. He had no honor—that much was apparent. But could she trust him in this? It was moot even

questioning the possibility, either he would or wouldn't. Logan had given her no choice but to play along

and trust the outcome would be something she could live with.

The carriage pulled to a stop behind his lordship's sprawling mansion, one of the oldest townhouses in

the city. It had long stood empty, until the earl's return with riches enough to restore it to its former glory.

And he'd done so without her ever having known it. The city had grown too much, too fast, when one

couldn't keep up with her citizens’ progress.

Winter kept her head cloaked until she was safely inside and was ushered immediately to Logan's study,

where he awaited her arrival.

Entering the room, she was struck momentarily dumb when she saw him—a different side than she'd

seen before ... and far more desirable. She sucked in a deep breath, her inner calm felled immediately.

She felt like a blithering idiot every time she looked at him, and wondered if her advancing age had

something to do with the raging emotions he continued to evoke within her. She certainly wasn't behaving

as she normally did.

One brow arched, he seemed to realize his effect on her ... and he enjoyed it. Maintaining his casual

stance, he leaned a hip on the edge of his desk and crossed his arms over his chest, tightening the fine

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fabric over his wide chest until she expected it to rip. His cravat lay in a rumpled heap on the desk, and

the white silk shirt he wore slashed open at the neck, revealing sun bronzed skin sprinkled with dark hair.

She wondered if he'd acquired his unusual coloring and impressive physique working on the docks....

Black breeches covered his legs like a second skin, every muscle clearly delineated. He looked every

inch a pirate ... a rogue ... and she knew quite suddenly that she was in trouble ... and that she couldn't

stop looking at him, no matter how hard she tried to look away.

"Sit down.” He gestured toward the chair sitting directly before his desk.

It was a simple command and she obeyed without questioning. Her knees brushed his legs, and the point

of contact seemed to burn like fire through the thin cotton gown she wore. Winter looked at her hands

clasped in her lap, but her eyes kept straying to his legs, studying him in the silence that swallowed the

room.

"You like the way I look, don't you?"

She would never admit something so crude. It would please him too much, that she was not the perfect

lady she pretended to be. Her head snapped up, blood rushing to her cheeks. “No. I find you utterly

detestable.” The fairness of her skin had been forever her enemy, and she wished yet again that she was

not so easily embarrassed. And that he could not read every thought on her face. He was a wicked rogue

to state the obvious with the intention of upsetting her calm ... and she was weakening if such simple

words affected her thus.

He smiled knowingly. “It's time we began your first lesson."

She glared at him. “I am no child."

"In this, you are.” Watching her steadily, he said, “I want to see your hair unbound. Take it down."

When she did nothing, he said, “Do you enjoy making this harder on yourself than need be? It is a simple

enough request."

She remained unmoving.

"Would you preferI do it?” he asked, a devilish gleam in his eyes.

Resisting the defiance raging inside her mind, Winter stood, her face flaming, and pulled the pins from her

hair. The heavy mass fell in abundance down her back and over her shoulders, the curling tendrils

brushing against the top of her buttocks. Her hair was a constant source of discomfiture to her. It was,

and had always been, the color of white gold, so pale the color was often mistaken for that of an older

woman's hair, and she resented the label of spinster before her time.

Logan nodded in satisfaction and walked around her, splaying the ends of her hair in his palms, feeling

it's silkiness. Her hair had fascinated him from the first with its unusual color, and he'd often imagined her

draping the snowy locks around him in their lovemaking. He grabbed her shoulders, ignoring her small
gasp of surprise, and buried his face in her curls, breathing in her intoxicating, fresh scent. She smelled

like honeysuckle on a spring day. He longed to run his tongue over her skin to find if she tasted as sweet

as she smelled.

A knock sounded softly on the door, and she jerked away from him, smoothing her hands over her hair

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nervously, looking incredibly guilty and desirable.

"Enter,” Logan said, irritated at the interruption. He'd forgotten he'd ordered the tea service. It wasn't

like him to forget anything. Winter Stevens was proving ample distraction. The butler entered bearing tea,

iced cakes, and sandwiches. He left as silently as he'd come in, closing the door behind him.

As the servant departed, an idea occurred to Logan, one that would set her at ease and still satisfy his

need to touch and taste her.

"Come, pour the tea,” he said, gesturing toward the tray as he sat behind his desk. He enjoyed watching

her, her nervous movements, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear. She was incredibly sensual in

her innocence, lovely beyond words, and yet she did not realize it. Her own doubts of her desirability

made him want her that much more, for she was unable to hide her flaws from him as so many women

did.

Winter managed to pour without spilling it everywhere, preparing the tea according to his directions and

setting it before him. “Would you like cake or sandwiches?"

"I'd like you to serve me cake."

She selected a slice and set the plate in front of him. He caught her wrist before she could retreat. “From

here,” he said, watching her as if she were a tasty morsel he would devour.

She tugged at her arm, to no avail, already uncomfortable being alone in the room with him. When he

touched her, her nervousness threatened to spiral out of control. “I don't understand."

"Come, I will cause you no harm.” He patted his lap.

Winter looked at him in dawning horror, knew her face had gone white. The very idea caused her heart

to skip a beat. “I can't do that."

"But you will.” Giving her no choice, he pulled her down until she was compelled to sit in his lap or fall

on top of him. She squirmed on his lap, unable to be comfortable in the intimacy of her position. Their

forced nearness made her feel something entirely different from hatred, and she liked not the feeling one

iota.

Logan watched her profile, waiting in expectation, enjoying every minute of her rounded bottom pressed

against his thighs. Only extreme will power kept him from pressing his advantage over her. Hesitantly, she

picked up a fork and he shook his head. “I want you to serve it to me ... with your hands."

Winter bit her bottom lip, forcing back the retort stinging her tongue. Angrily, she removed her gloves

and tore off a piece of cake with her fingers.

She shoved it at him and he grabbed her wrist, preventing her from shoving it down his throat. Winter

gasped as his lips closed around her fingers. She tried to pull away, but he held her trapped—one hand

curled around her hips and the other manacling her wrist. There was nothing to do but allow him his way.

Watching her steadily, he sucked the bite of cake from her lax grip.

Her eyes transfixed by the movement of his mouth, his nibbling lips, Winter watched, mesmerized, as he

flicked his tongue over her fingers, nipping the tips as he sucked the icing off. Her fingertips tingled as he

suckled and rubbed his tongue over them.

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Her breathing grew ragged watching him bent over her hand, worshipping her with his mouth. It sparked

a frisson of energy to dance across her nerves.

He kissed each tip when he finished and then awaited another piece. Riveted and unwilling now to resist,

she pulled off another section and offered it to him like a supplicant. He locked his gaze with hers, tilting

his head, almost smiling as he repeated the ritual.

There was something incredibly erotic having him watch her while he sucked her fingers. It was

unforgivably naughty, and yet she couldn't help the thrill it gave her. She'd never thought her fingers could

be a source of carnality—he had proven her wrong. Unable to look away, she gave him another piece,

slowly feeding him in that manner until the slice was gone—and her skin prickled with his branding.

When he finished, he released her. She moved quickly away, wondering at the strange feeling of trust

burgeoning in her breast. He'd not done what she'd anticipated him to do today, not that she could name

her expectations in words. She watched him warily, unsure if this was the extent of his demands, and if

so, why he'd gone to such trouble to intimidate her.

"That was not so difficult, was it?"

Winter's first instinct was to flatly refute his statement, to tell him she had loathed every moment of it, but

she could see that he knew very well that she had found it far from repugnant. “No,” she said, and

flushed at the huskiness of her voice.

His brows rose, as if he was surprised at her honesty. “If you continue to please me, Winter, I promise,

you will enjoy your time with me."

CHAPTER TEN

The following day was much the same ... and the next. Each day she arrived as commanded, and each

day he doled out pleasure in small doses to Winter, until nearly a week had gone by and he'd done

nothing more than ask her to feed him by hand.

Strangely enough, she began to look forward to it. The erotic pull of his mouth on her fingers acted like a

strange aphrodisiac on her, suffusing her with unnamed desires, replacing her initial nervousness with an

entirely different, but equally troubling, tension.

She wondered if this would be the extent of her servitude.

Then he ‘invited’ her to see a performance of Shakespeare'sRomeo and Juliet at the theater. With

minimal fuss and a wealth of doubt, Winter accepted his invitation. Not that she could deny him. The

threat of the nude's exposure hung over her like a pall.

It was a great risk attending a public play with him, but he assured her they would be well concealed at

his private box, and she would remain cloaked until safely inside. The presence of a mysterious

lady-friend would raise brows and speculation, but she could do nothing else.

The night of the performance, Winter left on the pretense of going with Sarah and her mother as escort.

It was strange how lies built themselves up, one atop the other, until one could scarce breathe from the

smothering guilt. She was losing herself, becoming more and more confused at the tangles she'd created.

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Her heart ached at the trust her mother bestowed on her. Almost, shewanted to be caught, just so the

deception would be stopped ... but not nearly enough to come forth.

She comforted herself with the thought that Logan had reached the end of his demands, and it would

soon be over. Her mother need never know of her deceptions. Her mother need never suffer the shame

of her only daughter's disgrace.

Winter dressed for the night in a crushed velvet gown and wore the offensive necklace he'd gifted her

with. The gown had a matching hooded cloak that she would wear to disguise herself until no longer

visible to the other theater patrons. The crystalline blue made her appear cold and aloof. She looked very

much the ice princess Giovanni had painted—exactly as she wished Logan to see her. She wanted none

of his advances this night ... or any night thereafter. He needed to know that she hated him for using her
as he did, even though itseemed harmless. Winter banished the thought that secretly, shewanted him to

touch her ... banished thoughts of that sinful mouth sucking her fingers ... and imagining him sucking other

things.

The images were powerful enough that her nipples hardened in response, the peaks of her breasts

tightening and against the dress until they looked like buttons beneath her gown.

With that in mind, she looked about the room for a piece of lace to cover her bosom ... and to take her

mind off her disgraceful thoughts. She'd outgrown the gown in the bust somewhat over the years, and her

breasts threatened to spill out the top in abundance. She hadn't thought she'd changedthat much ...

another embarrassment she could add to a growing list. In a trunk at the foot of her bed, she finally found

what she sought. Taking the length of the lace, she tucked it around her shoulders and into the front

neckline.

Satisfied her modesty was safe, she left in the awaiting carriage after bidding her mother good-bye and

throwing the cloak over her shoulders and head.

Arriving at his townhouse after a lengthy ride, she was ushered inside and into the parlor where he

awaited. She very pointedly did not look at the window through which she'd crawled, hoping he would

not mention that night of horrid mistakes and humiliation.

"Good evening, Miss Stevens,” he said, his voice deep and husky, making the simple greeting a caress

on her senses.

"Good evening, my lord,” she said, taking in every wicked nuance of him. Lounging in a wing-back, he

held a brandy glass in one hand as he watched her with an intensity that unnerved her as much as it

captivated and held her in thrall. His inky hair was brushed back and tamed with a ribbon, barely

diminishing his roguish looks. He was dressed in dark gray breeches that molded to his legs, with a

matching silk waistcoat, and a black coat stretched smooth over his wide shoulders. A substantial bulge

in front of his pants drew her attention, and realizing she stared at his sex, she quickly looked away up at

his face, feeling her cheeks pinken with heat. He already knew she found him attractive, she didn't need

to encourage him in his thinking. But every time she thought she would remain aloof, he did something to

draw out her emotions.

He smiled, appreciating her blush, the fact that he'd put it there with no effort on his part. Hungrily, he

looked at the lace covering her breasts from his sight. A wash of anger flashed over his face, darkening

his eyes, and he stood and strode to her with purpose. Snatching the lace from her shoulders, he balled it

up and threw it into the banked fire before she could react.

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Winter gasped and covered her chest with one arm, the other free to hit him. “Howdare you?” The loss

of the lace stung, but not so much as his actions.

His eyes glittered dangerously. “Never hide yourself from me, madam."

