Sexy As Hell (Berkley Sensation) Read online

  “No, I would not,” Isolde replied in quelling accents. “Kindly inform me of this bargain of yours so we may both be on our way.”

  Since his intentions weren’t entirely clear or rather of a chrysalis nature, he climbed back into bed, took a seat beside her, and said, “First tell me why I’m here—because clearly the man Malmsey hired is not.” Lifting the glass to his mouth, he drank half the brandy.

  Good God, he isn’t the actor! “I have no idea on either score,” she tersely said, rattled by this unexpected turn of events. “If I did, you wouldn’t be here annoying me and some anonymous actor would have long since left.”

  “An actor?” Oz grinned. “Did the poor man know what he was getting into?”

  “I’m sure he did. He was well paid for his role.”

  “Apparently he was,” Oz drolly noted, “considering he didn’t show up for his performance.”

  “Obviously, there was some mistake. But,” Isolde mockingly added, “since you performed well, all turned out in the end.”

  “If I agree to accommodate you.” The word perform was triggering rather explicit images.

  “You already have.”

  “Not completely.” This lady along with her story piqued his interest. Or maybe he’d become bored with Nell.

  “If it’s money you want,” she said with a touch of impatience, “just say so and we can stop playing games.”

  Oz lifted his glass to her. “I haven’t even begun playing, Countess,” he silkily murmured.

  “I find your innuendo shameless and irritating,” Isolde snapped, bristling with indignation, her ready temper on the rise. The man was equally shameless in his nudity; he didn’t even attempt to cover himself.

  “Now, now,” Oz murmured, fascinated by her willful personality, “there’s no reason we can’t be friends. Where are you from?” He hadn’t seen her before, and if she was indeed a countess, he would have met her—and more to the point, wouldn’t have forgotten so splendid a woman. She had the face of an enchantress—sensual blue eyes dark with storm clouds, a fine straight nose, soft, cherry red lips that fairly begged to be kissed, and a stubborn little chin that was infinitely fascinating to a man who knew far too many willing females. A glorious halo of pale hair framed her features, and even with their brief bodily contact, her voluptuousness was conspicuous.

  “I have no intention of being your friend, nor need you know where I’m from.” She must extricate herself from this unexpected and potentially disastrous predicament—and quickly. Her plans didn’t include someone who might talk out of turn. Everything depended on a nameless lover who couldn’t be found and cross-examined.

  “Then perhaps,” Oz drawled, “I should tell Mr. Malmsey that I don’t choose to cooperate with this scheme and if he persists I’ll sue him for every penny he has.”

  “You’re the one who barged in,” she argued, more calmly now. This man would eventually name his price; everyone did.

  “And you were the one who said I was late.” His lazy smile was full of grace. “Surely I’d have been remiss to keep a lady waiting.”

  “How very smooth you are. But impertinent, sir.”

  “While you’re quite beautiful,” he softly countered. “Although I expect you already know that. Tell me, is this little drama perpetrated to give your husband cause for divorce? If so, I don’t understand why your lover is willing to expose you to all the prurient interest and scandal on your own. Where’s the scoundrel’s backbone?”

  “So you would assume responsibility if your lover were exposed in court?”

  “Certainly. Any honorable man would.”

  “Why then would an honorable man toy with another man’s wife?”

  Oz’s dark brows shot up. “You can’t be serious. Or perhaps you live in a cave. Although, if you do,” he cheekily murmured, surveying the portion of her nightgown visible above the covers, “you have a fashionable modiste in there with you. That’s quality silk you’re wearing.” Anyone in the India trade knew silk.

  “Who are you?” she asked, suddenly curious about a man acquainted with grades of silk.

  Perhaps she did live in a cave; he was well-known for a variety of reasons, some of them actually acceptable. “You tell me first.”

  She watched him drain the rest of his drink, wondered in passing why her alarm had seemingly disappeared, and wondered as well where he came from with his deeply bronzed skin. “Are you drunk?” Would he remember any of this? How much should she divulge? And how honorable would he be if she related her tale?

