One Wicked Sin Read Free Page B

promiscuous harlot, but the woman he saw now was very far from bold. Experienced, certainly, but no shameless whore.
    He stood up and walked over to her, taking her chin in his hand and turning her face toward the light. Her skin felt very soft beneath his fingers, but it was difficult to see the real woman beneath the layers of paint.
    “Wash your face,” he said abruptly.
    Her chin jerked in his hand—evidently she disliked taking orders—but after a moment she freed herself and walked over to the basin, where she poured some water from a big china jug and splashed it on her face. The result, when she came back to his side, was astonishing. Her skin was now bare of cosmetics, a pale creamy color sprinkled with freckles. He let his gaze wander over her. Her face was heart-shaped, tapering toa neat little chin, and her eyes were wide set and dark brown beneath flyaway brows. Her mouth was pale pink and looked sulky by nature; it also looked shockingly erotic, which sent a spike of lust through him. Desire gripped him, strong and sharp, taking him by surprise. All his tastes were jaded, including his lust for women. He had not expected to want her much. He needed her—he needed Lottie Palliser specifically because of her scandalous history—but he had not calculated on desiring her, as well. He continued with his appraisal, blue eyes narrowed now, aware that his blood was beating a little faster and harder and that he wanted to taste that tempting mouth.
    There were fine lines about her eyes. They gave character and a certain world-weary cynicism to her face. The color of her eyes, too, was fascinating, as deep and smoky as strong coffee, rich, shadowed, promising endless pleasures.
    He put out a lazy hand and unpinned her hair. It uncoiled in thick dark strands over her shoulders, autumn hair with shades of bronze and chestnut and very dark gold. He ran his fingers through the strands and found it to be soft as sateen. She stood absolutely still beneath his gaze, stiller than a hunted mouse. He pulled the shawl from her shoulders and it fell in a puddle about her feet.
    She was naked beneath the sheer lacy robe. At such close quarters Ethan could feel her warmth and smell the faint sweet scent of jasmine on her skin. Her breasts pressed against the lace, rounded and voluptuous, the nipples dark through the transparent white. Ethan’s body stirred again. Their eyes met. That lush mouthhad a tiny smile lifting the corners now. She knew he wanted her and it pleased her. He felt another kick of lust. He leaned forward, kissed her.
    She made no move to twine about him or press her body against his as a more accomplished courtesan might, skillful and eager to please. She stood quite still, her lips warm and soft, slightly parted, beneath his.
    He stepped back wanting her all the more.
    “How old are you?” he asked abruptly.
    Her smile vanished and he saw a flash of expression in her eyes—calculation?—but she answered readily enough. “I am eight and twenty.”
    “I had heard,” he said, “that you are three and thirty.”
    She did not trouble to hide her annoyance. She stepped back from him and scooped up her shawl, once again wrapping it close about her, hiding her nakedness from him.
    “If you knew, why did you ask?” she snapped.
    “Why bother to lie?” he countered.
    “Because, as Mrs. Tong has not scrupled to point out to me,” she said bitterly, “I do not have many more years left before I will end on the street. If I can steal a few back then why not?”
    Ethan felt a curious stirring of sympathy. So it was more than hurt pride. She was fearful for her future. He suspected that it would make her more inclined to accept his terms. She was desperate to escape the tyranny of the whorehouse and the threat of a life as an old doxy, eking out an existence in the gutters. How low she had sunk.
    He resumed his seat, settling back, watching her.“So what do you think of my proposition?” He asked. “Do you