"I should slap your face for your impertinence,” she gritted out, though her anger slowly dissipated at his

look.

His jaw hardened, a muscle working along its base. “Do it. But I warn you, I will retaliate."

The words halted the ascent of her arm, which she hadn't known she held ready to strike. Dear god, she

was going to repeat her mistake. Hadn't she learned better by now to control her mindless urges? He

was driving her insane. Never before had she thought herself prone to violence, yet every encounter with

him left her wanting to throttle him.

The heated longing of his look made her realize he wasn't promising her injury. The awareness almost

made her want to test him to find out what he'd do ... almost. His actions were steadily escalating to

bolder conduct. Did she truly want to find out what revenge he would choose to take? Realizing she did

not, she slowly dropped her arm back to her side, the insane urge subsiding.

He nodded, satisfied with his victory. “Let us go before we are over late."

* * * *

Arriving after the majority of the audience was seated, Logan showed Winter to his box just as the ornate

chandeliers were dimmed and the play began.

He helped her remove her cloak and they sat in the back of the box, their faces hidden from the crowd

by shadows and a partially drawn curtain. On the stage, the Capulets and Montagues began fighting,

immersing those watching into their drama.

Logan had no interest in the play. He could think of nothing but Winter, of how innocent and alluring she

looked with each new discovery. Rubbing a thumb over his jaw line in thought, he studied her as she

grew steadily more comfortable in her surroundings, engrossed in the play, completely relaxed—so

enchanted with the play that he was certain she'd forgotten she was in his company.

It was exactly what he'd hoped for when he had arranged to take her to the play, that she would let

down her careful guard in the certainty that he was no threat to her in a public place ... that she would

relax and become more receptive to his overtures and more vulnerable to her own desires.

Despite the fact that Winter was no longer the innocent young girl he had once known, she had had little

experience with a man's desires and none with her own. She was ripe for the plucking, and yet he had

allowed himself little enough time with her to explore her sensuality. Moreover, he had allowed his heart

to rule his head, holding back for fear that his own desires would push him to press too hard too fast and

he would lose the tenuous foothold he'd gained on her trust by doing nothing more threatening than

forcing her to become accustomed to his nearness and his touch. If he was to win what he sought, he

would have to break the dam of reticence she'd built around herself with a flood of feeling. The challenge

was tantalizing ... nearly as irresistible as she was.

His shaft grew hard as he followed the even rise and fall of her firm breasts with each breath she took,

her breasts straining the thin fabric of her dress, taunting him. For some moments he was tempted to

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ignore the protestations she was certain to make if he approached her and bury his face in their deep

valley, to bury himself deep inside her without a care who saw him take her ... or what repercussions he

would suffer.

He took a deep, shuddering breath, regaining control of his libido with an effort, realizing, not for the first

time, that his ‘torture’ of her was far more tortuous to him than to her. After days of sucking cake from
her fingers, he had only to think of the slumberous desire that filled her eyes each time they ‘had tea’ to

grow painfully erect.

He should have progressed to the next level long before now. He'd never intended to allow her to get off

so lightly. He'd meant to press her, seduce her to the point that she wanted him as much as he wanted

her. And yet, he had not been able to bring himself to do more, not when he saw she came willingly, saw

the desire blossom in her cheeks as she watched him.

He looked at her. She was leaning forward, her lips parted in excitement as she watched the drama

unfold on the stage. He knew then what he wanted ... tonight. He wanted to see more of her, desired it

more strongly than he had ever wanted anything in his life.

Logan leaned closer, breathing in her delectable scent as she continued to ignore him, risking his ire. It

made no difference. She could do nothing to dampen his desire for her. Six long years had built the

fantasy, this longing. He was as unable to resist giving in to it as she was to allow it.

"Lift your skirt. I want to see your legs,” he said low to her ear, the hollow curve behind begging for the

stroke of his tongue.

She looked at him from the corner of her eye, unaware of his absolute seriousness. “I will not. Someone

will see."

"That was not a request.” He twirled a loose curl of her platinum hair around his fingers.

She glanced at him speculatively. “If I do, will you grant me a boon?"

He chuckled. “You have learned something in our time together, I see. I would do anything for your

happiness."

"Then release me."

He sat back, studying her in the dim light for a long moment. “That would not truly make you happy,

would it?"

"It would."

"Then you lie to yourself as well as to me."

She shifted, uncomfortable with his directness. “Take down that awful painting then, if you will not grant

me leave. I wish that none may see it."

"Done.” He looked at her, waiting expectantly.

From her profile, he could see her fine arched brow draw down in anger. After several long minutes of

internal debate, she complied, lifting the blue skirts until her petite ankles showed.

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"The bargain was for a view of your legs,” he said dryly. “If you want the painting taken down, then lift

your skirts all the way up. I want to see your thighs."

She bit her lip, as though in pain, and slowly drew the fabric up until her legs were bared.

A small sweep of light cut across her lap, revealing her flesh for him to devour with his eyes. His mouth

grew dry at the sight of her toned thighs and pale, translucent skin. Delicate silk stockings encased her

legs enticingly, held in place by lace garters that begged removal with his teeth. Blood pounded in his

groin, and he felt his member swell and push painfully against his tight breeches.

The desire to touch her was overwhelming ... to see if her virgin skin was as soft as it looked. Giving in

to his craving, he placed a hand on her thigh.

She gasped, trying to push her skirts back down. “You said nothing of touching me."

"And I did not say I wouldn't.” He grabbed her wrists, stopping her.

"Youpromised ,” she whispered accusingly.

Logan wanted to say he'd lied but didn't. “I gave you my word that you would be as virginal when you

left me as when you came,” he pointed out. “But I also stipulated that you were to be entirely open to my

commands. If you will not hold to your bargain, then I feel obligated to point out that neither will I feel

compelled to uphold my terms."

He stood abruptly, as if he meant to leave.

Winter caught his hand. “No. I'm sorry. I ... I'm just not used to...."

He looked down at her a moment. Taking his seat once more, he grasped the hem of her dress and

drew it up.

She flinched, making an aborted attempt to stop him and finally gripped the arms of her chair tightly, her

knuckles white. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, as if she could hide behind her lids.

Satisfied, he splayed his hand over the taut muscles, testing the velvet texture of her flesh. He slipped his
fingers teasingly under her garters, enjoying the contrast of lace and skin. She squirmed under his caress,

but he held her still with his free hand, even when he wanted to devote his whole being to loving her.

Slowly, he nudged her skirt up to see the true prize he sought. She yelped and nearly jumped from her

seat.

"Be quiet! Unless you want to be discovered? How would your mother feel when she found out you

came here with me?"

"You bastard,” she gritted out, clenching tight fistfuls of her dress but offering no resistance.

"Miss Stevens, I am surprised at your language.” He chuckled and continued his pursuit, until her skirts

rode up around her hips. She was breathing heavily now, holding perfectly still as she awaited his next

move.

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Her descent into his world was inevitable ... a world of feeling ... of pure lust. He would soon have her

craving his touch instead of shying away. The possibility made his groin throb with painful pleasure.

He leaned over her, until her sex was revealed to him. As a perfect lady, she wore no scandalous

garments over her nether region.

A pale triangle of curls captured his hungry gaze, and he knew looking on her wouldn't be enough. He

had to touch her ... smell her ...taste her.

"Spread your legs."

She shook her head violently, trembling. “I can't. Please don't ask this of me...."

"You must.” He gripped her thighs and eased them apart. “I want to see you. All of you."

"Please,” she whispered, nearly whimpering, and he was struck with a pang of guilt. Then he

remembered she had no sincerity, no true feelings of her own. They'd been lost to her—she had proven it

time and again. Unless he'd been wrong.... And that was something he would never admit.

"I made a promise ... and I will keep it. You will enjoy this,” he said softly to assure her. Slowly,

torturously, he moved his hand between her legs until he cupped her sex. He made a small grunt of

pleasure when he found she was already soaked. She wanted this. There was no denying it now.

* * * *

Winter wanted to deny the pure lust overriding her sense, but she couldn't. And she couldn't control it.

Almost against her will, her thighs parted further for him as he cupped her sex and ran a finger teasingly

up and down her moist cleft, slipping in the damning juices slickening her thighs.

Her heart beat a tattoo, blood pulsing through her veins and in the nub that nestled in her core, begging

for his touch. He plunged one long finger past her swollen lips, inside her tight passage.

Winter moaned without thinking and grabbed his arm in a vice grip. Her hips jerked.

"Does it feel good, my ice princess?” he whispered close to her ear, taunting her.

She nodded wordlessly, unable to speak, unable to think of anything but the tightness of his finger

moving inside her.

He bent and kissed her neck, pushing his finger slowly in and out, stretching her to the limits. Dragging

his teeth up her neck, he sucked her lobe into his mouth, rubbing his tongue over the sensitive flesh as he

slowly worked another finger inside her.

"It's too much,” she whimpered, pressing against his hand with unconscious volition.

"Are you so certain?” He breathed hotly against her ear and flicked his thumb over her clitoris, moving in

a tight circle.

Gasping for air, Winter arched her back, pressing into his palm as a wave of torturous pleasure

enveloped her. Logan nipped the hollow behind her ear and sucked against the tender skin until he'd left

his dark mark of possession.

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He kissed her, sliding his tongue past her lips as he pumped his fingers into her. She moaned against his

mouth and sucked him greedily, kissing him with mindless abandon.

He broke away, trailing hot kisses over her jaw before dropping to his knees. Pushing her chair back, he

settled himself between her thighs. She clutched his shoulders, pulling him toward her, needing more. Not

fully understanding what was happening, instinct guided her movements.. He continued thrusting his

fingers into her even as he kissed her inner thigh and lightly sucked at her flesh, breathing the light, musky

scent of her desire.

She whimpered when he removed his finger from her depths and gripped her thighs, spreading her legs

far apart to accommodate his breadth. Kneading her, he bent and ran his tongue up her cleft, tasting her

as no man ever had ... or ever would.

Winter jumped in shock, but Logan held her in place as he parted her folds with his tongue. He slid his

hands around to cup her buttocks, tilting her up towards his mouth as she slid down in her chair. She

wanted his hand back on her ... inside her ... but then he latched on to her clit, and she jerked as if

scorched, biting her lip to keep from screaming with pleasure.

He suckled her, rubbing his tongue in rough circles around the nub. He knead one rounded cheek as he

brought his other hand around, plunging his fingers deep inside her again ... hands slipping in her juices as

he lapped up every precious drop. He thrust into her, harder, faster ... faster. Winter bucked against his

mouth, running her hands frantically through his hair, pulling him closer and closer.

She was building to something. Her body quaked with feeling, legs flexing under his sure touch. His

mouth was drawing it out of her with each rough stroke of his tongue, until it burned her mind away and

there was only the feel of his fingers ramming into her again and again.

Suddenly, her senses burst in a wave radiating out from her core, vibrating through her every nerve,

debilitating every fiber of her being. Winter collapsed back with a long moan, utterly spent, her swollen

lips quivering with the tremors of her orgasm.

She felt movement as Logan straightened and propped on her parted thighs. Winter opened her eyes

and looked down at him in wonder, too weak to move.

He smiled roguishly and said, “I promised you would like it."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Logan watched Winter as she dozed in the carriage, the silky curve of her cheek illuminated by a sliver of
moonlight leaking through the curtains. With painful clarity, he remembered another time when she'd been

the one to watch over him, protect him.

He would give anything to see that kindness in her once more, that empathy for a complete stranger. In

all his years, he'd never encountered another person willing to help someone in pain and need. He ached

to see her as she had been then, as kind as she was beautiful, to know that life had not damaged her

irrevocably, replacing a warm heart with one of ice.

* * * *

1815

Six years earlier

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"My god!” The girl's startled gasp roused Logan from unconsciousness. He shifted on the cobblestones

and groaned. Every bone in his body felt bruised near to breaking. He knew he couldn't be dead. Dead

people didn't feel this much pain.