  He hesitated a fraction of a second. “I’m probably not completely sober.”

  “Are you dangerous?” Even as she spoke, she realized how useless the question if indeed he was.

  He shot her a look. “To you? Hardly.”

  “I’m relieved.”

  He smiled. “I’m relieved you’re relieved. Now tell me your name.”

  “Isolde Perceval.”

  “From where—the ends of the earth? I haven’t seen you in society.”

  “I avoid society.”

  “Apparently.” He dipped his head. “Osmond Lennox. Pleased to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

  “Now that the courtesies have been observed,” she said, “kindly tell me what you want, so we may end this charade and go our separate ways.”

  “You.”

  Her eyes flared wide. “You can’t be serious.”

  “I am.” There, certainty—his plans no longer moot—although wealthy noblemen were as a rule unrestrained in their whims. “Think of it as recompense,” he said with a small smile, “for the shock to my system. When your witnesses barged in I thought someone was seeking vengeance for my many sins. Or about to horsewhip me.”

  “Well, no one was seeking revenge. You’re quite unharmed. And what you ask is naturally out of the question.”

  “Surely you can’t claim to be a virgin.”

  “I hardly think that’s any of your business.”

  “You’re right of course,” he drawled. Although, if she’d been a virgin, she would have been quick to say so. Also, a divorce case with witnesses was about adultery. She couldn’t possibly be a virgin. “Since you prefer not discussing virginity, at least explain how you plan to use your obviously hired witnesses?”

  She chewed on her bottom lip.

  “While you’re deciding on your reply, excuse me while I get myself another drink. It’s been a very odd night”—he grinned—“at least so far.”

  She should have averted her eyes, but she couldn’t help watching him as he walked away from the bed in all his nude splendor. Not that she’d ever been overly concerned with the shibboleths of society. Truth be told, he was quite beautiful in face and form—with an unmistakable brute virility beneath his charming manner. He’d threatened to shoot poor Malmsey and seemed quite capable of doing so. She’d have to pay her barrister an extra premium for that fearsome threat.

  As he returned to the bed with his refilled glass, Oz was pleased to see that the lady was no longer clutching the bedclothes to her bosom. “Now,” he began pleasantly, taking his place beside her once again, “I think I deserve some minimum explanation.” He held her gaze for a moment. “Particularly if this goes to court and I happen to be involved.”

  “It shouldn’t go to court.”

  “Shouldn’t or won’t?”

  She made a small moue. Frederick had threatened a breach of promise suit among other extortion demands.

  “That’s what I thought. So is this about your marriage?”

  “No.”

  He shot her a sharp look. “No?”

  “I’m not married.”

  “But you were.” She’d been designated a countess by the barrister.

  “No.”

  He softly sighed. “I’m not leaving until I know what’s going on, so you might as well tell me. I can stay here as long as Fremont keeps bringing up liquor.”

  “You know the proprietor?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Smith
,” he replied cheekily.

  “He shouldn’t have disclosed that.”

  “I pay him well.”

  “For his silence about your assignations.”

  He nodded.

  “So you’re a lothario,” she said with distaste.

  “No, I’m a man. Now—an explanation.”

  His voice had taken on an edge.

  “Very well, if you must know—”

  “I must,” he brusquely interposed.

  “Then I’ll tell you. I’m a countess in my own right, but as you know in situations such as mine, I simply hold the title as steward for the next male in line to inherit should I die childless. In my case, a cousin has decided he doesn’t wish to wait—I might outlive him, you see, or marry and have children. So he intends to marry me to gain access to my funds.”

  “What of a marriage settlement?” They were written to protect family fortunes.

  “First, I loathe my cousin and wouldn’t marry him if he was the last man on the face of the earth. Secondly, Frederick’s pursuit has been persistent and very determined since his gambling losses have mounted. I expect coercion would be involved with a marriage settlement. He’s completely unscrupulous.”

