He was a great big Dalvahni roller coaster and she was a thrill junky.
“Do not weep, cara,” he said. “Please. It breaks my heart.”
“You don’t h-have a heart.”
“Yes, I do, and it is yours.” Gently, he placed his fingers beneath her chin, his skin warm against hers. “Look at me, Bunny. I want to see your beautiful eyes when I tell you I love you.”
Her eyes flew open. “What did you say?”
“I said I love you.” He brushed feathery kisses across her tear-damp cheeks, her eyes and lips. “I love you with every fiber of my being.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He grinned down at her. “I have it on the best of authority that a Dalvahni warrior does not lie, even to himself.” He traced her lips with the tip of his finger. “I have been a fool.”
“A stubborn fool,” Bunny murmured, the fragile beginnings of happiness welling up inside her.
He nodded. “Yes, that too.” He tugged her close and wrapped his strong arms around her. “I love you, Bunny Nicole Raines Dalvahni.” His lips brushed her hair. “Do not leave me to wander the gray reaches of time alone. I love you. Send me away and I will only come back to stand outside your door and howl like an abandoned cur.”
She chuckled against his chest. “The neighbors would complain.”
His arms tightened around her. “Then take me in, Bunny, for their sake if not for mine. I need you. I want you. I cannot live without you. And I do not mean to try.”
Bunny could not believe this was happening. But it was real. She could see it in his eyes and in his expression. He loved her. She’d never felt so much joy. Her heart was bursting with it.
What’s the big deal? Smart Bunny said. You knew he loved you.
“Yeah, but now he knows it and that makes all the difference,” Bunny said.
“What did you say?” Rafe asked.
“Nothing.” Bunny stepped out of his arms. “I love you too, Rafe. I think I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you. But what about the baby? I couldn’t take it if you bolted again.”
Rafe went to his knees and pressed his face against her stomach. “I will never leave you again or our baby. You will both be so tired of me you will beg for a reprieve.” He lifted his head and looked up at her. “I can do this, Bunny. I can be a good father. I know I can.”
She cupped his cheeks in her hands and gave him a misty smile. “I never doubted it for a moment.”
“Bunny,” he breathed. The next thing she knew he was on his feet and she was in his arms, and he was kissing her as if his life depended on it. And maybe it did, ’cause her life depended on him too.
They heard a noise and broke apart. Nicole stuck her head through the front door.
“Thought I heard something and came back to check on you,” Nicole said. “Can’t be too careful, you know. There are some real creeps out there. But I see you got your man with you, so no worries.” She batted her eyes at Rafe. “Nice outfit. You look good in leather.”
Good grief, Nicole was flirting with Rafe. Bunny couldn’t blame her. Rafe was irresistible.
Yeah, you’ll probably have to carry around a big stick for the rest of your life to beat the women off him, Smart Bunny smirked. That’s what you get for marrying a super sexy, demon-hunting hunk of burning love. But no worries. He loves you and these Dalvahni dudes never do anything half-assed. If he says he loves you, it’s the real deal, forever and ever, amen. Sucks to be you, huh, chicka?
“Yes,” Bunny said, smiling. “You are so right.”
And she was.
She’ll be his MISTRESS BY MARRIAGE.
Check out this fabulous novel from Maggie Robinson, out now.
London, 1820
Edward Christie had been an utter fool six years ago. True, he’d had plenty of company. Every man in the room gaped when Caroline Parker entered Lady Huntington’s ballroom. Conversation stilled. Hearts hammered. Shoulders straightened. Chests and areas lower swelled.
There were many reasons for those changes. Her hair, masses of it, red as lava was swirled up with diamonds. Diamond earrings, a diamond necklace, and diamond bracelets were festooned all over her creamy skin—skin so delicious every man whose tongue was hanging out longed to lap it. Her eyes were liquid silver, bright as stars and fringed with midnight black lashes, so at odds with her hair. And her dress, a shocking scarlet for an unmarried woman—for any woman—had a diamond brooch hovering over the most spectacular assets he’d ever seen. The jewels were all paste, as he was later to find out, but her breasts were very real.