He had no idea how long he'd been lying there, listening to people ride past on the street not ten feet

from him before he'd fallen into darkness. No one had bothered stopping to help. He knew they'd seen

him—they'd just chosen to ignore him, considering him no more important than another insect living on

the street.

"You're alive,” the girl said breathlessly, kneeling down beside him on the dirty street, uncaring of the filth

strewing the cobblestones. A gentle hand touched his shoulder. The faint smell of honeysuckle teased his

battered senses. He tried to open his eyes but they were sealed shut with what he assumed was his

blood. He rolled painfully onto his back, felt the warmth of the sun on his face instead of the dark chill of

the grave.

"Who did this to you?” she asked quietly.

"I'm ... stranger ... here,” he managed to gasp out beyond the pain ripping through his throat. The

O'Reilley brothers had done this to him. They'd left him for dead. Five or six of them at least had ganged

on him in the alley, surrounding him, beating him with wooden clubs until he could no longer stand and

fight them off. He'd encroached on their territory for too long—no one wanted English scum in America,

especially since they were at war. He would kill them if he recovered.

He felt her shake, knew she had nodded in understanding, sympathy tendering her movements even

more.

He felt the touch of silky fabric glide gently across him, over his eyes and mouth, patiently wiping the

blood away from his swollen face. He managed to open his eyes as she worked over him, saw the face

of an angel kneeling beside him, pale ringlets limned with golden light from the setting sun. He slowly sat

up, felt his head swim under the pressure. He clasped a hand over his eyes, taking a moment to recover.

"Can you stand? We need to get you help."

He shook his head, felt the world spin before righting itself once more. “No. My home. Not far from

here,” he said, his voice a strained whisper, barely audible. He'd been struck in the throat and all but lost

his voice. She nodded, helping him to his feet and standing under his arm for support.

With painstaking progress, he led her down the alley behind the well kept facade facing the street. The

river beyond glimmered with the last light of day. She took him deep into the seedier side of town, with

no thought for her own safety, and he immediately admired her bravery ... and her kindness.

They reached his small apartment and he collapsed into his bed. She tucked him under the covers and

fetched him a cup of water. He drank it greedily before sinking back into the pillows. He shivered, feeling

the grip of a fever beginning to take hold.

"I wish you would allow me to call a doctor,” she said, feeling his forehead with her hand. “You're too ill

to be left here alone. I shall stay with you until you are better."

He shook his head. She needed to be gone before it was full dark. He would kill himself if something

happened to her. A lone girl in this neighborhood after dark ... she would be prey too tempting to resist.

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“I have ... someone who can ... come,” he lied.

She nodded, trusting him. How long had it been since he'd encountered trust? He couldn't remember the

last time.

She rose from his side, moving away. He felt a sudden desperation to know who she was, to have the

name of the angel who had saved him. “Your name?” he asked hoarsely, his voice faint, swallowing the

pain.

"Winter Stevens,” she had said softly and walked out of his life.

* * * *

The memory had been a balm to him through those dark days when he'd struggled through the fever that

burned inside. He'd nursed the image of her sweet face in his mind when he'd been struggling to succeed,

when it looked like he would never succeed on his own merits.

The carriage swayed as they rode to her home. She sighed softly. He leaned over her, smelling the

honeysuckle in her hair, felt the rush of longing well inside him again. He'd dreamed of holding her so

long, he could dream of nothing else. Now he was inches from possessing his angel.

Logan touched her, cupping her cheek, hoping against hope that he had been wrong about her, that she

had not become as tainted as he'd believed.

There had to be some hope that the Winter he'd known was still there, buried beneath the harsh exterior

life had built around her. For if he could come back from the brink, couldn't she?

CHAPTER TWELVE

Winter read the morning news sheets with horror the next day, blushing ten shades of red in mortification.

In the pages, it hinted at an illicit encounter between Lord Remington and a mysterious woman in his

theater box the previous night at the performance ofRomeo and Juliet .

Though no specific details were mentioned, neighbors of the box heard distinctive feminine moaning and

witnessed his exit with a woman in blue. Winter destroyed the paper, hoping her mother would not notice

its absence, for if she read it, she would surely make the connection.

Without considering any of the possible repercussions, Winter immediately left the house and rushed

over to Logan's townhouse. When she arrived, she hurried inside, ready for battle.

She found him casually reading the paper in the dining room. Impeccably dressed in a black coat and

buff breeches, he looked nothing like the rake from the night before.

Just looking at his sinful lips made her groin ache with remembered pleasure. She would never be able to

look at his mouth the same way again. It was enough to make the color rise in her cheeks. How could

she have acted that way? Withhim ? Inpublic ?

"Good morning, Winter. You're early for our appointment.” He didn't look up at her but continued

reading.

"This has to stop. Last night, we were nearly discovered. I cannot risk exposure. There would be no

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reason for me to even try and get the painting back if that happened. The result would be the same."

"I agree it was risky, but it is hardly worth worrying over now. We weren't caught. Look—it says

‘unidentified’ woman in blue."

Winter gritted her teeth, sorely tempted to snatch the paper from his hands and shred it. “No, I cannot

allow this to go on. I am going to be ruined when it's discovered I was with you last night. Look at me ...

please. Wemust end this."

Finally, he raised his head and looked at her. His expression was far from casual, however. His eyes

glittering dangerously, his jaw hard, he said, “The deal stands. We will be more careful in the future. We

agreed on two weeks. You have only a week left and it will be over between us."

Winter sighed, feeling her anger desert her, knowing there was nothing she could do but comply. If she

was caught, so be it. Either way she risked scandal. It hardly seemed to matter anymore which scandal

broke over her head.

In any case, the fact that the ordeal was nearly over swamped her with a multitude of feelings she didn't

understand—and so she pushed them to the back of her mind. He'd cast her into a downward spiral, into

sin and carnality. She despaired of escaping whole ... knew the change had already begun and she would

never be the same again.

"Since you are here early, we will take advantage of the opportunity.” He lay the paper down on the

table and pushed back in his chair. He beckoned her forward. “Come to me."

Her legs heavy with her apprehension, Winter approached him woodenly, almost afraid of what he

would request now. They had leapt far beyond their first, relatively innocent, encounters the night before

and she knew instinctively that her ‘lessons’ would become increasingly more difficult for her to deal with.

Last night they had reached a turning point in their bargain, and she would never be allowed to go back

to innocence.

"I want you to grow accustomed to me ... to my body, my ice princess.” Leaning forward, he shrugged

out of his coat and dropped it on the table.

Winter shook her head, stopping before she'd reached him. She could already feel herself responding to

him, to the scent that was unmistakably his, subtle and masculine. “Someone will come in,” she said

weakly.

"No one will disturb us. Come here ... now."

Reluctantly, she moved forward until he caught her and pulled her between his open legs, his hard thighs

rubbing suggestively against her own.

"Take off my shirt.” His voice tempted her like warm chocolate, enticingly dark. She knew she shouldn't

enjoy this—it was scandalous. But the thought of seeing his body proved too much for her to resist.

Her lungs couldn't seem to get enough air suddenly as she knelt down and began unbuttoning his waist

coat. She pushed it aside with trembling hands and fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. Impatient, he

helped her, until his torso lay bare for her to feast her eyes on.

His skin was bronzed everywhere, and dark hair coated his wide, heavily muscled chest, narrowing into

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a thin trail that traveled over his rippled stomach and disappeared beneath his breeches. She was

fascinated by the differences in their bodies, by how hard and strong he looked. She couldn't seem to get

enough of him. Each taste left her wanting more and more, until she feared she would become hopelessly

addicted and never be able to let go.

"Touch me,” he said, his voice strangely hoarse.

She didn't look at his face but ran a cautious fingertip over his chest, tickling through the brisk hair,

reveling in the feel of his taut, smooth skin. His muscles jerked at the contact, surprising her.

"More, Winter. I want your hands all over me."

She knew he was watching her, but she couldn't meet his eyes. She was ashamed at her disgraceful

attraction, ashamed of how willing, no eager, she was to do his bidding.

Curious, she spread her palms over him, feeling his solid muscles, rubbing her hands over his hardened,

tiny nipples. He grunted with pleasure as she stroked lower, down the line of his stomach. Dampness

grew between her legs at her boldness, and she welcomed its strangeness.

Winter stopped at his breeches, wondering where the trail went, curiosity burning away the last of her

reservations.

"Go on,” he said huskily.

She worked at the fastening until she'd opened it. His heavy erection fell forward from the depths, rigid,

veins swollen along its surface.

So this was what a man looked like. The sheer size of him frightened her. She couldn't imagine how he

could ever fit inside her, when just his two fingers stretched her tight passage to near pain.

"Touch it ... touch my cock.” His crude name for it made her nipples pebble painfully. She grew wet

thinking of him claiming her with his rod, despite her fear of pain. What would it feel like? Emboldened,

she wrapped her hand around it, her fingertips just missed touching by an inch. She was surprised at its

heat and velvet smoothness.Silken steel , she thought, intrigued.

"Ah, that feels so good, princess.” He shifted his hips, pushing forward for her easier access as she

stroked her hand over his length.

"Take me in your mouth, Winter."

Winter hesitated, staring at the swollen member in her hand. No lady would do such a thing, would ever

consider it, and yet she wanted to. Her mouth went dry at the thought.

At her hesitation, he said, “Please."

It was all she needed to propel her into action. Let him be the one to beg now, she thought, a sense of

power engulfing her.

She bent her head and tentatively wrapped her lips around the head of his shaft, licking off the clear

bead of moisture glistening on its tip before the thought occurred to her not to.

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He threw back his head and groaned long and hard, drew his hand over the crown of her head to hold

her in place, running his fingers through her hair.

He was salty and huge, crowding into her mouth. Winter wasn't quite sure what to do with him now, but

wondered what he'd feel like against her tongue. She rubbed it along the rim of his helmeted tip, holding

his shaft steady with her hand. His skin was so smooth, it invited her to taste more.

He tugged her hair slightly, shifting in his seat. “Suck me, Winter,” he ground out roughly.

The thought of him helpless against her, needing her mouth, excited her. Her cleft was soaked through,

throbbing.

Slowly, she sucked him, as he had her, but harder and harder, his ragged breathing and stroking hands

guiding her.

Logan put a hand over hers, showing her how to pump his shaft, milking him. She stroked him as he'd

shown her, and a hoarse groan tore from his throat as he arched into her.

Winter moved him in and out, tongue teasing, suckling his rigid flesh, his essence.

She couldn't get enough of him, of holding him in her thrall. The power was heady, intoxicating her with

each pull of her mouth on his shaft.

"Take me out of your mouth ...now ,” he gasped, hips bucking. She took him out, slowly, and he held

her hand on his shaft, together pumping his length. Suddenly, a cream shot from the tip, and he collapsed

back, spent and exhausted.

She'd pleased him, and the thought brought a surge of pleasure unlike any she'd known.

"Thank you,” he whispered and pulled her up onto his lap. He kissed her forehead and smoothed her

hair from her eyes, holding her close. She sensed he wanted to say more than thanks, and she waited

eagerly, but he remained silent.

After a time, he lifted her from his lap, rose and began to dress himself.

"Now I must see you home. You should not have come this morning. It is too dangerous. The gossip

mongers are on my trail now, and I will not have you exposed."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Winter didn't say anything as they got into his readied carriage and began the trip to her home. He'd

insisted on escorting her for some unfathomable reason she couldn't know—and he wouldn't explain.

The early traffic promised the ride would be a lengthy one. She should have been worried, but she

couldn't think straight, couldn't think of the consequences of her actions this morning. All she could do

wasfeel .

Winter squirmed in her seat, discomfort causing her womb to ache with longing.

When she continued to move around, Logan said, “What is the matter? Why do you not sit still?” He'd

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watched her the entire time, but she'd been too absorbed in her dilemma to notice.

"I ... ache,” she whispered, embarrassed at admitting her weakness.

He smiled, and she felt her heart flutter with pleasure at the sight of it. He almost seemed as he had once

been, before her mistake of the past.

"You are unfulfilled."

"I am not.” He had no idea what she was going through.

Logan pulled her onto his lap with a speed and strength that shocked her into silence and immobility.