  “Have you no one to protect you?”

  “Naturally, I could hire guards, but I’m hoping it won’t come to that. My plan, in which you recently participated, is to so completely ruin my reputation that even Frederick will be forestalled at least in his marriage plans. What other tactics he might employ to make claim on my property Malmsey can handle in court.” Her voice took on a derisive tone. “I doubt he’d be personally moved by this scandal, but fortunately for me he has a domineering mother who prides herself on virtue and decorum.”

  “In the scramble for a fortune, people have been known to overlook even the most egregious scandals,” Oz drily said. “How can you be sure your scheme will serve?” He really meant, How can you be so naive?

  “I can’t be, of course. Not completely.” She smiled for the first time. “Yet you’ve not met Lady Compton.”

  “Actually, I’ve had the misfortune,” he replied with a grimace. “My condolences on your prospective mother-in-law.”

  “Bite your tongue,” she retorted. “If all goes well, I shan’t be saddled with her or her despicable son. My little drama, as you call it, will be published in all the scandal sheets tomorrow—without naming my partner, of course, only myself. You are quite safe, you see. Now, if you wish payment, I’d be more than happy to pay you. Money,” she quickly added.

  “I don’t need money.” As heir to the largest banking fortune in India he could buy a good share of the world if he wished. And he retracted his naive assessment. The scandal sheets could ruin a lady. Although someone with large gambling debts might overlook even that degree of infamy.

  She shifted slightly under his gaze. “Surely you wouldn’t take advantage of a woman.”

  “I doubt I’d have to.”

  Her brows arched. “Is that unimpeachable certainty usually effective?”

  He smiled. “Always.”

  “Such arrogance.” She glanced at his crotch. “And yet—I see no visible signs of your interest.”

  “I was raised in India. I’m capable of controlling my, er, impulses.” He grinned. “Although, if you’d like to see interest”—he swept his hand downward—“observe.”

  The transformation was not only instant but also profound. Wide-eyed, she took in the provocative sight.

  “Is that better?” he said, his voice velvet soft.

  She slowly wrenched her gaze from the flaunting display, his enormous erection stretching from crotch to navel, his blood pulsing wildly through the tracery of tumescent veins standing out in high relief on his resplendent length. “You’re definitely a flashy fellow,” she said, meeting his amused gaze, fully aware as well of the soft tremors beginning to flutter through her vagina. “Still, I think I’ll restrain myself.”

  “At least keep me company for a short while.” His voice was well mannered, his gaze amicable. “Thanks to you, I seem to have missed my assignation. Surely, that’s not too much to ask.” He recognized the look of longing in a woman’s eyes. He knew as well that her taut nipples pressing through the silk of her gown had something to do with his erection and her desires—restrained as they might be. Only temporarily restrained if he had his way. “Would you like a drink? Fremont set out a nice assortment of liquor.”

  The smallest of hesitations.

  “Why not,” she said, thinking to humor him and better gain her ends.

  “Then I’ll be right back, ma’am.” He glanced at her over his shoulder as he slipped off the bed. “Correction . . . miss.” He casually strolled away as if he wasn’t nude and blatantly aroused, she wasn’t a stranger, and they’d be sharing nothing more than a game of whist when he returned. “You have a choice,” he offered, standing at the liquor tray a moment later. “Sherry, cognac, brandy, or hock.”

  “Cognac. Just a little.”

  “How are you getting home?” he asked as he poured her drink. “Could I drive you somewhere?”

  “No, thank you,” she replied, trying not to stare at his enormous erection. “I believe Malmsey is waiting for me.”

  He nodded toward the door through which the surprise party had entered. “Waiting in there?” He preferred not being monitored.

  She shook her head. “Downstairs.”

  Good. “So does Malmsey know Fremont as well?” he queried, moving back to the bed.

  “I’m not sure. He might.”