There were known drawbacks, which quickly circulated about the room, prodded along by spiteful cats who were quite eclipsed by Caroline’s magnificence. She was old, at least twenty-five, and her family—what there was of it—was dirt poor and touched by scandal. Some said her brother died in a duel; others said he was killed by one of his many mistresses. She had a sister in Canada, living in some godforsaken outpost in the snow with her lieutenant husband and howling wolves. Her parents were long dead and she was clinging to the ton by the weakest of threads. The distant cousin who had inherited her brother’s title was anxious to get her off his hands before he put his hands all over her and irritated his irritable wife.
Edward had obliged in a courtship of less than five days. Baron Christie had spent his first thirty-four years never, ever being impulsive, and his sudden marriage by special license to a woman who looked like an expensive courtesan was the on dit of the season. He had buried one wife, the perfectly staid and proper Alice, whose brown hair would never be compared to living fire and whose brown eyes could only be compared to mud. Alice, who’d quickly and quietly done her duty had provided him with an heir, a spare, and a little girl who looked just as angular and forbidding as her father. Alice, who’d caught a chill one week and died the next was no doubt rolling over in her grave to be supplanted by Caroline Parker.
Edward had no one to blame but himself. He didn’t need more children, and Caroline hadn’t any money. But what she did have—what she was—had upended Edward’s life for one hellish year before he came to his senses and put her away.
Caroline had no one to blame but herself. It was her pride, her dreadful Parker pride that had prevented her from saying one simple word—no. If only her rosy lips had opened and she had managed to get her tongue to the roof of her mouth and expelled sufficient air, she would not find herself living on Jane Street, home to the most notorious courtesans in London.
When Edward asked her to marry him after less than a week’s acquaintance, she should have said no. When he’d asked her that horrible, vile, impertinent question five years ago, she should have said no. But instead she’d said yes to the first question, rather gratefully if truth be told, and hadn’t said a word to the second, just cast her husband the most scornful look she could conjure up and showed him her back.
Caroline was no man’s mistress, despite her exclusive Jane Street address and rumors to the contrary. In the five years since she and her husband separated, he had come to her door but once a year, the anniversary of the night she was unable to utter that one syllable word. They took ruthless pleasure in each other, and then Edward disappeared again. She, however, remained, ostracized from polite society, completely celibate, and despite her ardent hopes, a mother only to the curious contingent of young women who shared her street. The children changed, but the game remained the same. From experienced opera dancers to fresh-faced country girls who had been led astray by rich gentlemen, Caroline watched the parade of mistresses come and go. She passed teacups and handkerchiefs and advice, feeling much older than her almost thirty-one years.
But when she looked in her pier glass, she was still relatively youthful, her red curls shiny, her gray eyes bright. She might have been stouter than she wished, but the prideful Parkers were known to run to fat in middle age. For some reason Edward had let her keep some of the lesser Christie jewels, so there was always a sparkle on her person even if there
was no spark to her life. She made the best of it, however, and had some surprising success writing wicked novels that she couldn’t seem to write fast enough. Her avocation would have stunned her old governess, as Caroline had showed no aptitude whatsoever for grammar lessons or spelling as a girl. Fortunately, her publisher was grammatical and spelled accurately enough for both of them. Her Courtesan Court series was highly popular with society members and their servants alike. There were happy endings galore for the innocent girls led astray, and the wicked always got what was coming to them. She modeled nearly every villain on Edward. It was most satisfactory to shoot him or toss him off a cliff in the final pages. Once she crushed him in a mining mishap, his elegant sinewy body and dark head entombed for all eternity with coal that was as black as his heart.