"I will make it better."

"What are you doing?” she asked, breathless. Her mind had finally caught up to her reality.

"Giving you pleasure.” He pushed her skirts up, baring her thighs, clearing the way of obstruction.

"We can't do that here!” She struggled to push her skirts back down, but he overwhelmed her with his

strength and determination. She wanted to fight him, truly she did, but the promise of relief only he could

give her was enough to break her vows of sensibility.

"Why ever not? It is more private here than some places I know of."

She blushed and he moved her skirts out of the way, spread her legs until she could straddle his lap

without hindrance.

Winter tried to remain aloof, to not touch him as he wished, but he grasped her hips firmly and pulled her

down on top of him until her moist cleft nestled against his male hardness.

At the touch of his rigid flesh and the rough texture of his breeches, she moaned, gasping at his small

torments. She could think of nothing but his huge size and what it would feel like inside her, when his

hands had felt so good.

Logan wrapped a hand behind her neck and drew her down for his hungry kiss, plunging his tongue

inside to taste her. She tingled head to foot when he finally broke away, breathing hard, as did she.

"This is folly,” she whispered, then gasped again as he forcefully ground his erection up into her

slickness.

"It is fate.” He kissed her again, rocking his hips to hers, grinding into her as he thrust his tongue inside

her mouth.

Winter clung to him, sucking his tongue, moving her body with his, the rolling of the carriage guiding their

movement. Her clit throbbed with each torturous thrust, until she thought she'd die with the pleasure of it.

He clasped a hand on her breast, massaging her through her gown, rubbing his fingers over the hard

nipple that begged for him. Winter groaned at the barrier, wanted to rip the obstruction away, wanting

nothing between them but skin and heat.

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"You are driving me mad with your promise,” he breathed raggedly against her ear, pressing nibbling

kisses along the hollow as she arched her back. “Do you care to rescind it now?” He thrust his hips into

hers with force, welcoming her shuddering, undisciplined reaction, recognizing her near completion.

Winter trembled, the shock of her orgasm breaching the edge. She wanted him, wanted him to fill her

tight passage until she could take no more. But she could not allow it, no matter how much the denial

killed her inside. “No. Even if I should beg you ... do not take me."

The feeling overtook them both, she could feel it coming. Her body tensed, clenching against him. He

drove his hips against her, again and again. Winter threw her head back, wrapping her arms around him

for support. Wave after wave consumed her, until her sex quivered and twitched against his manhood

even as he gained his own release. His pants were soaked with her juices and his own.

Winter collapsed against him, snuggling against his chest as he cradled her in his arms. She tilted her

head and placed kisses on his face, wherever she could reach, feeling her heart swell despite her best

judgment. She had barely been able to deny him his wants ... and her own. She knew then that she

wanted a piece of him before this was through, to keep him with her for all time ... to bear his babe. Even

if her sin should cast her from society's graces and straight into hell. The longing was so fierce, it near

made her heart stop beating with the wanting of it.

Logan kissed her back tenderly, looking overlong into her eyes. Winter looked away, overcome. The

disconnection she'd felt with the world was slowly melting away under his heated pursuit. She wanted to

believe he felt it too. He'd changed her, given her back the feeling and emotion she had lost when her

father died and her world had crumbled.

The carriage rolled to a stop, and she hurriedly arranged her hair and dress in some semblance of

respectability. “Thank you,” she whispered and left him before the tears could come.

She didn't know why or how it had happened, but the attraction she'd always felt for him had deepened

into something more, as though he had forced her to recognize feelings that had always been buried inside

her. He'd touched her—as no man ever had or ever would. Their connection could only end one way.

And she hated him for it. For how could he ever love her, when all he felt was hate?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

"Winter, darling, a package has arrived for you,” her mother called from the door of her room.

"Thank you, Mama. I'll be down momentarily.” Winter looked up from the book she was reading and

watched her mother go.She looks tired , Winter thought. How much of the truth did her mother know?

Or suspect? Winter hadn't been as careful as she should have been. No doubt, she was driving her

mother into the grave with worry. She was glad the ordeal was nearly over, but strangely saddened too.

It was best to put the episode behind her and resign herself to living alone ... away from the machinations

of men—and temptation.

She couldn't imagine what could have come, but she had a sinking feeling it would be nothing good.

Winter went downstairs and retrieved the large, oblong box from the hall table. It was heavier than she'd

expected, thin as it was. There was no sender marked, but her name was written in a bold hand that she

recognized immediately.

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Returning upstairs to the privacy of her bedroom, she locked her door and sat on the bed to open the

package, ignoring her mother's curious stares at her furtive actions. Eventually, she would explain

everything to her. Just not now.

There was no tellingwhat surprise he'd sent her this time, and she was taking no chances, no matter how

odd it looked.

Lifting off the top, inside she found thin layers of paper, which she quickly tore aside to reveal a folded

gown, more exquisite than anything she'd seen in her life. The color of eggshells, it was encrusted with

swirling patterns of jewels and beads, glittering with white and cerulean fire. A fitting gown for an ice

princess. She was holding a fortune in her hands, and she wanted to kill him for it. She was not his

mistress, to be clothed and adorned as he saw fit. It didn't matter that that's what she felt like.

Angrily, she pulled the heavy gown out. A note fluttered to the floor as she lifted it from the box, and she

saw beneath it lay a rolled canvas. Sudden tears sprang to her eyes, stinging and harsh until she could

barely see to pick up the note. She rubbed her eyes with her fists before reading his letter.

My ice princess,

I regret I have had to cut short the length of our agreement. The arrangement has progressed beyond my

original intentions, and I find myself growing into a madman with want of you. I have no desire to turn you

into a whore, and so I release you from your obligation to me. The gown is a gift. I hope you will wear it

to tonight's ball.

Logan

Winter ripped the parchment into tiny pieces and scattered them among the tissue paper before balling

the refuse up. He meant to buy her off, pay for her silence and assuage his guilt. She would not let him get

away with it. She didn't need him to take care of her—she didn't need him.

The realization that the ordeal was over struck her like a blow to the stomach, but she couldn't

appreciate it, not now, not like this. He'd ruined her in a way she'd never thought possible, and she

wanted him to suffer like she had—like she was suffering even now. He had given no thought to her

feelings when he'd dashed off the note so impersonally. Winter's eyes prickled again, but she pushed the

weakness back. Anger was driving her now, and she reveled in the emotional freedom—freedom that he

had forced her to embrace.

She had not intended to go out, but this changed everything. She decided she would be attending Mrs.

Moxley's after all. Logan would see her at tonight's ball ... in a way he'd never seen her before.

* * * *

Mrs. Moxley's annual winter ball was one she normally looked forward to, as did the whole of society,

but this year was different in ways Winter would have never foreseen a few short weeks ago. She was

changed, as if her vision had suddenly been restored, and she could see shallowness and greed all around
her, recognize prudence as a fear of emotion. Propriety was a leash for controlling its young women. And

her restraints had been broken.

Arriving at Mrs. Moxley's sprawling townhouse, which encompassed nearly half a city block, Winter

and her mother were greeted with affection by their stout hostess and rushed inside to the festivities.

Fractal, rainbow-hued light reflected off massive crystal chandeliers hanging above the pink marble

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dance floor. The heat of candles and hundreds of people warmed the air uncomfortably, but Winter

didn't notice. She cast her gaze about the multitude of bright gowns and garish dandies. There was only

reason why she had come tonight, and she hadn't found him yet. Too many people crowded around her,

blocking her view.

Her mother was off visiting friends just a short distance away, and when Winter turned to go to her side,

she was intercepted by one of her former beaux, Michael Ansley. He'd claimed undying love for her, but

when their money dried up, he'd disappeared along with the rest. She had caught his eye unintentionally.

There would be no avoiding him now.

Ansley swaggered up to her, and she wondered why she'd ever allowed him to court her, vainglorious

fool that he was. He caught her hand and kissed it. “Miss Stevens, I hadn't expected to see you tonight.

It is an unexpected pleasure, I do say."

Never see againwas what he'd meant to say. No doubt her presence dredged up uncomfortable

memories for him. Strange that he should seek her out, but no doubt he thought she would pursue him

and it was in his best interests to strike first.

"Yes, Mr. Ansley, a pleasure always to see you.” She forced a smile to her lips and withdrew her hand

from his pawing.

"Perhaps you would honor me with a dance? They are about to begin."

From the midst of the gaily colored crowd, Logan strode forth, clothed in solid black save for his white

silk shirt and cravat. He looked like an approaching storm, radiating a force that took her breath away,

his face hard and unforgiving, as apart from the crowd as a king from a peasant.

Winter nodded at Mr. Ansley, distracted, all her concentration focused on Logan's approach.Damn

him. She trembled inside, her vitals gone sluggish.

Logan stopped before her and took her hand, bowing low over it before placing a hot kiss to the lace
covered back. “Good evening, Miss Stevens.” He straightened, and added as an afterthought, “and to

you, Mr. Ansley."

Ansley appeared insulted but said nothing to indicate that this was the case, merely returned the greeting.

Suddenly, Michael Ansley looked on her in a whole new light, his face determined. She couldn't have

done better if she'd planned it.

Winter smiled inside, genuinely pleased. To Logan, she coldly said, “Good evening, Lord Remington."

So many words lay unspoken between them, tension crackled, building. He wanted to saysomething to

her, but propriety wouldn't allow it. She hoped he suffered endless remorse and guilt for what he'd done

to her. It was a mean thought that failed to satisfy her mind-set.

The strains of the first dance started drifting in the air, and couples began crowding onto the dance floor.

"Would you care to dance?” Logan asked, watching her steadily.

"I'm afraid I have already promised Mr. Ansley the first dance."

Ansley looked inordinately smug at Logan's set down. “If you will allow me.” He held up his arm and

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escorted her to the floor.

It was a country dance, and during the length of it, she smiled at every dull word he said, her gaze

sneaking repeatedly to where Logan awaited like a thunder cloud on the sidelines, his gaze never leaving

her.

When the dance ended, Ansley returned her to her mother, passing Logan by with a smug smile pasted

on his face. Logan did nothing but glare at them and remain silent. Perhaps he feared her ridicule, another

public set down, though she didn't think he was a man to worry over such matters any more. He seemed

to know he could command her obedience with a single touch. She only wondered what he was about.

Ansley departed, chest puffed and swaggering to woo other ladies in attendance. As he left, Logan

approached, but before he could reach her, Winter escaped with another dance partner. She had no

wish to be alone with him. She wasn't sure she could control herself—and that was as alien to her as the
chaos of feeling he aroused. Whatever he wanted to say would need to wait until she was ready for him.

She would not be a loser in this—she would never be able to hold her head up around him again if that

happened.

In the motions of the dance, she saw Logan had joined with his own partner. They continued on that

way through several dances, each taunting the other.

She'd thought to make him jealous, but the sight of him holding another woman in his arms destroyed all

thought of revenge. She'd been bitten by the green eyed devil, and he was deliberately provoking her.

Winter tried not to think about the fact that she'd begun this pettiness with her own actions. She was no

longer a child to follow her every whim—she should have known better than to tangle with an obvious

master in the game of love.

Heart sick and drained, Winter was ready to leave. She was tired, more so than she'd ever been in her

life. Declining her next dance offer, she turned to find her mother so that they could go.

A shadow fell across her path, blocking her passage. She looked up and saw it was Logan, his dark

solemnity seeming an outcast among the brilliance of his surroundings. In that, he was like her—not part

of the crowd, but separate. She'd never recognized their common ground. Had he been seeking out a

kindred spirit so long ago when she'd spurned him?

She felt wretched for her actions, and vowed to apologize to him. Just not now, when he looked at her

with such darkness in his eyes. Logan said nothing, just stared at her a moment, his jaw muscle working.

He took her arm and led her to the dance floor. Winter didn't even think to fight him—her mind had gone

blank at his audacity.

He swept her into the waltz before she could deny him, and once they were on the floor, there was no

chance to escape without drawing undo attention to her struggles. Logan led her across the floor, the

strains of music and his body guiding her despite her protests. Determinedly, Winter held her body rigid.

