Their Wicked Ways (25 page)

With that thought bolstering
her, Winter rose from her seat and shook his hand.  “Thank you, Mr. Giovanni. 
It has been an ... enlightening experience.”  If she never saw him again, it
would be too soon. 
Vile deceiver
.

It made her ill even to think
what lengths she would have to go to to pry the information from the man.

She collected her cloak from
the rack as a servant was summoned to see her out.  Silently, he escorted her
through the halls to the front entrance, though she needed no assistance,
familiar as she’d become with Giovanni’s studio.  She moved woodenly, her
thoughts chaotic with plans as she exited the house and followed the walkway to
the street.

Frigid wind howled and
gusted, tearing her hair loose from her chignon to blow in the wind, tangling
over her face as she walked.  She clutched her worn cloak tight to her chest,
watching the ground as she moved, avoiding the sheen of ice that treacherously
coated the worn brickwork.  She blew away the thick tendrils of hair obscuring
her vision, but it wasn’t until she had run into him that she noticed the man
headed for Giovanni’s studio.

He caught her as she stumbled
into him, his strong hands gripping her wool encased arms, steadying her, his
long, tapered fingers trapping locks of her pale hair that twined about his
digits as if with a life of their own.  Something about him struck her as
familiar, his pleasant scent teasing her nostrils with their intimate proximity
as she leaned into the broad shield of his body and recovered her balance on the
slick cobblestone.

“Excuse me,” she mumbled,
curiosity prompting her to peer up into his down turned face as he towered
above her.

She found herself gazing into
a familiar pair of dark eyes, filled with mocking amusement.  Shocked
recognition made the breath freeze in her lungs.  Her mind screamed the warning
to run, but she found her legs had turned to jelly and could not obey.

Winter jerked from his grasp
as though scorched by a heated iron.

He smiled darkly, his black
cape and thick, midnight hair fluttering around him as a gust of wind swept
between them.  Surrounded by movement and immediacy, he seemed to retain a
sense of stillness as he watched her, almost anticipatory of what she would do
next.  As though he wished she would run so that he could pursue her.

It was
him
.  The man
who’d haunted her conscience and her dreams with guilt for a year after she’d
first known him.  A man she had completely forgotten in the ensuing tragedy
she’d suffered with her father’s death.  Or at least, she’d told herself she’d
forgotten him.

His name whispered in her
mind like a curse and a caress.

Logan Cordell.

This man ... she’d wished
never to see him again.  His very name filled her with a deep shame at what
she’d allowed to happen.  It had been years since she’d seen him, not since
she’d been a green girl on her first season.  She’d been no more than eighteen
at the time, and it seemed a lifetime ago.  Despite the passage of time,
however, she saw that every sensuous nuance of his face and form were the same.

She blinked away the
memories, studying him now and realized that she had been wrong.  He had
changed over the years.  His eyes no longer laughed, they mocked.  The laugh
lines around his mouth that she had once found so intriguing crinkled now in
derisive amusement.  The charming rogue had vanished.  In his place was a man
who had hardened, and she wondered with horror if she’d been the cause.

But he wasn’t supposed to be
here.  He was supposed to be in England, settling his estranged father’s
affairs ... and living out his life there to the end of his days.

His presence here confirmed
just how dire her situation was.  She knew immediately who had commissioned the
nude portrait—understood the irony of the painting’s theme.  It could be the
only reason why he would come to Giovanni’s residence.

A sickening certainty
engulfed her, bringing with it raging emotions she could scarcely recognize as
belonging to herself.  With an effort, she controlled the urge to yield to them
just as she’d always done—and always would.

“We meet again, Miss
Stevens.”  His voice rolled over her like black velvet, vibrating with
intensity, seductive and warm as it had ever been in her memories.  He took her
hand where it hung limply by her side and pressed his lips to the back of it,
the heat of his breath warming her hand through the silken lace glove.  She
could almost feel the soft texture of his mouth and the rough shadow of
whiskers through her thin gloves, little barrier to the sensual assault he bore
against her mind.

Every impulse urged her to
snatch her hand away, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a
response.  He’d merely unsettled her, no more.  She felt nothing for him now
but an intense need to see him strung up by his thumbs.  She had not been
dubbed an ice princess by him without good cause.  “Good day to you, Mr.
Cordell,” she said with practiced calm as she withdrew her hand from his.

“What brings you to our
mutual friend, Mr. Giovanni?” he asked, all innocence.

As if he didn’t know.  Her
temple pounded again, the headache coming back in full force with the struggle
to maintain her facade.

He watched her with dark
eyes, a half smile teasing the corner of his lips, as though he knew she’d
discovered his mischief and thought to gain a rise out of her on the spot.

What she wanted to do was
slap his smug face clean off.  Her palm itched with pure need, but she
remembered another time and place when she’d given in to her impulses.  Had she
retained better control then, she would not be in this situation now.  Far
better to rage inside than give in to her dangerous urges.  “I was merely
settling some private affairs,” she said through a forced smile, her face
feeling as though it would crack under the strain.

