The Pirate Next Door by Jennifer Ashley Page A

had felt the bespectacled gentleman’s brutal and invasive mouth on hers. Even when she’d strived not to think of it, she was still aware of his mark, like a burning imprint, a sore she could not soothe. But at the touch of the viscount’s lips the hurt and the embarrassment evaporated. Her skin tingled the slightest bit, and then the tingle slowly dissolved, and with it, the hurt.
    His lips brushed her like a warm summer breeze. Gone was the assault of the night before—this kiss was healing, gentle, like petals touching her skin. He raised his head slowly, his breath brushing the place where she now felt only his caress.
    All thoughts of soirees, Maggie’s clothes, and the unnerving events of the afternoon took flight. Awareness narrowed to his lips on her skin, his body so close to hers, his fingertips playing with the soft curls at the base of her neck.
    “I should resist you,” he whispered, “my beautiful lady next door. But you soothe my heart.”
    “Oh,” she whispered. Daringly, she lifted on her tiptoes and pressed a light kiss on the scar that pulled his lower lip.
    He smiled into the kiss. He leaned to her again and nuzzled her neck. The blazing hot line of his tongue traced itself around the shell of her ear. “Lovely lady,” he whispered.
    He slid his arms all the way around her and held her close. The enveloping embrace made her start. Then her heart swelled with something almost like pain. She had not been held like this, with warm, strong arms cradling her, in a very long time. She had hugged her mother close for the last time years ago, before her mother’s illness had advanced and taken her. So long ago. She had longed for children to hold, as her mother had held her, but she had been denied even that simple joy. She had not realized, until this man had put his arms around her, how much she’d needed, and missed, such contact.
    She let her head rest on his strong shoulder. How fine it would be to be this man’s lady, to be privileged to rest her head thus whenever she needed to. Beneath her cheek, his heart beat hard and slow. His strong hand slid down her spine, stirring warmth beneath his touch. She closed her eyes.
    His stance shifted, and she felt him reach for something behind her. Her eyes snapped open. The list. Sitting on the writing table, face up, easily read by any person who cared to glance there.
    She made a wild attempt to swing around and snatch up the paper, but his strong arm barred her way. He lifted it from the table.
    Her mouth went dry. Drat, why had she not pushed the list into the drawer when he’d come in? The brandy in the tea seemed to have gone to her head. Her head certainly was spinning now.
    He scrutinized the paper, then looked at her as he might look at a sailor who’d tried to tie a square knot and ended up with unraveled string. “What is this?”
    “It is—” She broke off. She took a step back and tried to find refuge in haughty indignation. “It is private, my lord.”
    His eyes had cooled. Indeed, they could have chilled a hot room on a summer afternoon. “My name is on it.”
    Alexandra struggled to find words. She was very bad at lying. She had tried it a few times in her life, and it had never worked. So much easier and heart-soothing it was to babble honesty. The brandy was not helping her either.
    “It is a list—”
    “I can see that.” The temperature in his eyes lowered a few more degrees. “Of what? It is far too short to be the guests for your confounded soiree.”
    She lifted her hands to her face. “Oh, my lord, please, you must not tell anyone of this. I would be mortified beyond belief!”
    The paper began to crumple in his palm. “My silence depends on what it is.”
    His look was so stern, so completely out of keeping with the silly list of suitors that her curiosity crept in. “What are you afraid it is?”
    That, alas, had been the wrong thing to say. His body curved over hers, menace in every inch of him. “I have been