Lucy Monroe - Willing

“No.”

“Come on. There must be something.”

He shook his head. “No. And no, and no. I told the cops all this already.”

“Well, now tell me,” she snapped.

“Don’t boss me!”

“I’ll boss you if I like! If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be rotting in jail!”

“The hell. My lawyer would have vouched for me.”

“Yeah, I could tell what a great job he did by the way it took him hours and hours to not show up.”

“Listen—mmph!”

She had kissed him again. What was wrong with her?

“Not that I mind,” he gasped, extricating himself from her grip, “but, again, don’t you think this is a little inappropriate? Given the circumstances?”

She got up to pace. “Of course it’s inappropriate—it’s nine kinds of inappropriate! What the hell is wrong with me?”

He opened his mouth, but she beat him to the punch. “I’ll tell you, it’s this fucking holiday! It’s killing me! It’s making me act in ways I would never normally act! God, I hate it, I hate it, I hate Valentine’s Day!”

Here’s a scintillating peek at Sylvia Day’s

“Stolen Pleasures”

in her new anthology

BAD BOYS AHOY.

Available February 2006 from Brava.

British West Indies, February 1813

H e’d stolen a bride.

Sebastian Blake gripped his knife with white-knuckled force and kept his face impassive. If the beauty in front of him was to be believed, he’d stolen his own bride.

He watched as her chin lifted with defiance and her dark eyes met his without fear. She was tall and slender with blond curls tumbling down from a once-stylish arrangement. Her lovely watered-silk dress was torn at the shoulder, revealing a tempting display of creamy breast. There was a sooty hand-print marring her flesh, and unable to stop himself, Sebastian reached out and rubbed the offending mark away with gentle strokes of his thumb. She stiffened and lifted her bound hands to knock his away. He met her gaze and held it.

“Tell me your name again,” he murmured, his hand tingling just from that simple contact with her satin skin.

She licked her bottom lip and his blood heated further. “My name is Olivia Blake, Countess of Merrick. My husband is Sebastian Blake, Earl of Merrick and future Marquis of Dunsmore.”

He lifted her hands and stared at her ring finger, noting his crest etched in the simple gold band she wore.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and turned away, striding to the nearest open window for a deep breath of salt-tinged air. Staring out at the water, he spied the debris from her ship bobbing in the waves. “Where is your husband, Lady Merrick?” he asked, keeping his back to her.

Hope tinged her voice. “He awaits me in London.”

“I see.” But he didn’t, not at all. “How long have you been married, my lady?”

“I fail to see—”

“How long?” he barked.

“Nearly two weeks.”

His chest expanded with a deep breath. “I remind you that we are in the West Indies, Lady Merrick. It is impossible that you were married only a fortnight ago. Your husband would not be able to await you in England if that were true.”

She was silent behind him and finally, he turned to face her again. It was a mistake to have done so. Her beauty hit him with the force of a fist in his gut.

“Would you care to explain?” he prodded, relieved he sounded so unaffected.

For the first time her bravado left her, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “We were married by proxy,” she confessed. “But I assure you, he will pay whatever ransom you desire despite the unusual circumstances of our marriage.”

Sebastian moved toward her. His calloused fingers caressed the elegant curve of her cheekbone and entwined in her hair. Her breath caught, and her lips parted in response to his gentle touch. “I’m certain he would pay a king’s ransom for beauty such as yours.”

Through the smoky smell that clung to her, he could detect the arousing scent of soft woman, warm and luxurious. He reached for the blade strapped to his thigh and withdrew it.

She flinched it away.

“Easy,” he soothed. Sebastian held out his hand and waited patiently for her to step forward again. When she did, he sliced through the rope that tied her hands together and sheathed his knife. He rubbed the marks on her delicate wrists.

“You are a pirate,” she murmured.

“Yes.”

“You have taken my father’s ship and all of its cargo.”

“I have.”

Her head tilted backward on the slender neck and she gazed up at him with melting chocolate eyes. “Why then are you being so kind to me, if you intended to rape me?”

He caught her fingers and placed them on his signet ring. “Most would say a man cannot rape his own wife.”

She glanced down and gasped at the heavy crest that mirrored her own band. Her eyes flew up to his. “Where did you get this? You can’t possibly…”

He smiled. “According to you, I am.”

Olivia stared up into the intense blue eyes and felt certain her heart would burst from her chest. Her mind faltered, stumbling over the shocking revelation that the notorious Captain Phoenix was claiming to be her husband.

She backed away from him in a rush, and he reached to steady her when she would have fallen. A whimper escaped as his touch burned her skin. The day’s events had shaken her, but it was the gorgeous face of the infamous pirate that made her weak-kneed.

Tall and broad shouldered, his presence sucked all of the air from the tight confines of the cabin. His black hair was unfashionably long and the darkness of his skin betrayed how much time he spent outdoors. He was wild, untamed—a man of the elements.

She’d watched, fascinated, as he’d swept onto her ship and took command of it within moments. Phoenix had executed the attack with brilliant precision—not one man was seriously injured and no one had been killed. Having spent most of her childhood on her father’s ships, Olivia recognized singular skill when she saw it.

The way he’d used his sword and barked commands, the way loose tendrils of his hair had blown across his face, the way his breeches delineated every stretch of his muscular thighs…she’d never experienced anything so thrilling. So exciting.

Until he’d touched her.

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Copyright © 2006 by Lucy Monroe

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