How dare he manhandle her. And the state of her affairs was her
business, not his.
She gave his black scowl right back at him. "I can afford the horse,
Barlow, and I've bought him. He's mine. And you are a sore loser."
Her words hit their mark. His hold on her arms loosened as if she'd
struck a physical blow. She jerked away. Two steps and she could
breathe easily again.
"Your stubborn arrogance will ruin you, Mary."
His accusation stung. She wasn't arrogant. Proud, yes; arrogant, no.
Calmly, forcibly, she said, " 'Twas a business decision, Barlow.
Nothing personal."
The daggers in his eyes told her he didn't believe her. "And how do you
think you are going to find the funds to pay the horse's price?" His
low voice was meant for their ears alone.
"I have plenty of money," she replied stiffly.
"God, Mary, stop this pretense. You're done up. It's not your fault.
Your father—"
"Don't you dare mention my father. Not after what your family did to
him—"
"I did nothing and if you think so, then you're a fool."
His blunt verdict robbed her of speech. They were back in each other's
space again, almost toe-to-toe.
"If I was a man," she said, "I'd call you out and run you through."
"But you're not a man, Mary. Yes, you are good with horses, but damn it
all, you are still a woman...."
Tip #6:
Sometimes fainting isn't such a bad
idea.
Lady Jocelyn is no shrinking violet, but even she knows that sometimes
a lady has to fall into a swoon—and if you're caught in the arms of
sexy Randall, Viscount Beaumont, so much the better. Of course, Jocelyn
had always dreamed she'd be marrying a prince ... or at least a duke.
But Randall's strong embrace and tempting kisses are far more enticing
than she'd ever imagined. And then a surprising twist of events makes
it possible that she just might become ...
The Prince's Bride
Coming December 2001 by Victoria Alexander
He caught her up in arms strong and hard and carried her to a nearby
sofa. For a moment a lovely sense of warmth and safety filled her.
"Put me down," she murmured, but snuggled against him in spite of
herself.
"You were about to faint."
"Nonsense. I have never fainted. Shelton women do not faint."
"Apparently, they do when their lives are in danger."
Abruptly, he deposited her on the sofa and pushed her head down to
dangle over his knees.
"Whatever are you doing?" She could barely gasp out the words in the
awkward position. She tried to lift her head, but he held it firmly.
"Keep your head down," he ordered. "It will help."
"What will help is finding those men. There were two, you know. Or
perhaps you don't." It was rather confusing. All of it. She raised her
head. "Aren't you going to go after them?"
"No." He pushed her head back down and kept his hand lightly on the
back of her neck. It was an oddly comforting feeling. "I have my men
searching now, but I suspect they will be unsuccessful. One of the
rascals is familiar to me. I was keeping an eye on him tonight. He
i:> no doubt the one who threw the knife."
"Apparently, you weren't keeping a very good eye on him," she muttered.
He ignored her. "I have yet to discover the identity of his accomplice
and I doubt that I will tonight. It's far too easy to blend unnoticed
into a crowd of this size." He paused, the muscles of his hand tensing
slightly on her neck. 'Did you recognize him?"
"Not really," she lied. In truth, not at all. They were nothing more
than blurry figures to her and dimly remembered voices. "He could be
anyone then, couldn't he?"
"Indeed he could."
It was a most disquieting thought. Well matched to her most
discomforting position. "I feel ridiculous
like this."
"Quiet."
It was no use arguing with the man. Whoever he was, he obviously knew
what he was doing. She was already feeling better.
She rose to her feet. "Who are you?"
He stood. "I should be crushed that you do not remember, although we
have never been formally introduced." He swept a curt bow. "I am
Randall, Viscount Beaumont."
The name struck a familiar chord. "Have we met then?"
"Not really." Beaumont shrugged. "I am a friend of Lord Helmsley."
"Of course." How could she forget? She'd seen him only briefly in a
darkened library, but his name was all too familiar. Beaumont had taken
part in a farcical, and highly successful plan to dupe her sister,
Marianne, into marriage with Thomas, Marquess of Helmsley and son of
the Duke of Roxborough.
"And an excellent friend too from all I've
heard."
"One owes a certain amount to loyalty to one's friends." He paused as
if considering his words. "As well as to one's country."
At once the mood between them changed, sobered. She studied him for a
long moment. He was tall and devastat-ingly handsome. She noted the
determined set of his jaw, the powerful lines of his lean body
like a
jungle cat clad in the latest state of fashion. And the hard gleam in
his eye. She shivered with the realization that regardless of his
charming manner, his easy grin, and the skill of his embrace, Ms was a
dangerous man.
And because you can never have enough handy tips when it comes to
meeting a man,
we give you a bonus!
In case you missed it, it comes from
The Truest Heart
by Samantha James
Available now from Avon Books
Bonus Tip #7:
A good man is hard to find... and
sometimes a bad man is better.
When Lady Gillian of Westerbrook discovers a near-mortally wounded
warrior, she takes hint in and nurses him back to health. He has no
memory of his past, but as Gillian tends to him he begins to
remember... and she realizes he is none other than Garcth, lord of
Sommerficld, the man sworn to betray her to a vengeful king. As Gillian
succumbs to his masterful touch, she is forced to choose—between her
family honor and her heart's truest desire.
"You are a man who knows little of piety and virtue."
There was a silence, a silence that ever deepened. "I do not know.
Perhaps I am a thief. An outlaw."
Gillian looked at him sharply, but this time she detected no trace of
bitterness. "I think not. You still have both your hands."
"Then perhaps I'm a lucky one. Now come, Gillian." Outside lightning
lit up the night sky. The ominous roll of thunder that followed made
the walls shake. In a heartbeat Gillian was across the floor—and
squarely onto the bed next to him.
He laughed, the wretch!
"Perhaps you are not an outlaw," she flared, "but I begin to suspect
you may well be a rogue!"
He made no answer, but once again lifted the coverlet. Her lips
tightened indignantly, but she tugged off her slippers and slid into
bed. He respected the space she put between them, but she was aware of
the weight of his gaze settling on her in the darkness.
"Are you afraid of storms?"
"Nay," she retorted. As if to put the lie to the denial, lightning
sizzled and sparked, illuminating the cottage to near daylight.
She tensed, half-expecting some jibe from Gareth. Instead, his fingers
stole through hers, as had become their custom. Comforted, lulled by
his presence, it wasn't long before she felt her muscles loosen and her
eyelids grow heavy. 'Ere she could draw breath, long arms caught her
close—so close she could feel every sinewed curve of his chest, the
taut line of his thighs molded against her own.
There was no chance for escape. No chance for struggle. No thought of
panic. No thought of resistance, for Gillian was too stunned to even
move . . .
His mouth closed over hers.