The Widow Vanishes Read Free

'aven't you?" Mrs. Clive snorted. "McLeod ain't like the other men who work for Mr. Todd. 'Andsome, strapping ... and a true gent besides. The worse sort o' temptation for females of our professional persuasion."
    A tremor travelled up Annabel's spine. What did it say about her that, in spite of the situation, she had noticed the Scotsman's attractiveness? It had been hard to miss. His face had been pleasantly rugged, his hair a shaggy, wolfish shade of brown. His voice held the appealing hint of a Scottish lilt. Built like Atlas, he moved with a big man's grace, his stride powerful and unhindered by his slight limp.
    More importantly, despite his fierce, outsized exterior, he'd treated her with courtesy—something a whore had little right to expect. His dark, coffee-colored eyes had seemed ... kind. She'd been relieved that her first encounter would be with him, given the alternatives. Shuddering, she tried to block out the tangle of sweaty, writhing bodies she'd glimpsed in the Roman Orgy.
    You can't worry about that now. One night at a time.
    "Could be worse, dearie. You're gettin' off easy entertainin' one gent," the bawd said. "Be grateful your first assignment ain't an auction."
    "Auction?"
    "Prime flesh sold off the block—no different than Tattersall's. Mr. Todd makes a tidy sum selling wenches to the 'ighest bidder." Mrs. Clive's matter-of-fact explanation made Annabel queasy. "Go now, dearie. Putting it off only makes it worse."
    As she made her way to Purgatory, she counseled herself. You can do this. You have to. Just lie there as you did with Randall—and it too shall pass. Having been a wife, she knew the act itself wouldn't last longer than five minutes at most. A chore, she told herself, no different than scrubbing pots or stitching seams. And at least, in this instance, she would be earning her way to freedom.
    At the appointed door, she drew back her shoulders, rapped quickly before she lost courage.
    "Come in," the deep male voice said.

THREE
    As Bella entered, Will rose from the chaise by the fire. Lust simmered in his veins at the stunning vision of her in a clinging scarlet robe, the deep crevice between her breasts exposed by the plunging neckline. Her hair spilled in a red-gold cascade down to her waist, and her eyes were dark, unfathomable. Closing the door behind her, she came toward him and dropped a graceful curtsy. He thought her knack for aping gentility quite remarkable.
    "I beg your pardon." Her calm demeanor was betrayed by the slight tremor in her voice. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting."
    "I haven't been here long," he said huskily.
    Her gaze widened as it flitted around the chamber. He couldn't blame her—the Purgatory Suite was rather an eye-opening sight. The walls were papered in red silk damask, the furnishings painted with gilt. A massive bed dominated the chamber: it was covered with black satin, and a looking glass was fixed on the ceiling above. The velvet chaise and fur rug in front of the fire added to the debauched ambience.
    For Will, however, the cherry atop the cake was the pair of life-sized statues flanking the fiery hearth: each depicted a satyr and a nymph engaged in a lascivious act. The positions of the lovers made Will's brows rise—and another part of him perked up as well. For the flames' shadows flickered over the stone flesh, giving the illusion of movement, of deep, thrusting ecstasy ...
    Will's belly tautened. He reached to brush an errant curl from Bella's cheek, and the contact with her soft skin jolted him. She reacted as well, her breath hitching, a pulse fluttering near the base of her throat. The swells of her breasts rose and fell in swift surges.
    The signs of her arousal heated his blood. They confirmed his earlier hypothesis that she was a sensual doxy playacting as a lady. Which suited him just fine—because making love to a lady happened to be his fantasy as well.
    Pale blond hair and cornflower blue eyes shimmered in his mind's eye; he