He wouldn't allow her to remain aloof, however. He wrapped a possessive hand around her waist,

moving her just a little too close for propriety's sake. Winter was indignant, but she couldn't risk openly

fighting him.

He raked a heated glance down her body as they began the dance, and she felt her skin flush in

response to his lengthy caress. Irritated, she favored him with a cold smile, which he disregarded in

typical male fashion.

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"Why did you not wear the gown I sent you?” he asked, his voice deep and husky, teasing her nerves.

Winter had no interest in talking to him, and so remained silent. She wanted to be through the dance as

quickly as possible. When he repeated his question, she knew there was no avoiding it. He was not a

man who could be ignored, no matter how hard she might try.

Sighing a resigned breath, she said, “I have not the means to pay for such finery. Everyone would know

I was someone's ... kept woman if I should be seen in such as that."

His hand tightened around her own. “And you would never consent to being a man's ... mistress?"

"Are you suggesting I be your whore?"

"I would never suggest something so crude."

"Nor would I accept such an arrangement,” she said, determined to put the thought of pleasuring him to

her heart's content out of her mind. A lady would never think of such things, let alone seriously entertain

them.

"You did once before.” His hands tightened on her.

"You are fortunate, my lord, that my hands are occupied, for I would slap you otherwise."

He tsked at her, his lips hitched in that charming half smile that aggravated her so much ... and made her

heart flutter. “Such violence. I would much prefer keep your hands busy caressing my body rather than

my face."

A wash of heat engulfed her at his words. He was worse than the devil himself in his persuasions.

“Please, remember yourself.” She looked anxiously around to see if any of the other dancers were close

enough to have heard his remarks. No one reacted as if they had, but on the sidelines, she caught a

glimpse of her mother, watching her worriedly.

"Ah, but you leave me no recourse but to pursue you in this manner, my ice princess."

"Stop calling me that. I am not your ... your anything."

"Wouldn't you like to be?"

Would she? In her heart, she knew that she would. But he was too different from her, and men like

Logan Cordell could never be happily bound to one woman. He'd wanted only to use her, to humiliate

her, to bend her to his will and break her spirit. Didn't he? “No,” she said finally, resolute and hating that

circumstances couldn't be different. She wanted very much to believe what her heart told her, what her

body begged to understand, but she couldn't. He had never shown any indication of caring for her. Most

of all, he'd never proclaimed his love of her.

It occurred to her that he'd returned the painting to her early, rather than risk her exposure to public

censure, but she dismissed it. She wouldn't have been at risk to start with if not for him.

His face hardened, the teasing light gone from his eyes, his smile wiped away. The music of the waltz

faded away, and the dance ended. Logan bowed low over her hand and returned her to her mother

without another word, leaving her staring after him like a moonstruck fool.

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What had she done to change him so? She'd thought him only teasing, not serious.

Winter begged off the next dance and slipped away from her mother while her back was turned.

She wanted to know Logan's true feelings, and she was determined to find out his plans if it killed her.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Winter found him in the library, standing before the mantel, a golden glow of fire light limning his features.

On a desk beside him stood an empty brandy glass, and she knew from the slight smell of liquor he'd

been drinking. He spared a cold glance at her over his shoulder at her entrance, then turned back to stare

into the fire, his stance rigid.

"Why have you followed me?” he asked, his tone lifeless.

She moved into the room, closing the door behind her before coming forth. “I had not thought our

discussion over."

"There is nothing more to say. You made your opinions quite ... clear."

"Please, hear me. I have wanted to say this overlong. I realize I was wrong, all those years ago. I am

sorry for causing you hurt. I should never have said what I did."

"Indeed. Why would you believe I care anything about the past?"

"I-I only assumed the ... reason behind your motivations—"

He laughed, a harsh mirthless sound that chilled her blood. “After everything, you still do not

understand."

"I do,” she whispered in earnest. “Why do you hate me so?” Her voice broke with emotion.

He faced her, face emotionless, and closed the distance that separated them until they nearly touched. “I

do not hate you ... nothing could be further from the truth. It is you who hate me."

He was so cold, so lifeless, her heart broke to think she'd caused this reversal in him, that she might not

ever see his other side again. She shook her head. She'd been such a fool to believe she could make him

understand, to think that she could ever know his mind. “You are mistaken. I see my own folly now in

following you. I should not have risked it. I have said my piece and will go."

She had thought she could reach him. Even though it killed her inside, this must be was their parting.

Bitter as it was, it was all she would get from him.

Logan grasped her shoulders, stopping her. “Have youno feelings for me? Not even the heat of hatred? I

have given you all you desire and more."

Winter glared at him. How could he say that? He'd given her nothing, not what she'd truly wanted—the

only thing she had ever wanted.... She wouldnever beg him for his love. Her pride was too great to

stoop so low when it would effect no change. “What did you expect? Nothing can come of this,my lord .

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Nothing."

His gaze burned into her, seeing her words for the lies they were. “You are tethered to me, as I am you.

Whether you wish it or no."

"There is naught between us,” she whispered, hoping desperately that he could not tell that she lied.

He missed nothing, however. “There is ... and I will prove it."

* * * *

He closed his arms around her, trapping her in his embrace when she would have fled. She didn't want to

feel this way. It would make it that much harder to let him go, as she knew she must.

Tears pooled in her eyes, blurring her vision as he tipped her face up for his kiss. He paused, studying

her with an unfathomable expression, almost tender but angry at the same time. She wanted to flee that

look, before she crumbled.

"Please,” she whispered, turning her face away, “don't make me feel."

"But I want you to.” Cupping her cheek in his hand, he tilted her face so he could look at her. He kissed
her softly and brushed her tears away with his thumb. “Your tears are precious to me. Never hide them."

He bent then and touched his lips to hers, a soft teasing kiss that stoked the fire warming in her breast.

The temptation was more than she could take, more than she could resist.

This would be her last chance with him, to capture a piece of him inside her ... and she would take it.

Logan continued kissing her, stroking his callused palm over her collarbone, around the back of her

neck, his fingers smoothing over her skin. His other hand rested below her breast, teasing her

maddeningly with his nearness. He would be her undoing. Winter didn't want his tenderness—she wanted

his fire to burn her sensibility away, to make what she needed to do easier. His gentleness would only

make it that much harder to say good-bye—and she had no choice but to leave him in the end. She had

nothing to offer him, no dowry, and he would never accept her as his wife when he did not love her.

Winter began kissing him in earnest, rubbing her body against him, reveling in the friction of their heat as

they touched. His shaft hardened against her belly, and she ran her tongue over his closed lips in a daring

move.

He pulled back, releasing her, confusion marring his forehead as his black brows drew down. “What are

you doing?"

Winter hugged him to her, nestling her body against the shell of his as she stroked her hands over the

small of his back.

"I want you. I'm cold, Logan ... so cold.” She rubbed against him again, pleased to feel his rock

hardness and hear his ragged breathing as he strove to resist her. “Ineed you, Logan. Please,” she

begged.

"You know not what you ask. I cannot."

"You want to, as much as I do. Admit it.” He was going to fight her on this? Where was this honor

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before? When she'd been an innocent and untouched by such feelings?

His body was rigid, his shoulders tense, and she knew he was waging a battle inside to resist taking what

he'd been offered and had so long pursued.

Winter reached for his waistcoat, confident as she'd never been before, and tugged at it, the buttons tight

and resistant to her fumbling fingers. Frustrated when she could make no headway, she took two

handfuls and ripped it open with a strong tug. Buttons popped off and scattered across the floor.

Logan groaned, her impulse driving him over the edge, and he crushed her to him, the battle lost.

Winter thrilled at her victory. He kissed her, desire and hunger roughening his caress. He ran his hands

down her back and cupped her buttocks, squeezing her cheeks as he pulled her flush against his erection.

Her skirts muffled the sensation, and she moaned in frustration, tugging at the binding cloth to lift it out of

her way.

Logan pushed her back, until her hips bumped into the desk. He lifted her up until she sat on it, knocking

the empty brandy glass to the carpeted floor. He stepped between her legs, pushing her skirt high up on

her thighs.

Winter smiled devilishly and freed his hair until it hung about his shoulders in a dark cloud. She loved

how he looked, so wild and dangerous, like he would eat her alive. She pulled his shirt from his breeches,

running her hands underneath to feel the ridges of his stomach, around to the hard muscles of his back.

She tilted her head back as Logan nibbled down her jaw line, down the column of her arched throat. His

tongue played in the hollow at the base before he descended to the valley of her breasts. Her gown

impeded his progress, and he slipped his hands around her back to the tiny buttons trapping her in the

gown. With a triumphant grunt, he ripped the back open and her gown fell off her shoulders, her breasts

spilling out the top in abundance as the tiny buttons joined his own on the floor.

She didn't care. Nothing mattered now but this. She didn't want to leave him—ever. He caught one

breast in his hand, pinching her nipple between his fingers, kneading her flesh as he caressed the other

with his mouth, tongue rolling over her achingly hard nipple.

Winter gasped and dug her nails in his back without conscious volition, urging him on. He took her

nipple into his mouth, sucking her hard as he played with her other breast, then switched his attention to

the other begging for his touch. Winter shook her head, trembling. He was driving her crazy. She wanted

more. She wanted to feel him inside her, just this once.

Winter opened her legs wide and wrapped them around his hips. Logan groaned and thrust mindlessly

against her, the fabric of his breeches sliding roughly against her slick sex, grinding against the sensitive

nub nestled in her core.

"Please, Logan,” she begged, pulling him toward her with her legs. He thrust against her again and she

moaned. It felt so good ... but it wasn't enough. She needed her tight passage filled, filled until she burst

with sensation.

Winter reached up and tugged at the fastening of his breeches until she'd freed his thick erection. He

groaned when she put her hands around it, squeezing and pumping his swollen flesh. She leaned back on

the desk, offering herself to him, spreading her legs as far as she could to allow him entrance.

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He looked like a pirate standing above her—herpirate, his dark hair wild and free flowing. He was

everything she'd ever dared to want, and she wanted every piece of him while she could.

Logan stood still, tension evident in his body. He looked down on her, at her tousled hair that had

slipped its binding pins, caressing her breasts with his gaze, then moving down lower to her weeping sex.

His look grew hooded, smoldering. A change had come over him, and he looked more wild than she'd

ever seen him, as if the least push would propel him over the edge.

It was what she'd wanted, what she had always wanted and never admitted to herself in her darkest

dreams. She pulled him forward with her legs, urging him to complete her, needing him.

"Please,” she whispered, “I want you inside me."

He closed his eyes, warring within himself. He grasped her ankles, forcing her to lay back as he rested

her legs over his shoulders. She was no longer spread wide open, and he held her still with his arms so
that she couldn't move. He controlled her movement now, controlled what she would feel. Bending, he

kissed the inside of her knee as he ran one hand between her thighs to her wet cleft. He pushed past her

swollen lips to her aching nub. Pinching it between his fingers, he toyed with her, moving his fingers over

her clit in a tight, rough circle.

Winter gasped and struggled to move against his hand, but he held her trapped. She could do nothing

butfeel . She grasped the edges of the desk for support, digging her nails into the wood as sensations

jarred her, lighting through her body in pleasurable wave upon wave. He smiled, taking delight in

tormenting her with his fingers, and she groaned at his wicked look.

"More,” she demanded, arching her head back.

He grabbed her thighs in a firm grip and moved his hips, sliding his erection against her soaked cleft,

parting her aching, saturated folds with his cockhead. He rocked against her, sliding the hard ridge of his

shaft across her center. Winter jerked her hips in response, gasping ragged breaths at the pleasure of it.

Her sex quivered, blood throbbing in her clit, pounding through her veins. She tossed back and forth

uncontrollably, wanting to do more, to make him take her, but she could do nothing. He had the power

now, and he was enjoying his hold over her.

He slid, back and forth again and again, harder each time, kneading her thighs with each stroke, building

her slowly up to that pleasurable state she so longed for. Winter whimpered, trembling under his touch.