Of course, sometimes her heroes were modeled on him, too—men with pride nearly as perverse as the Parkers, facile fingers that knew just where to touch a girl, and particularly long, thick, entirely perfect penises. Caroline missed Edward’s penis, although she didn’t miss his conversation much. He was so damned proper and critical, and had been beyond boring to live with. Controlled. Controlling. Humorless. Once he’d installed her as his baroness, it was as if he woke up horrified at what he’d actually done, and whom he’d actually married. It was no wonder that she—
No, she couldn’t blame him. She had no one to blame but herself.
Keep an eye out for SEVEN YEARS TO SIN
by Sylvia Day, available now!
Alistair Caulfield’s back was to the door of his warehouse shipping office when it opened. A salt-tinged gust blew through the space, snatching the manifest he was about to file right out of his hand.
He caught it deftly, then looked over his shoulder. Startled recognition moved through him. “Michael.”
The new Lord Tarley’s eyes widened with equal surprise, then a weary half-smile curved his mouth. “Alistair, you scoundrel. You didn’t tell me you were in Town.”
“I’ve only just returned.” He slid the parchment into the appropriate folder and pushed the drawer closed. “How are you, my lord?”
Michael removed his hat and ran a hand through his dark brown hair. The assumption of the Tarley title appeared to weigh heavily on his broad shoulders, grounding him in a way Alistair had never seen before. He was dressed somberly in shades of brown, and he flexed his left hand, which bore the Tarley signet ring, as if he could not accustom himself to having it there. “As well as can be expected under the circumstances.”
“My condolences to you and your family. Did you receive my letter?”
“I did. Thank you. I meant to reply, but time is stretched so thin. The last year has raced by so quickly; I’ve yet to catch my breath.”
“I understand.”
Michael nodded. “I’m pleased to see you again, my friend. You have been gone far too long.”
“The life of a merchant.” He could have delegated more, but staying in England meant crossing paths with both his father and Jessica. His father complained about Alistair’s success as a tradesman with as much virulence as he’d once complained about Alistair’s lack of purpose. It was a great stressor for his mother, which he was only able to alleviate by being absent as much as possible.
As for Jessica, she’d been careful to avoid him whenever they were in proximity. He had learned to reciprocate when he saw how marriage to Tarley had changed her. While she remained as cool in deportment as ever, he’d seen the blossoming of her sensual nature in the languid way she moved and the knowledge in those big, gray eyes. Other men coveted the mystery of her, but Alistair had seen behind the veil, and that was the woman he lusted for. Forever beyond his reach in reality, but a fixture in his mind. She was burned into his memory by the raging hungers and the impressions of youth, and the years hadn’t lessened the vivid recollection one whit.
“I find myself grateful for your enterprising sensibilities,” Michael said. “Your captains are the only ones I would entrust with the safe passage of my sister-in-law to Jamaica.”
Alistair kept his face impassive thanks to considerable practice, but the sudden awareness gripping him tensed his frame. “Lady Tarley intends to travel to Calypso?”
“Yes. This very morning, which is why I’m here. I intend to speak to the captain myself and see he looks after her until they arrive.”
“Who travels with her?”
“Only her maid. I should like to accompany her, but I can’t leave now.”
“And she will not delay?”
“No.” Michael’s mouth curved wryly. “And I cannot dissuade her.”
“You cannot say no to her,” Alistair corrected, moving to the window through which he could view the West India docks. Ships entered the Northern Dock to unload their precious imports, then sailed around to the Southern Dock to reload with cargo for export. Around the perimeter, a high brick wall deterred the rampant theft plaguing the London wharves. The same wall increased his shipping company’s appeal to West Indian landowners requiring secure transportation of goods.
“Neither can Hester—forgive me, Lady Regmont.” The last was said with difficulty. Alistair had long suspected his friend nursed deeper feelings for Jessica’s younger sister and had assumed Michael would pay his addresses. Instead, Hester had been presented at court, then immediately betrothed, breaking the hearts of many hopeful would-be swains. “Why is she so determined to go?”
