*Molly Contest Finalist*Desperate to win Morgan’s love, Olivia Breedlove embarks on a reckless folly. But everything backfires when Morgan remains one step ahead of her and the game ventures down a path of duplicity and murder.
A decade ago, Morgan was a heartbeat away from taking Olivia’s virginity. Her father, Thaddeus, intervened and threatened to meet him over pistols if he so much as looked at his daughter again. But now, Thaddeus is dead and Morgan has no intention of ignoring the ravenous hunger he’s harbored for the blasted woman for ten years.
One way or the other, he will quench this burning desire and make her his forever.
Special Content Alert: Voyeurism
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Excerpt:
Morgan had been so lost in thought he almost failed to see Olivia ducking into the mercantile across the street in town. Almost. Silently he thanked his lucky stars. He intended to have a drink prior to calling on Madame Rousseau, but now that fate had intervened and placed the Goddess of his breath in his path, he altered course. Pushing the door open amid a melodic chiming of bells, he searched for her down every aisle. Finally he found her among the bolts of fabric, her brow creased, her selective eyes glancing between the terra-cotta and its sibling cinnamon.
“Why don’t you purchase both?” he said from over her shoulder.
She turned and looked at him, her searching gaze a mixture of surprise, and dare he think, subtle delight?
“Morgan, what-whatever are you doing here?”
“I desired a drink and intended to follow it up with a visit to Immortelles.”
“Immortelles?” Her eyes widened and a blush rose in her cheeks. “You frequent the establishment in the middle of the afternoon?”
“Under a blue moon, in the afternoon, whenever the fancy strikes.”
“You’re incorrigible,” she said, her eyes sparking.
“You misunderstand me. I mean only to observe, not partake.”
Giving him the direct cut, she placed the fabrics back onto the shelf and said, “Good day to you, then.”
Denying her a chance to bolt, he grabbed her elbow, ushered her to the back of the store and backed her into a wall. With his hands at the sides of her head, palms flat against the hard surface, he said, “Join me.”
Bewilderment masked her features. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Don’t look at me like that. You know you’re itching to return.”
A stillness fell over her.
“Why not with me?” It wasn’t easy to torment her while she looked at him with those green-spoked eyes, but he wanted to be near her, had an overwhelming urge to watch firsthand her sudden interest in carnal lust. “Unless, of course, you’re afraid,” he said..
His words effectuated the desired response. Her spine stiffened and her chin swept up. “You’re the one who should be afraid,” she said. “Especially since you can’t control, shall we say, a certain growing interest whenever a woman falls into your lap.”
Clearly a taunt, he wanted to toss her onto the floor, take her like a common camp follower and show her she’d also been affected when he pulled her onto his lap. Realizing such action would put an immediate halt to his pending suggestion, he gathered his wits.
Catching her chin in the firm grip of his hand, he pressed on. “Yes or no, do you have the courage?”
“You’re mad.” A half-laugh left her kissable lips. “People will see us; it’s broad daylight.”
“No, they won’t.” He pointed to the back door. “That leads to the alleyway, and one block away is another back door to the brothel. I assure you, not a soul will notice us slip out of here and arrive there.” She glanced around the room. “I double-dare you,” he said with emphasis.
“You’re certain no one will know?”
He crossed his heart, and without waiting for her to change her mind, led her through the back door and into the alleyway.
Arriving at Immortelles within minutes, he ushered her through the door and down the hall to a room. It had all happened so quickly, he had a hard time reconciling his plans were to speak with Madame first. Instead, he found himself about to enter a peep room with the woman who made his blood clot.
“Don’t tell me.” She paused at the door, her voice dripping sarcasm. “You have a standing appointment to voyeur? You walk into the brothel in the middle of the afternoon and go directly to a peep room?”
“I told you, I planned to call on Madame today, sent a missive this morning.” He pushed the door open. “It has all been prearranged.”
"You prearranged it?”
With a nod, he pointed to the chairs, about to offer a lame answer when she said, “How convenient, two peepholes.”
“Some adore having company while they engage in voyeurism.”
“I’m not one of them.” Her eyes narrowed. “In fact, I find it crass.”
“Pretend I’m not here.”
“How am to accomplish that with the holes mere inches apart?” She looked at the seating arrangement.
“And the chairs on top of one another?”
“Sit,” he said calmly, directing her into the plush cushion.
She shot him a lethal glare and he slumped into the chair, delighted with the layout. He eased himself down beside her with a smile―shoulder-to-shoulder, thigh-to-thigh. Perfect.
“Must you be breathing down my neck?” she asked, the familiar scent of tea roses and jasmine wafting over him.
“I can hardly enjoy the performance from the mezzanine.”
Morgan didn’t have time to answer before the door to the room opened and a man entered, a man he’d never seen before. Hundreds passed through the brothel monthly, in addition to the regulars. If women thought this particular John handsome, he was . . . in a rugged way. The rough-hewn features, textured skin and dark, wavy hair that fell unruly about the collar of his shirt lacked refinement. He cut a fine figure, however, with his wide shoulders and trim waist. Beneath the trousers, Morgan imagined strong, well-muscled legs.
From the corner of his eye, he studied Olivia, and, time cussed the betraying blood pumping to his shaft. That’s all it took, one look at her face or exquisite profile―the upturned nose, high cheekbones, long lashes and rose-petal lips―and the cursed member between his legs saluted the ceiling. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. How in hell could he watch a man and a woman make love and not imagine—wish with all his heart—it was him and Liv?
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