He groaned, and the sliding stopped, becoming something different. She felt the first prod of his shaft,

forcing into her tight passage, felt his hands shake to keep control. He was too big, it hurt ... but she

wanted it too much to care about the pain.

"Yes, Logan. Logan....” she urged, her back arching as he worked with agonizing slowness into her

tightness until he met the fragile barrier of her innocence.

He stopped then, breathing raggedly, gasping for breath as his body shook, arms shaking under the

strain.

Logan growled in anguish and pulled his hard member out of her passage. He threw himself off her,

crossing the room to get away from her sweet temptation.

Winter sat up, hurt beyond physical pain. “Why have you stopped?” Her voice broke with her agony.

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"I cannot go further,” he growled in rage, running his hands through his hair in anger before enclosing his

erection back into his breeches.

"Why have you suddenly developed a conscience?” she yelled, practically spitting her anger at him.

"This was a mistake. You should not have followed me."

He'd wanted it as much as she did, she knew. He'd never held himself back before, why would he stop

now? She wanted to scream at him, make him understand that this was their last chance to be together.

Miserable tears formed in her eyes, and he looked away in shame at the pain he caused her, hanging his

head as though guilt would press him into the ground with its heavy weight.

Someone knocked at the library door, and Winter jumped in surprise, anger replaced with horror. She

hurriedly pulled her gown up to cover her breasts just as the doors flew open and light flooded the room
from the hallway. Her mother stepped inside, immediately spotting Winter sitting upon the desk, and she

gasped when she saw her daughter: her gown torn and hanging from her shoulders, her hair unbound, her

skin flushed with the heat of desire.

She turned with a murderous gleam in her eyes to Logan. “Did he attack you?"

Winter had never seen her mother this way, and her anger frightened her. “No, Mama, it's not what you

think."

Her mother looked Logan over, took in his own torn clothing, their kiss swollen lips, and came up with

the logical conclusion.

She covered her face with her hands and sobbed. “I knew it. I knew you were in trouble. When the gifts

began arriving, I should have done something then, protected you from yourself. I blame myself for not

putting a stop to it long ago. I just never thought it would come tothis .” Uncovering her face, she looked

at Logan and pointed a finger at him. “You have ruined my daughter. She will be ostracized now because

of this. I cannot possibly get her out of here without everyone knowing something happened."

"Mama, the fault is mine, not Logan's."

"Don't lie for him, Winter. I can see for myself what has happened.” Her mother cried harder, tears

streaming down her face. “I don't know what we shall do."

Logan looked from Mrs. Stevens to her daughter, a faint smile curling his lips.

"There is only one recourse in this situation,” he said. “I must marry your daughter.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Winter stared at him in shocked dismay. She had never meant to force his hand this way, to entrap him

into matrimony, but he must think that was why she had done this. What else could he think? He would

never believe her if she told him she had only wanted a chance to keep something for herself. She shook

her head. “No. I will never agree to it."

Logan's face hardened at her refusal, and his eyes grew dead again. “You have no choice in this matter.

Would you have your mother brought down with you?"

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"Winter, please, listen to him. He has chosen an honorable course, one that will salvage this situation."

Winter felt the tears welling in her eyes, but she blinked them back, refusing to show her emotion. She

had not wanted him to be forced into marrying her—he would hate her now. He probably believed she'd

arranged this entire debacle to ensnare him. It was no way to begin a marriage. Marriage was built on

trust and love—which would never come now.

Her mother looked at her, pleading, and she quite suddenly she knew she had no alternative but to

accept. She'd created this mess. If it killed her soul, she would clean it up and protect her mother.

"I accept,” she said in a resigned voice, dropping her face into her palms with shame. Her dreams lay

crumbled on the ground, and she had no hope of restoring them. She wondered if he would keep his

promise or leave her standing at the altar, and knew those doubts would eat away her sanity if she

allowed herself to believe them.

"I will make the arrangements. The banns must be posted. We will marry by the end of the week."

* * * *

The wedding was the most scandalous event of the season. Everyone was sure Winter wasenceinte with

Lord Remington's child. Why else would a peer of the realm stoop to marry a dowerless girl so

thoroughly on the shelf?

Winter ignored their talk, remained peaceable during their frequent visits she and her mother endured.

All the while, she fretted over the engagement, knowing it was a mistake to chain herself to a man who
didn't love her, even if she did love him. One partner's love wasn't strong enough to forge the bonds of

marriage into a whole.

The day arrived, and they were to be married that morning. Her stomach was clenched in painful knots
hours before the event as her mother cried over her and helped her dress. She wore the gown he'd sent

her to wear when he'd returned the painting. It seemed a lifetime ago, but had only been a week past.

The eggshell gown fit her nearly perfectly and had required little alteration in the length so that she would

not trip. She was as ready as she could be, given the situation.

Logan sent his carriage to them, and they rode in silence to the church. Upon her arrival, she was shown

into a small ante chamber for final preparations.

The ceremony was to be only a small gathering, and yet masses had arrived, none wanting to miss this

audacious occasion. She knew they only awaited her to begin, awaited to see her fall, as she'd fallen from

grace. It hit her suddenly that she couldn't go through with marrying him. And no one could force her to.

Her mother shook her shoulder gently to gain her attention. “They're waiting, Winter. Darling?"

"Mama, I cannot do this. It is wrong."

Abigail Stevens looked at her daughter, horror etched on her face. “You can't change your mind now—"

"I already have."

"And there will be no changing it back?"

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Winter shook her head. “Not in the foreseeable future."

Her mother studied her for several moments. “I see. I will notify everyone of your decision. I will be

back momentarily."

Her mother left then, and Winter heaved a sigh, collapsing into a hard back chair in relief. She chewed

her bottom lip with worry. The hardest part was over, and she'd survived without her heart crumbling to

dust. She'd managed to save them both from her mistake. In time, the pain of leaving him would lessen,

and she could go on with her life. At least, she prayed the agony she felt would eventually

lessen—without leaving her a dried husk of her former self.

No, she couldn't allow herself to think that way. She would talk herself out of her decision. As it was,

she hovered dangerously close to running into the church and throwing herself into Logan's arms and

begging for forgiveness for being so blind.

Minutes passed, and she began to worry that her mother had not returned. She needed to leave, now,

before she could change her mind.

A knock sounded, and the door opened before she could answer. She turned in her chair, expecting her

mother.

Logan walked into the room, his stride determined, his gaze intense as he met hers.

Winter's heart started thudding in her throat, blood rushed to her head. She couldn't think straight, could

only think of how sorry she was that this was the end.

"Why have you refused to marry me?” he demanded, his voice low, vibrating with intensity.

She swallowed audibly, gathering strength, then said, “I have saved you—"

He laughed and shook his head, cutting her off. “Can you not see I don't want to be saved? All I have

ever wanted was your love. Can you not give me your heart?"

Winter froze, unable to believe what he'd said was true. “You ... you love me?"

He expression grew completely still. He closed the gap that separated them. “With every breath I take.”

He bent and scooped her into his arms, ignoring her half-hearted struggle before she submitted to him

and flung an arm around his neck. “And I will be damned if I let you ruin this. I have no intentions of

being jilted at the altar."

Winter laughed, every last doubt fleeing her in the comfort of his embrace. She cupped his cheek and

kissed him tenderly, looking deep into his eyes. “I love you, Logan. I always have,” she whispered, love

swelling her heart to near bursting.

"Then let us give society something to talk about.” He grinned devilishly and strode out of the room,

carrying her up the aisle amid a chorus of gasps to the altar ... and into the beginning of her life.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

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"It is fitting our first time together, we will be making love,” Logan said as he watched her from his

position near the bed.

"I know it is strange ... but ... I am not sure how to begin.” Winter stood awkwardly in the middle of the

room—hisbedroom . As many encounters as they had had, she'd never been in here, and the bed

looming so large and prominently made her stomach flutter with nervousness. It was all very well and

good to think of consummation in the heat of the moment, but now she was not so confident of her ability

to please him.

He smiled and offered her another half glass of wine. She drained it, feeling the alcohol calm her raging

fears into a pleasant numbness.

"That is enough of that.” He placed the bottle back on the bedside table and sat on the bed to watch her.

“Come here so that I may remove your gown,” he said huskily.

Slowly, she approached him and turned to present him her back, lifting the mass of her hair over one

shoulder. He languorously pulled each tiny button from its hole, and the dress sagged down her shoulders
as he freed her. It dropped to the floor as he released the last button. With easy movement, he pulled her

chemise over the top of her head, until she stood nearly bare before him, clothed only in her hair and her

stockings.

He moved behind her, urging her forward, and she could feel him kneel on the floor, felt the touch of his

mouth on the crease beneath her buttocks. She bit her bottom lip to keep from gasping at the new

sensation in a place never before touched by a man.

Placing nibbling, sucking kisses on her flesh, he worked his way south until he met her garters, inching
them down her legs before the silk stockings followed. His kisses cooled in the air, contrasting sharply

with the heat of his mouth. He nipped the back of her knee as he reached it, and she did gasp then,

clenching her hands into fists, the tease of his mouth torturing her.

Logan stood again, and she could sense his movement, knew he removed his clothes as the soft rustle of

cloth striking the floor greeted her ears. He stepped up to her, and his hard erection nestled against the

small of her back. He pushed her hair aside and placed a soft kiss on her shoulder, cupping her breasts

from behind, flicking his thumbs over her nipples until they pebbled under his touch.

"Turn around,” he whispered hotly against her ear, and she shivered, goosebumps trailing over her skin.

She closed her eyes, fearing to see his reaction to her nakedness, and turned, sensing that he stepped

back from her by the loss of his heat.

"You are everything I ever imagined and more. No painting could ever compare,” he said, his voice

hoarse with longing.

Winter opened her eyes, caught his heady look as he lingered on her body, missing nothing as he

caressed her every inch. She'd never felt beautiful until that moment, and seeing herself through his eyes

was intoxicating. She'd never felt so desirable in all her life.

He took her hand and guided her to the bed, bidding her lay down. Joining her, he spread one hair

roughened leg across hers, laying on his side as he toyed with her hair.

"I have wanted this from the first moment I saw you. I knew that one day, I would have you this way."

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A faint smile curled Winter's lips, but it was without humor. “As badly as I behaved I can not imagine

why you would have wanted me."

Logan touched her face. “I thought you were an angel ... when I opened my eyes and saw you looking

down at me with such caring on your face, I thought I'd died and gone to heaven."

Winter sat back, frowning, tilting her head questioningly. “I don't think I understand."

His lips twisted. “I didn't think you'd remembered."

"Remembered what?” Winter asked, exasperated.

"The day you found me in the street, beaten almost to death. The day you helped me up and walked me

through the worst part of town because I couldn't walk without your help. I thought you were the most

beautiful woman I'd ever seen, and in that moment, I loved you. I knew that someday you would be

mine."

Winter stared at him a long moment, remembering, realizing at last why it was that he had always

seemed familiar to her, why she'd always felt that she should know him. She could not find her voice to

speak, could say nothing but pulled him down for a kiss that seared her senses.

He cupped one breast as he plunged his tongue into her mouth, pinching the nipple, kneading her firm

breasts and then splaying his hand across her stomach. He moved it lower as he trailed from her mouth to

her ear, easing his tongue over the intricate whorls as his fingers journeyed past the curls covering her sex

to her moist cleft. He pushed two fingers into her folds, spreading them open until he could rub her clit,

sliding in the juices flowing from his touch.

He breathed hotly into her ear as he drove his fingers into her, pumping into her as he rubbed his thumb

over her clit again and again.

Winter moaned and clutched at his shoulder, eager for more, helplessly bucking her hips against his

hand.

"Take me, Logan. Please."

He sucked at the corner of her jaw as he moved on top of her, and she spread her legs open to

accommodate him. He buried his face against her neck, propping on his arms as he guided his shaft to

her cleft. Rubbing his body against her, pressing his hard chest against her aching breasts, he rocked his

hips, slipping across her folds and the center of her sex. His arms trembled, and he pushed into her.

