Susan Johnson - Gorgeous As Sin

“You want more ?” he said very, very softly. The woman had the instincts of a highwayman.

“Everything isn’t about money, Groveland!” How dare he speak to her in that accusing tone. “In fact, the things that truly matter are never about money! Not that someone like you could possibly understand! Now, do me a favor! Get out and leave me alone! Permanently!”

He was surprised at the degree of anger her tirade generated. Every muscle in his body was taut with rage. “There’s nothing I can say to change your mind? ” Twenty thousand was a goddamned fortune and she knew it.

“Not a thing!” Hot, bellicose words.

He was utterly still save for a muscle that twitched over his stark cheekbone. “I could make your life exceedingly difficult,” he said, his voice soft with menace.

She sat back in shock. “Are you threatening me?”

Pushing himself upright in his chair, he leaned forward slightly, the devil glowing in his eyes. “I am.”

Her spine went rigid. “Do what you will,” she snapped, furious at his arrogance. “I’m not selling!”

He came to his feet in a powerful surge. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” he growled, towering over her.

“On the contrary,” she rebuked, looking up at him, her gaze flame hot, “I know very well who I’m dealing with! A spoiled, self-indulgent debauchee who’s never worked a day in his life or cared about anyone but himself! But I am not intimidated by your wealth and power! I’m here and I’m staying!” As if empowered by her heated words, she rose to her feet in a flash and jabbed her finger into the fine silk jacquard of his waistcoat. “Now, get out!”

He grabbed her wrist in a viselike grip. “You unmitigated bitch.”

She gasped in pain.

His fingers tightened for a flashing moment, then he abruptly released her and bending down so their eyes were level, whispered, fierce and low, “They say your husband jumped. Now I know why.”

She slapped him so hard, a stabbing pain shot down her arm.

He almost slapped her back but caught himself just short of her face. “This isn’t over,” he snarled, letting his hand drop. Turning, he strode away, nearly knocking over a rotund, middle-aged woman coming through the door.

“My goodness!” Mrs. Beecham murmured as soon as the duke slammed shut the shop door. “Was that the celebrated Duke of Groveland?”

“Yes.” With considerable effort Rosalind overcame the fury in her voice, the single word escaping in a sibilant hiss.

Mrs. Beecham was staring out the window at Groveland’s swiftly retreating form. “Can you imagine a man of his consequence coming into your little store?” she exclaimed in wonder. “Do you think he might return? I do so wish he might. He is quite the eligible party, my dear. I do hope you were on your best behavior with such a superior person.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Beecham. He is most unusual,” Rosalind said, curbing her inclination to describe his character in vile, graphic detail.

“Isn’t he just! Rich, handsome, with a distinguished, ancient title-and single, my dear. Even dukes marry beneath them on occasion. Did he seem taken with you? Perhaps even the slightest bit?” she queried, breathlessly.

“I didn’t detect that sort of interest, Mrs. Beecham,” Rosalind muttered.

Rosalind’s sarcasm wasted on her, Mrs. Beecham said with an insinuating little wink, “Well, if he returns, I’d suggest you put yourself out to please him. You have to think of your future, my dear. You’re out of mourning now, and you’re not getting any younger.”

“I’m sure Groveland is quite busy with the revels of fashionable society. I have no expectations, Mrs. Beecham-none at all. Now, let me show you the new novels that arrived yesterday. Mrs. Thornhill has written a most delightful story and I know she’s one of your favorites.”

After Groveland’s spiteful threats the last person she wished to discuss was his eminence, the most odious, hateful man in England!

WHILE GUIDING MRS. Beecham to the new novels, Rosalind only half listened to the woman’s chatter, planning instead how best to defend herself against Groveland’s attack-which would surely come.

He’d turned out to be the exact spoiled, arrogant aristocrat she’d expected. Quick-tempered when rebuffed, indifferent to all but his own wishes, intent on riding roughshod over anyone who stood in his way.

But she would not be intimidated.

She owned her building; he could not dislodge her.

No matter what.

STRIDING SWIFTLY DOWN Bond Street toward Piccadilly, Fitz was currently focused on that what . And the mood he was in, the Monckton Row project wasn’t even a consideration.

Retaliation was foremost in his mind.

And winning against the insufferable Mrs. St. Vincent!

He cautioned himself to calm as he quickly made his way toward Hutchinson’s office, but with his temper in high dudgeon, issues of reason and restraint were largely nullified. All he could think about was triumphing over the hot-tempered, unreasonable, defiant bitch.

Good God, he’d never before felt like striking a woman.

Never.

That she was the most perverse and bold-as-brass female he’d ever met was no doubt cause for his aberrant behavior.

As for the circumstances of her husband’s death, after bearing the brunt of Mrs. St. Vincent’s sharp tongue, he thought it rather likely that she had driven the poor man to jump.

Crossing Piccadilly Square, Groveland entered the grand Italianate palazzo that bespoke Hutchinson’s repute as a jurist. Passing through the resplendent marble-columned foyer, he took the stairs at a run and barged into Hutchinson’s office suite like a bull in a china shop. “I’ll see myself in,” he crisply asserted, striding past the law clerks who served as assistants, errand boys, and in this case, gatekeepers.

One of the young men jumped up and courageously blocked Fitz’s path. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but Mr. Hutchinson is with a client.”

“Then get rid of him.”

The young man’s bravery faltered before the duke’s blunt, gimlet-eyed order, but only for a moment. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t do that.”

Fitz gave the young man credit for nerve. “I see. Then could you tell me who Hutchinson is with?” A flicker of amusement gleamed in Groveland’s eyes. “Or would that be too much to ask?”

“No, sir, of course not, sir. Mr. Hutchinson is with the Earl of Somerset.”

Fitz smiled. “Charlie won’t mind if I intrude.” Smoothly sidestepping the young clerk, he strode toward Hutchinson’s office. “I’ll make sure to tell your employer you did your best to stop me,” he tossed back over his shoulder.

Seconds later, he closed the door behind him and smiled at the two men who had turned at his entrance. “Your boy tried to stop me, Hutchinson. Don’t sack him. Morning, Charlie. I’m in a helluva temper and even more of a rush. I need a few moments of Hutchinson’s time.”

Charlie Melville grinned. “Some woman after your skin?”

“On the contrary, some woman needs to be put in her place.”

“Hell, Fitz, I thought you knew how to do that better than anyone. In bed and under you. Ain’t that your way? ”

“Unfortunately, this woman is proving difficult. Have a drink Charlie,” Fitz suggested, nodding at Hutchinson’s drink trolley, the earl known to often drink his breakfast. “This won’t take long. If I could speak with you, Prosper,” he added, indicating a grouping of chairs across the room with a wave of his hand.

As the men took their seats a moment later, Hutchinson said, “I gather Mrs. St. Vincent wasn’t cooperative.”