“Benedict bequeathed the property to her. She claims she must see to its sale personally. I fear the loss of my brother has affected her deeply and she seeks a purpose. I’ve attempted to anchor her, but duty has me stretched to wit’s end.”
Alistair’s reply was carefully neutral. “I can assist her in that endeavor. I can make the necessary introductions, as well as provide information that would take her months to discover.”
“A generous offer.” Michael’s gaze was searching. “But you’ve just returned. I can’t ask you to depart again so soon.”
Turning, Alistair said, “My plantation borders Calypso, and I should like to expand. It’s my hope to position myself as the best purchaser of the property. I will pay her handsomely, of course.”
Relief swept over Michael’s expressive features. “That would ease my mind considerably. I’ll speak to her at once.”
“Perhaps you should leave that to me. If, as you say, she needs a purpose, then she’ll want to maintain control of the matter in all ways. She should be allowed to set the terms and pace of our association to suit her. I have all the time in the world, but you do not. See to your most pressing affairs, and entrust Lady Tarley to me.”
“You’ve always been a good friend,” Michael said. “I pray you return to England swiftly and settle for a time. I could use your ear and head for business. In the interim, please encourage Jessica to write often and keep me abreast of the situation. I should like to see her return before we retire to the country for the winter.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Alistair waited several minutes after Michael departed, then moved to the desk. He began a list of new provisions for the journey, determined to create the best possible environment. He also made some quick but costly adjustments to the passenger list, moving two additional travelers to another of his ships.
He, Jessica, and her maid would be the only non-crewmen aboard the Acheron.
She would be within close quarters for weeks—it was an extraordinary opportunity Alistair was determined not to waste.
And don’t miss UNWRAPPED,
a sexy holiday anthology from Erin McCarthy,
Donna Kauffman, and Kate Angell,
coming next month! Turn the page for a sample of
Erin’s story, “Blue Christmas” . . .
“Santa can suck it.” Blue Farrow kept an eye on the highway and tried to hit the buttons on the radio to change the station. She was going to grind her teeth down to nubs if she had to listen to Christmas songs for another twelve hours. It was like an IV drip of sugar and
spice and it was making her cranky.
Was she the only one who thought a fat dude hanging around on your roof was a bit creepy? And why were those elves so happy in that Harry Connick Jr. song? Rum in the eggnog, that’s why. Not to mention since when did three ships ever go pulling straight up to Bethlehem? She wasn’t aware it was a major port city.
Yep. She was feeling in total harmony with Scrooge. “Bah Humbug,” she muttered when her only options on the radio seemed to be all Christmas all the time or pounding rap music.
Blue had never been a big fan of Christmas, never having experienced a normal one in her childhood since her flaky mother (yes, flaky considering she’d named her daughter after a color) had done Christmas experimental style every year, never the same way twice, disregarding any of her daughter’s requests. The trend of feeling tacked onto her parents’ Christmas had continued into Blue’s adulthood, and this year she had been determined to have a great holiday all on her terms, booking herself on a cruise with her two equally single friends. She had turned down her mother’s invitation to spend the holiday with an indigenous South American tribe and her father’s request to join him with his barely-legal wife and their baby girl, and instead she was going to sip cocktails in a bikini.
Maybe.
The road in front of her was barely visible, the snow crashing down with pounding determination, the highway slick and ominous, the hours ticking by as Blue barely made progress in the treacherous conditions. Planning to drive to Miami from Ohio instead of flying had been a financial decision and would give Blue the chance to make a pit stop in Tennessee and visit her old friend from high school, but the only thing heading south at the moment was her vacation. It was Christmas Eve, her cruise ship departed in twenty hours, and she’d only made it a hundred miles in six hours, the blizzard swirling around her mocking the brilliance of her plan as she drove through the middle of nowhere Kentucky.
So I Married A Demon Slayer Page 28