Winter jerked with the contact, gasping for air. She clutched his shoulders, wrapping a leg around his
hips to pull him in more. He was so large, it felt so tight, so hard. He resisted her efforts, moving at his

own pace. Inch by agonizing inch, he worked into her, his member stretching her to the limits until he met

her maidenhead. Then he withdrew, slowly, almost completely withdrawing before pushing inside again.

Each time pressing against the barrier, and the pain lessened with each thrust—and pleasure gained

maddeningly close.

He lay half atop her, freeing one hand to move between their joined bodies, to rub against her clit with

maddening speed. Winter moaned, clenching inside, and Logan grunted in pleasure, thrusting against her

until he stretched her barrier to the breaking point.

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He stilled his movement, still rolling his fingers over her clit. He was bringing her to the heights of

pleasure, but it wasn't enough. She wanted him to join her this time.

She looked into his smoldering eyes and cupped his buttocks, digging her nails in as she pulled him

inexorably forward. His body straining against her and the inevitable, he growled low in his throat and

plunged fully into her depths.

Winter cried out and he muffled her cries with his mouth before raining apologetic kisses over her face.

She trembled underneath him, her body adjusting to his size. He held still, and her sex quivered around

him, clenching and unclenching as the pain eased.

"I am sorry for causing you hurt,” he whispered, looking pained.

"All is forgiven,” she said, feeling the pain drift away and pleasure take its place, the pleasure of having

him completely inside her. She moved against him, holding him close in her embrace.

He groaned and pulled his shaft out to plunge it inside her again. She arched her back, meeting him.

“You'll be the death of me,” he said, increasing his tempo, her slickness easing his way, in and out, harder

and harder as she met each thrust with abandon.

"La petit mort,” she gasped,the little death , kneading his tight buttocks, pulling him deeper with each

thrust, until she thought the sensations would overwhelm her and she would go mad.

He buried his face against her neck, grinding his hips against her, building to the release hovering on the

edges. She gripped him with her sex, massaging him with each powerful thrust, until she could take no

more. She closed her eyes, blinded by the orgasm raging through her, quivering on the end of every

nerve. She called out his name as she climaxed again and again, until he gained his own release and his

seed shot deep into her womb.

He collapsed on top of her, exhausted, and she lay trembling beneath him, her sex twitching as the

waves of pleasure eased away, debilitating her, until she was drained of everything but pure feeling. She

rode down the high of his loving, her mind shutting down.

They drifted off to sleep, nestled in each other's arms.

Some time later, Winter awoke to Logan's caress as he stroked his hands through her hair.

She smiled lazily, looking up at him. “How long have you been watching me?"

"Not long enough,” he said, a corner of his mouth hitched high, and he kissed her. “I have something I

wanted to give you, but didn't want to wake you."

Underneath his pillow, he pulled out a small box and presented it to her. It seemed to be formed of a

single piece of wood, for she could see no latch or opening, nor ridges for the lid. Oval shaped glass was

inset on the top. She picked it up from his palm and peered into it. Inside lay the necklace he had given
her, held immobile under the glass. She hadn't even realized it had gone missing, couldn't remember the

last time she'd seen it.

He closed his hand over the box and her hand. “We will lock the ice princess away forever, my love."

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And they did.

The End

Lexi Foxfire lives for the moment, pirating the skies of Windaria, so when she's presented an opportunity

to abduct a man she thinks is a wealthy royal, she does so whole-heartedly. What she doen't realize is the

man she has captured is the Captain of the Royal Skyfleet, Riker Darkwin, whose only goal in life is to

rid the skies of the pirate menace.

Tormented by the bold beauty, visions of erotic tortures dance through Riker's mind as he formulates a

plan for escape. And he has no intentions of letting Lexi flee his justice....

Below is a brief excerpt from Jaide Fox's hot new fantasy romance, coming in April:

THE SKY FOX

by

Jaide Fox

Chapter One

Windaria—world of the eternal sky

"Pirates!"

Shouts called to arms on the fat merchant ship, snatched away by the wind raging around them. Men

scrambled as the pirate ship bore down on them, the shadow of its hull blocking the sun's blinding rays

leaking through the clouds.

Lexi Foxfire laughed boastfully from her perch on the prow, hands on hips, hair whipping around her

shoulders as she watched the skylors try desperately to trim their sales vertical to escape her encroaching

ship. Their watch had been lax, and they'd been unable to see her ship advancing on them—their sails

having blocked the view up above. Now it was too late to flee. The fat lady would never be able to out

fly her sleekVixen .

"Takethe Vixen down, Argus,” Lexi shouted over her shoulder at her windmaster where he stood at the

helm.

The ship leaned forward at her command, it's sharp nose slicing through the sails like paper, shredding,

until the hull rested on the merchant's main mast. The ship shuddered beneath them, her momentum stilled

without the guidance of the wind caught in her sails. Tatters of cloth and rope hung from the masts,

fluttering in the gusts created bythe Vixen's immense wings. Wood groaned with pressure under the

impact, threatening to snap. Her wings hummed above the keening wind, keeping them balanced as they

hovered over the doomed lady.

With practiced speed, her readied men scaled ropes they threw over the sides, descending into the

chaos below, brandishing their clubs as they met the skylors defending their ship. She never allowed

bloodshed, but bruised heads and empty pockets had never hurt anyone as far as she was concerned.

Meaty thuds and shouts rose from the melee—music to her ears. Her blood thrilled, pulsing hard through

her veins in anticipation. There was no greater thrill in the world than taking down a ship. “If there's

trouble, you know what to do,” she shouted at Argus, who nodded in understanding and held the wheel

locked in place.

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Lexi swung her leg over the railing but stopped as a falcon flitted between the mess of sails and rigging

before disappearing into the clouds beyond. She contemplated sending Sparky after the bird but quickly

disregarded it. Even if it was going for help, they would be long gone before anyone could arrive.

Lexi gripped her knife between her teeth and slid down the rope with ease, the calluses on her palms

proof against the harsh, tearing fibers. Quick as her namesake, she landed light-footed on the wooden

decking, surveying her surroundings. The fighting had moved toward the stern, away from her position,

and skylors lay in heaps, some groaning, some unconscious.

She sauntered toward the ongoing battle, and in a clear voice yelled, “Lay down your arms, or we will

crush your ship.” Instantly the men stopped and looked at her as a crack like thunder snapped through
the main mast, impacting her words as the ship groaned in pain. Slowly, reluctantly, they dropped their

weapons and surrendered. Her men rounded them up in a tight circle and began tying them together with

heavy rope.

Satisfied with the ease of her victory, Lexi nodded and turned to the stairwell that descended into the

belly of the ship. “Bailey, you and Kilor grab some men. It's time to collect our reward.” The grizzled

men grinned and followed her down with six others, all eager to be on their way before their luck had a

chance to run out.

Light protruded only a short distance into the passageway. Beyond was darkness, interrupted by small

patches of light cast by lonely glowing sconces. Treading cautious, expecting attack, Lexi moved inside,

Bailey and Kilor at her back. She held her knife at the ready should anyone rush her. Doors and

passages branched off, and she gestured men to explore in groups of two while she continued on with

Bailey and Kilor down the central path. A heavy door stood at the end, a solitary light revealing intricate

carving—expensive. Obviously the captain's quarters. She tried the handle, but the door was locked.

"Break it open,” she said and moved out of the way while Kilor picked the lock. Someone was

probably inside, waiting to ambush them—there were limited reasons why the captain's door would be

locked, and they'd found only low ranking officers up above. Which meant he had to be in there. Lexi

shifted impatiently, eager to be done with this.

Kilor sensed her unease. “It would help if I had more light,” he whispered, then grunted in satisfaction as

the lock clicked open.

Clubs held at the ready, they rushed inside, ready to smash anyone in their path. The room was empty

she saw on quick examination. Her eyes were immediately drawn to an onyx stone that sat atop the great

table encompassing a good portion of the room, maps and charts overflowing beneath it. A rare find, the

stone was huge, its sides perfectly round as though it were an overturned bowl. It appeared larger than

the span of her hands forming a circle.

"Take that,” she said, nodding at Bailey. Before he could near it, he was pushed back violently, as if he'd

struck a field of energy.

"We're under attack!” Kilor yelled as he was picked up and thrown across the room. Lexi screamed for

more men. Dashing toward Bailey and Kilor, intending to help, she ran up against a solid, invisible wall

that had the distinct feeling of human flesh.

"It's a man,” she shouted and was pushed back as the thing turned. Lexi slashed at the invisible force that

shoved her. Something ripped away, sliced by the blade of her knife, and a man's arm came into view,

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seemingly suspended in the air. Certain now she faced a man of flesh and blood—one that could be

beaten—she growled and ducked, grabbing at the force until she had two handfuls of cloth and flung it

away to reveal him.

Bailey ran from behind and wrapped his arms seemingly around air, pulling the man back. Cloth ripping

rent the air, and Bailey fell. A man appeared before them, kneeling on the ground, chest heaving, black

hair falling wildly around his shoulders. He looked like a caged beast, ready to strike at any moment

should they provoke him.

Three more men rushed inside the cramped quarters, surrounding them. The fight had lasted mere

seconds, and it felt like much longer when she'd thought they would be beaten. “We heard your shouts,”

one of the men said behind her. Breathing harshly, Lexi ignored them, gaping instead at the man as he

slowly drew himself to standing. He towered above her, above them all, huge. Muscles evident by the

breadth of his chest, and the thickness of his arms. Very obviously, he was a warrior of some kind.

What the hell was a man like that doing on a merchant ship? And why had he attacked them this way?

She'd expected something direct, not subterfuge.

Everyone was calming down now, their breathing returning to normal in the aftermath. When he made no
move to strike, she gained confidence. He'd be a fool to take them all on now. The cloak couldn't protect

him anymore, and she wondered why he'd struck at all. The man watched her steadily, glaring as she

walked around him toward the desk. He'd been protecting something. It occurred to her the attack

hadn't happened until they'd tried to take the onyx stone. There was no place inside the quarters to hide

something of its size, and the captain's cabin was usually the only one to have a lock.

"I'll die before that stone leaves my possession,” he said as she reached to take it.

Her hand stopped before touching it, and she regarded him with a cool expression. “Everything on this

ship is now mine for the taking.” How could he be so defiant, when he was clearly outmanned?

Pig-headed warrior, she thought with disgust. They were all the same.

Lexi rubbed her jaw thoughtfully, eyeing him like a prized stud at a fair. “You have a vanishing cloak.

Only royals and their ... pets are allowed to wear them.” His hands clenched into tight fists, and she

laughed with sudden dawning. “I think we may have landed a far greater prize than we any could have

realized. Take him down, men."

"Five against one? That's hardly fair odds,” he said coolly, voice a deep rumble in his chest. Her men

closed around him, clubs held threatening high.

"And it was fair when you used your cloak against us?"

He shrugged, remaining watchful. “I did what I had to."

"As do I. I'm a pirate, what can I say?” Lexi watched as he tensed, ready to spring into action. She

hefted the stone, barely. No wonder he hadn't hidden it beneath his cloak. He couldn't have fought them

off and carried it too. Looking it over, she saw the mark of a hand was carved into the top of the globe,

almost as if its impression had been seared into it.How strange. Lexi approached the open porthole,

rubbing the onyx's glassy surface lovingly, effectively capturing the man's attention and halting his

advance. “You come peacefully, and I won't pitch this over the side."

"I'd flail you if you did,” he growled. Outnumbered and his prize held hostage, he grudgingly ceded to

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her men, given no choice but to surrender.

"Promise?” she said with a short, barking laugh. She grinned at the dark, thunderous look he gifted her.
“How does it feel to be captured by a girl, I wonder?” She paused a moment, eyeing him. “And I know

just where to put you."

Chapter Two

Lexi was back on the ship first, and Sparky flew from his perch on Argus’ shoulder to her own, curling

his tail through her hair and rubbing his soft scaly head against her cheek. “Worried I wouldn't make it

back, scamp?” She scratched behind his horns affectionately and watched the men start pulling the cargo

aboard ... as well as her reluctant new guest.

