Shadow Play by Katherine Sutcliffe Page B

believe in fairy tales, no matter how cruel and ugly reality always be- comes."
    He left the room, dissolving into the dimly lit corridor. Seconds ticked by before Sarah could grapple her way out of shock and follow. She ran to the entry just as he was sauntering down the front steps, his gait loose-limbed and graceful. He was digging in his coat pocket for a cigarette by the time she called out:
    "Kane, are you agreeing to my request or not?"
    "I said I'd consider it, Miss St. James. I'll let you know." Then he disappeared into the night.
    Late that night Morgan stood within the vague flare of a gas lamp, his body propped against the pole, his back to the rain-threatening wind. The ocean waves slapped at the docks while on the horizon, where the black sky met an even blacker sea, lightning danced in spears and sparks. He smoked a cigarette, stared into nothingness, and thought of Sarah.
    He had known a great many beautiful and sophisticated women, but few as desperate as the late Governor's daughter. Or as naive when it came to dealing with bastards such as he. To a man jaded by experience, her unawakened passion held an excitement that was new. No doubt about it, he could have taken her tonight, just as he'd imagined doing throughout the day. She'd virtually offered herself to him if he would escort her to Japura\ She was that desperate. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time he'd taken advantage of a situation, or a woman, but something had happened when he'd stared down into her wide eyes. The very innocence he'd seen reflected in the eyes of that portrait had gazed back at him, and he knew in an instant that no matter how badly he wanted to drive his
    body into hers, both in anger and in passion, to do so would be a mistake.
    He could have seduced her; he had no doubt about that. Sarah St. James was ripe for the plucking. All that pent-up passion no decent woman would admit to feeling was just itching to be released. By the time he had finished with her, she would have been applauding the sacrifice of her virginity.
    He was the boto, after all.
    He knew all the tricks it took to turn any frigid woman into a writhing, clawing slut begging him for one more go. More often than not it was in her husband's bed, or coach, or a time or two across his office desk when he was out at a meeting. Yet he, who had seduced some of the grandest bitches on the continent of South America, had chosen not to debauch Sarah.
    When did he get such scruples?
    Flicking the fiery stub of his cigarette toward the water, he swore under his breath, reached for another in his pocket, and slid it into his mouth. He struck the match against the rough surface of the lamppost and cursed as the wind blew it out. He tried again, breathing deeply of the pungent, sulfuric smell as the fire danced vividly against the cigarette.
    So why hadn't he taken her?
    Because, bastard though he might be, he'd never taken a virgin in his life.
    It was the innocence of that portrait that had befuddled him the first moment he saw it. It had haunted his dreams and driven him from his bed. He had never known naivete.
    His first memories had been of his mother, a dark-haired Frenchwoman, turning tricks in a tar-paper shanty to earn enough money to purchase food for the only meal he would eat that day. Sometimes the finely dressed planters with diamonds on their fingers would pay her for her time and body, and sometimes they wouldn't. Sometimes they would beat her instead. And occasionally they would make her go to her knees and beg for her pennies—and perhaps make her do things while she was on her knees that made her throw up after they'd gone. Now and again more than one would show up, stinking of whiskey and flashing fists full of money to get her to accommodate them all at once.
    He hadn't understood what was going on, but he hadn't liked it. He'd begged her not to do it. It hadn't ended until some drunken, ham-handed overseer of a cotton farm blundered in one