Once Tempted by Elizabeth Boyle Page A

Never.
    A strange whisper of foreboding stole over her. She shook it off, telling herself that time changed everyone. Even the incorrigible.
    With lazy, languid movements, he pulled his immaculate white shirt free so she could see clearly the muscled plains of his chest that was now her target. He patted his left breast and nodded at the pistol in her hand. “You’ve got it a little high. Try lowering it a bit, or you’re likely just to take off my ear, Miss . . .  Miss . . .”
    Olivia’s anger seethed. This was all a joke to him! “How dare you—” she started to say, not sure what piqued her more—that he didn’t remember her or that he found the idea of a woman about to shoot him worthy of some bad jest. “I’ve spent the last seven years waiting for this moment, and I’ll not let you whitewash me with your newfound sense of ill humor.”
    Seven years.
    Her words hit their mark, for suddenly a hot, furious light blazed to life in his gaze.
    Recognition . . .  and something else.
    As if her need for revenge now belonged to him.
    “Miss Sutton,” he breathed, his shoulders once again straightening into a taut line.
    She cocked a brow at this sudden formality.
    “Olivia,” he corrected himself.
    “How kind of you to remember.”
    “How could I forget you ?” He smoothed his shirt back over his chest. “How have you been?”
    The strained intimacy behind his question whispered over her. It was as if they had never met at all, and yet they had. More to the matter, Olivia certainly didn’t want to start trading reminiscences with him—he didn’t fare all that well in her version, and she certainly had no desire to hear his.
    Instead she changed the subject. “I take it you never found your treasure?”
    He cocked his head and eyed her anew. “Why do you say that?”
    “You’re still alive.”
    “Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked.
    She smiled at him. Since the French hadn’t killed him, she’d half hoped that El Rescate del Rey would. That is, if he’d been able to find it. She hadn’t been completely disconnected from learned society at Finch Manor and had discovered a few scant bits about the ancient Spanish treasure from the texts she’d obtained through Lord Finch’s membership at a London lending library.
    What had the Moorish tract read?
    Only those pure of heart and intent can claim the King’s Ransom .
    Pure of heart and intent. Robert counted on neither measure.
    And unfit as he was to claim the ancient treasure, according to the twelfth century Moor who’d done the most thorough investigation into the missing ransom, then his manhood and limbs would soon be withering.
    She slanted a glance at his arms and legs and even at the tight fit of his breeches.
    Much to her chagrin, she found no signs of dissipation in any direction. Instead she did her best to ignore what was probably the best example of potent male physique in the entire ton. “In your rush to the Peninsula, you forgot to do a little more research on your prize. It is guarded by a curse.”
    He gave a dismissive wave and continued straightening his clothes. “I don’t believe in curses. And I doubt you do either.”
    She shrugged, for in fact she didn’t believe in ancient myths or hexes, though it didn’t stop her from wishing that perhaps this one held some small bit of validity.
    Robert casually retrieved his discarded coat. She followed his lithe movements with the pistol.
    He glanced over his shoulder, his expression seeming to say that he was surprised to see she still bothered. “So have you come for your share?”
    She’d been wrong to think him changed. Oh, this was Robert, all right. Already his greed ascended over any good sense he may have possessed.
    She waved the pistol at him in what she hoped was a derisive gesture—and to remind him that she was in charge. “What makes you think I would want any part of your blood money?”
    “You’re here. With a pistol.” He nodded toward the piece in her