"Lash him to the bed. I'll be down to inspect him after we've finished loading the take.” Kilor and Bailey

looked surprised as the man at her words, but they prodded him forward until they disappeared down

below.

Lexi didn't give it another thought. She was too busy making sure they had enough room and wouldn't

be loaded down if they needed to take off in a hurry. A short time later, the ship was loaded, and they

pushed off from the floundering vessel to soar up into the clouds. They'd left a few skylors untied, but the

craft was severely crippled and would take some time to repair—they'd not be able to give chase any

time soon.

Bailey came up from below as they set sail, shaking his head, running a hand through his thinning hair.

Most of the men onthe Vixen were old enough to be her father—and in some cases, grandfather. She

had her brother to thank for that. He never wanted young men around his baby sister, not that she could

blame him—pirates tended to be a randy bunch. It must be all those weeks at sky.

"Kilor's still down there with him—didn't trust that he wouldn't break his bonds,” Bailey said as he

approached her where she stood at the helm with Argus. “That one's damned mean, Fox. I'm not sure of

you should be keepin’ him in yer cabin."

"I think I can handle one man bound to my bunk. Even if he is a hulking monster.” Lexi chuckled and

tied her billowing hair back with a scarf—almost tempted to chop the blowing tendrils off, they

aggravated her so. Sparky moved irritably on her shoulder before settling down again.

"I know what yer about. You shouldn't tease a man, Fox. ‘Tis a dangerous game you play."

Lexi shrugged and turned back to directing Argus. Pirating was one thing—men were quite another. She

had always been able to wrap any man around her finger when she had cause. She didn't need Bailey's

advice to tell her take heed ... but shewas looking forward to some well earned recreation. Bailey could

keep his opinions to himself.

Laden with plunder, they set sail for the isle of Aeros, where she'd catch a pretty coin for their take.

"How long till we get to Aeros, Argus?"

"One day as the dragon flies, course, it'll be two fer us."

Lexi nodded. That would put them there mid-morning, early afternoon at the lastest, two days hence,

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perhaps earlier if they could catch a fast breeze. She never liked keeping her hull full for too

long—complacency drew danger like flies to honey. They were just as likely to be raided themselves if

they strayed from their destination.

No sense in working herself up. She shrugged mentally. Satisfied all was right with her world, Lexi left

Argus and Bailey to go down to her cabin as dusk began to set. Kilor stood in the door, arms crossed, a

scowl spread across his face as he watched his charge. He needn't have worried. She trusted that they'd

bound the man soundly.

"I'll leave him to you,” Kilor said at her nod and was gone.

Lexi walked into her cabin and glanced at the bed. “Still here?” she said and laughed when he glared at
her. She removed her gloves and threw them on the dresser. “I thought you'd have figured some way to

escape by now.” She shut the door and leaned against it, surveying the man lying spread-eagled on her

bed, his arms and legs bound to the posts. The wood was nailed to the floor so it wouldn't shift, and he

wouldn't be able to move unless she allowed it. Still, it made her chuckle seeing a powerful warrior felled

so effectively. His dark hair spread out across her pillow, contrasting sharply with the white cloth.

He sent her a black glare that would've killed a lesser man. But she wasn't a man—had spent her life

around harder sorts than he—so she wasn't one to quake in her boots at the first sign of his displeasure.

"It's rather difficult to break one's chains under guard.” He shifted so he could look at her better, saw her

hands were empty. “Where's the stone?” he demanded.

She shrugged, ignoring his question. “What do they call you?” she asked, walking into the room and

settling into her chair. She leaned back in it, propping her legs on the footboard. Sparky hopped off her

shoulder into her lap, and she pet him absentmindedly—her attention focused on the bed's occupant.

"I am known as Riker.” he said, voice terse, arms straining against the heavy rope binding his arms. His

shirt had been torn in the fight, and glimpses of bronzed flesh peeped enticingly from the rents, fascinating

her. She'd been far too long without a man, that looking at a stranger made her mouth want to water in

anticipation.

Lexi shook her head of fog, determined not to let a pretty face and delectable body undermine her

authority. “Good. You know how this works then. You remain amicable and this will go easy for you.

Now, why is this stone so important to you?"

His jaw set stubbornly at her question, and Lexi blew out an exasperated breath. She should have

known that as a man, he would make this difficult. They neglected to see that she would eventually get

her way.

When he failed to answer, she said, “I have ways of making men talk, Riker.” Leaning forward, she

started peeling her thigh high boots down her legs. He watched, interested, though she could tell he

resented it by the ticking muscle on one side of his clenched jaw. She kicked the boots off and they

landed with a dull thud on the floor. She propped her legs back on the bed and wiggled her toes,

enjoying freedom. Confident she had his undivided attention, she slowly stretched her arms above her

head, arching her back like a cat. The shirt tied loosely beneath her breasts rose, hovering close to

exposure. Air tickled the soft undercurve of her breasts, cooling her heated flesh. She could feel his eyes

like a brand, riveted to the spot.

"Where is it?” he asked again, obviously eager to take his mind off her bared legs and the shirt riding up

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her body.

Lexi grinned and settled down again, running a hand down the line of her stomach, pleased to see his

eyes follow her path. Men were so easy to read. “You really do have a one track mind. Don't worry. It's

in a snug spot, which is more than I can say for you.” She stroked her hand down past her navel, over

her short breeches, across one taut thigh. “Have you no thought to your own safety, that one stone means

more than your life? I am a pirate after all. I could have any number of tortures done to you and wouldn't

blink an eye at giving the order."

"I know who you are. These petty games will not loosen my tongue."

"Care to make a wager on the strength of your tongue?” He said nothing, and she smiled knowingly. “I

thought not. I know much about you as well. But not your reasoning. I warn you, I'll not rest until I'm ...

satisfied.” Sparky hopped off Lexi's lap and flew to the bedpost as she stood and approached the bed.

She leaned over him, and his gaze flew to her cleavage amply displayed. He looked away, as if the

momentary weakness shamed him.

At his continued silence, she slowly picked at the lacing holding closed the remnants of his shirt, until his

chest lay bared before her greedy eyes. She pushed it fully open with her hands, gliding her palms across

his skin and the brisk, dark hair matting his chest. He was as hard as he looked, muscles rippled with

oaken strength. She teased her nails through the hair, flicking them over his small nipples until they

hardened.

His arms strained with the effort to fight her, but it was for naught—his resistance less than futile. She

could do anything she wanted and he was helpless against her. It gave her an immense feeling of power

to be dominate over the warrior—something that could quickly go to her head if she allowed it. She'd

really only wanted information, and it had begun that way, but now she was curious where the path

would lead and how long he could hold out.

"Why is the stone so important to you?” she asked again, fingers easing down his hair covered chest,

over his stomach to the waistband of his breeches. He said nothing, closed his eyes as if pained. “This

will be easier if you just give in. Think of it as a truth serum. If you don't give me the information I seek, it

will be worse."

"'Tis folly to taunt a man in this manner,” he gritted out as she slipped a finger under his waistband.

Moving with agonizing slowness, she loosed the flap of his breeches and pushed them down his hips. A

pulse throbbed between her legs at her bold move, dampness growing in her sex.

"Not if I get what I want.” She grinned as she unveiled his immense shaft, nestled in a bed of dark hair.

“Oh my. What a big boy you are. Does that beast in your breeches trip you when walking?"

He growled at her and bucked his hips to avoid her questing hand.

"He's being terribly rude. He's not even told me good day.” Splaying her fingers through his thick hair,

she slipped over his sensitive, wanting skin until she wrapped her hand around his shaft, gratified to feel

blood pulse in its length as it hardened in her palm. Watching her with intense eyes, he stilled instantly. In

nervousness? Pleasure? One could be as good as the other.

"That's better.” She rubbed her thumb tauntingly over the head, smoothing the bead of moisture from the

tip over the satiny flesh. He groaned and jerked in her hand, if anything his erection growing in length,

becoming harder. The veins swelled under her touch, his flesh near scorching as she stroked him.

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"Will you give me what I want?” He remained silent, a look of intense anger in his dark eyes.

She squeezed his member, slowly pumping him, reaching with her free hand to cup the firm sack at the

base of his shaft. He groaned again and threw his head back. “You have not asked me to stop. Could it

be the proud warrior enjoys this? The touch of a pirate's hand on his intimate flesh? I could give you

more if you but answer my question ... but if you do not, I will stop."

He breathed raggedly, clenching his hands in an effort to control himself, to keep from giving up his

secret. She could see that he wouldn't be so easily bent to her way of thinking—not at the present.

Ordinarily she would feel guilty over her actions, but Riker was an enigma to her, and she was

determined to figure him out. It didn't help that looking on him made that secret place between her legs

throb painfully, that holding him in her hand made her want to do things she hadn't considered doing for

years. She ached to strip away her breeches and straddle him, ride him until they were both exhausted by

pleasure.

Irritated, she moved away from him, determined to push the unwelcome feeling into her subconscious

before she could endanger herself. It would not do to grow soft. She would never control her men that

way.

He cried out as she released him, a hoarse, ragged groan. But whether it was in relief or want of her

stay, she could not know ... and knew he would not tell her. Let him suffer a bit. Regardless of his

strength of will, a man could only take so much. It occurred to her that she very much wanted him to

resist—that it would allow her to continue on as she was and take her pleasure from him. Perhaps it was

not so unfortunate after all.

"Come, Sparky."

Sparky ignored her outstretched arm. Instead, he flew from the bedpost and landed in the middle of

Riker's chest, bent, and nipped his shoulder. Riker grunted, nearly a yelp, and jerked his shoulder,

attempting to shake the creature off. Sparky sneezed with Riker's shaking, and a small spark of flame

erupted from his mouth and singed a patch of chest hair. A curl of smoke twisted into the air.

"Ow!"

Lexi laughed and clutched her belly at the ludicrous sight, eliciting another of his angry looks, but his

attention remained focused on Sparky and defending himself.

"What the hell is this thing? It burned me!” he shouted, fighting against the sharp nipping teeth as Sparky

hopped around his chest. “It is not funny,” he roared as she continued laughing.

She managed to catch her breath after a minute, sighing, most of her tension gone. She wiped tears from

her eyes and looked at him, nearly breaking out in uncontrollable laughter again. “He's a fairy dragon.

Have you not seen one before? Doesn't take too well to a new male in my bed I see.” A very wicked

idea took root in her mind. “I'll leave you two alone to get better acquainted.” Lexi turned her back on

the nearly nude man, but his angry voice stopped her before she could leave.

"Wait! Are you just going to leave me like this? What if he ... bites my...?"

"You should have thought of that to begin with.” Lexi spared him a glance, looking at the proud little
dragon perched on his bare chest, his tiny wings fanning as he balanced on the bucking man, and she

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smirked. “I think perhaps Sparky will make you more conducive to cooperation. Mayhap Ishould leave

you this way.” The idea had some merit. Perhaps Sparky would succeed where she'd failed.

"I'll see you on the morrow,” she called, waving good-bye. His growls and shouts hit her retreating back

as she walked out the door to let the fresh air clear her head. He would come to see things her way after

a few hours spent in Sparky's company.

* * * *

After she'd gone, Riker Darkwin shifted in the pirate's bunk and checked his bindings. He'd learned a
trick or two over the years—among them, a way to keep his arms bulked so when relaxed, the ropes

would loosen. Damned if it hadn't worked this time. They were just loose enough with a little work, he

could escape once an opportunity presented itself. And when he was loose, he'd throttle the little dragon

tormenting him ... as well as its master.

It infuriated him the power she'd held over him—and that he'd begun to enjoy it—the most shameful part

of it all. He'd never lost his control, and the tempting wench threatened to push him over the edge with

the merest touch.

He prayed the falcon had managed to slip away in the confusion. Riker smiled grimly. Lexi Foxfire, the

sky fox as he'd known her from command, would pay dearly for the humiliation she'd forced him to

endure.

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