  At least he does now. Fortunately, Fremont was the soul of discretion; Miss Perceval’s intrigue was safe. Not that it should matter to him one way or the other, yet she shouldn’t have to suffer the unwanted machinations of her cousin. Nor should she be required to resort to such drastic measures to retain control of her title and wealth. “Would you like me to call out Compton?” he abruptly asked, handing her a glass. “I could see that he never bothers you again.” While dueling was illegal, it was privately practiced.

  The casual certainty in his voice gave her pause and quite inappropriately, pleasure as well. “While I appreciate the offer,” she more prudently replied, “I don’t think it would serve.”

  “It would serve perfectly. He’d be dead—not a great loss if you ask me; the man cheats at cards. Your reputation would remain unscathed and”—he grinned as he settled back on the bed and rested against the pillows—“you might be inclined to thank me in some agreeable way.”

  She laughed. “I admit there’s a certain appeal to your plan, but, no, I couldn’t be party to something so crass.” If he could urbanely disregard his erection, she should be able to as well.

  “As if his wanting to marry you for your money isn’t crass.”

  She smiled. “So bloodthirsty, Lennox. Is it your Indian upbringing?”

  “Hell no. Dueling is a European foolishness wrapped up in a mantle of honor. In India if you want someone murdered, you hire assassins or a poisoner and have the job quietly done.” He shrugged dismissively. “It’s different here.”

  “My goodness. You quite alarm me.”

  “No I don’t. Not unless by alarm you mean something else entirely.”

  “Such as?”

  “Your nipples,” he said, nodding at her breasts; he didn’t mention her veiled glances at his erection. “They’ve been signaling your aspirations for some time now.”

  “Aspirations don’t necessarily equate with actions.”

  His lashes lowered faintly. “In our case, why not? We’re alone. I’m thoroughly aroused, as you can see,” he politely said as if she hadn’t noticed several times already. “I can tell that you’re not exactly indifferent to me. What’s the point in denying ourselves?”

  “So blunt, Lennox,” she sardonically observed. “No sonnets or odes to charm a lady?”

  “Ah Love! Could you and I with Fate conspire. To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire. Would not we shatter it to bits. And th
en remold it to our heart’s desire. I could also recite it in the original Persian if you like.” He smiled. “Is that better now? Or would you like more verses to entice you?”

  “I’m not sure I wish to be enticed.”

  “Why not? Making love is one of life’s great pleasures.”

  “Or sorrows.”

  He could have asked, but he didn’t want to know. Even while he understood the merits of asking in terms of facilitating a seduction, he didn’t. There was something about her, a kind of intrepid heroine willing to stand up for her rights no matter the consequences that reminded him of things he’d rather forget. Right and wrong had nothing to do with the reality of the world, he’d discovered. You could be moral to the core and right as rain and no one cared.

  He had his own sorrows when it came to love.

  All he wanted tonight was sex.

  And if not with Nell, Miss Perceval would do.

  CHAPTER 2

  SLIDING DOWN ON his spine, he rested his glass on his chest and shut his eyes for a moment, suddenly struck by a wave of fatigue and melancholy. Maybe he’d been running from the past too long; maybe the heavy rain tonight had brought old memories to the fore. Perhaps he was feeling nothing more than ennui, finding himself as he did in bed with another woman he barely knew.

  Or possibly, using sex as a diversion from reality had finally exhausted him.

  Was he sleeping? Isolde wondered. Would this be a good time to leave? Or was she obliged to stay so he wouldn’t sue Malmsey or be difficult in some other unknown way? How much did she have to fear from him? And why was he sleeping if indeed he was? Not entirely without vanity, she found herself mildly vexed at his indifference. While she lived away from society, she was not without influence in her country sphere, nor was she without suitors. Heavens! Why was she even considering such nonsense! It didn’t matter one whit whether Lennox liked her or not. She had much more serious issues facing her.

  But sensible rationale aside or perhaps because of it—he could prove to be troublesome—she chose not to leave. Although her decision may not have been completely rational—a thought that didn’t bear close scrutiny in terms of good judgment.