The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie Read Free Page A

waistcoat.
Rich
, noting the costly materials and the way in which the coat hugged his broad shoulders. Tailor-made, and not by a cheap or apprentice tailor. A master had designed and sewn those clothes. Mr. Mackenzie was used to the very best.
    He topped most of the other gentlemen here by at least a foot, had a hard face, a nose that would be large on any other man, and eyes that made her stop. Violet couldn’t decide the color of them in this light—hazel? brown?—but they were arresting. So arresting that she stood staring at him, not taking the hand he held out to her.
    “Daniel Mackenzie, at your service, Mademoiselle.”
    He gave her a light, charming smile, his eyes pulling her in, keeping her where he wanted her.
    Definitely danger here.
    Old terror stirred, but Violet pushed it down. She couldn’t afford to go to pieces right now. She’d come down here to placate Mortimer, letting her mother, who’d nearly had hysterics when Mortimer had started pounding on the door, stay safely upstairs. Violet, who could handle a crowd of several hundred angry men and women shouting for blood, could certainly cope with less than a dozen half-drunk Mayfair gentlemen in the middle of the night.
    Mr. Mackenzie was only another of Mortimer’s vapid friends. Violet saw the barrier behind Mr. Mackenzie’s eyes, though, when she risked a look into them. This man gave up his secrets to very few. He would be difficult to read, which could be a problem.
    Mr. Mackenzie waited, his hand out. Violet finally slid hers into his gloved one, making the movement slow and deliberate.
    “How do you do,” she said formally, her English perfect. She’d discovered long ago that speaking flawless English reinforced the fiction that she was entirely French.
    Daniel closed his large hand around hers and raised it to his lips. “Enchanted.”
    The quick, hot brush of his mouth to the backs of her fingers ignited a spark to rival that on the match she’d tossed away. Violet’s nerves tightened like wires, forcing the deep breath she’d been trying not to take.
    The little gasp sounded loud to her, but Mortimer’s cronies were making plenty of noise as they shed coats and debated where each would sit.
    Daniel’s gaze fixed on Violet over her hand, challenging, daring.
Show me who you are
,
that gaze said.
    Violet was supposed to be thinking that about
him
. Whatever the world believed about the talents of Violette Bastien, medium and spiritualist, she knew her true gift was reading people.
    Within a few moments of studying a man, Violet could understand what he loved and what he hated, what he wanted with all his heart and what he’d do to get it. She’d learned these lessons painstakingly from Jacobi in the backstreets of Paris, had been his best pupil.
    But she couldn’t read Mr. Mackenzie. He didn’t let anyone behind his barriers, not easily. But when he did . . .
    When he did, worlds would unfold.
    Violet snatched her hand from him and turned to the others. “Please, gentlemen,” she said, striving to maintain the calm note in her voice.
    She moved to sit down and found Daniel Mackenzie’s hand on the back of her chair. Violet forced her gaze from him and seated herself, trying to ignore the warmth of his body at her side, the fold of open coat that brushed her shoulder. The breath went out of her again as Daniel eased her chair forward, his strength unnerving.
    Shaking, Violet laid her hands flat on the table, trying to use its cool surface to calm herself. She needed to appear utterly composed, sugar-sweet, and ready to help.
    Inside, she was in turmoil.
I hate this, I hate this. Why the devil can’t they leave us alone?
    She gave the others an appealing look. “Will you gentlemen give me a moment to prepare myself?”
    The gentlemen agreed without argument. Many had been to the house before, most often as Mortimer’s guests, but some had returned alone for private consultations with Violet and her mother.
    Mr. Mackenzie