“I’m sure.”  His voice held
the allure of intimate knowledge—a secret shared between them.

If she were not a lady ...
she
would
slap him.  She was already beginning to feel sorry she
hadn’t.  Instead, she said, “I had not heard you patronized Mr. Giovanni, nor
that you had returned to town.”

“My
interests
would no
doubt surprise you.”  He paused and raked a hand through his unfashionably long
hair curling in the wind.  “As it happens, not all men of my profession are
boorish
oafs
.  I consider myself a patron of the arts.”

Winter thought she was going
to be sick at the reminder.  “If you’ll excuse me, I must be going.”  She
turned to go, but he blocked her escape with a hand on her upper arm—as if he
had a right to touch her as he willed, that some permission had been granted
him.  She pulled loose from his hand and regarded him coldly.

“Do you require an escort? 
It has been long since I was in the city, but I am certain unmarried women of
genteel
breeding do not wander its streets alone.”

She recognized sarcasm when
she heard it.  Dare he suggest her actions at fault, when his own were so
odious?  “Thank you, no.  I’ve arranged for someone to come.”

“Very well then.  Perhaps you
will allow me to call on you some time.”

Her lips tightened.  “
Friends
are always welcome visitors,” she said snidely, hoping he was not too dense to
perceive the obvious.  He had never been a friend and was certainly not one
now.

He
bowed and left her as a coach pulled up on the street.

The skin on her neck
prickled, and she could swear he watched her as she entered the coach to leave,
but she did not look back to confirm her suspicions.  She had no intention of giving
him the satisfaction of knowing how much he unsettled her.

* * * *

From the window of Giovanni’s
studio, Logan watched Winter’s carriage as it disappeared from sight, his mood
pensive.

“My Lord, you are not pleased
with the painting?”  Worry tinged Giovanni’s voice.

Logan did not turn,
continuing to stare out the window.  “On the contrary, I could not be more
pleased with the results,” he said pensively.  He rubbed a thumb along his
whisker roughened chin absently, his thoughts upon the subject of the painting
and their late skirmish.

The painting, as exquisite
and revealing as it was, could never compare to Winter.  It depicted the beauty
of her face and figure, but it portrayed no more than a pretty shell.  It could
not capture her life’s essence—so palpable he could feel it when she was near.

And yet, he had not lied.  He
was most pleased with the results, for he had seen in her eyes that she knew
the hunter had come for her and she had found herself trapped in his snare.

The painting would be equal
torment to them both—for he found it only served to heighten his hunger to
possess her,  to see her naked and wanting, writhing with passion beneath him. 
It spurred his impatience to break through that chill exterior she had
cultivated so carefully to find the vibrant woman she hid beneath the surface.

She was just as he’d
remembered, just as forbidden, just as tempting to touch.

Every memory of her, every secret
longing he’d buried deep inside over the years pushed back into his
consciousness, to be relived with painful intensity.  He should not have come
back.  His father had been right in that at least, but, despite the years and
miles that separated them, he’d found he could not forget her.  And finally he
had known that he would have no peace unless he sought her out, and finished
what they’d begun.

She had tormented him in her
innocence, still did.

The smell of her hair drove
him to distraction; her regal poise and cool stare; the seductive huskiness of
her voice, tinged with the lure of the South....  He’d spent countless waking
nights imagining what he would do when he met her again, what he would do when
she was within his grasp....

It was madness to have come,
insanity to have set his plot in motion.  Or, if not, then he would surely be
driven to madness before he accomplished his goal, and he hadn’t yet tasted her
hidden delights.  Her disdain, the sharp intelligence she possessed that cut to
the quick might well be the death of him, for it had led him to this lunacy.

And yet he had no
reservations regarding the course he had chosen for himself.  He knew a wildcat
lay just beneath her prim, icy surface, waiting for him to free her from her
self-imposed prison.  That promise drew him to her as surely as dying man to
water.

The question was, would he
come out unscathed, as he always had?

It seemed unlikely, and yet
that in itself was a part of the challenge, to have his revenge and come out
unscathed, as he had not before.  But he also knew that Winter was a woman of
hidden passion, that could draw him in and slay him with his own sword.  A man
could spend a lifetime trying to unlock her secrets.  He relished the challenge
of facing a foe his equal, when winning would be such sweet reward....

* * * *

Winter was nearly home when
she realized she had done nothing more during the entire return trip than stare
blankly into space while the images of her meeting with Logan Cordell replayed
itself over and over in her mind.  Each time it did, she thought of something
far more clever that she could have said to set him back on his heels.  By the
time she became aware of her surroundings once more, she’d had him groveling at
her feet, begging her forgiveness and offering up the painting, which she had
promptly ripped to shreds—and still withheld her forgiveness.

Reality set in at last.  She
had been blindsided and she had done little more than stare at him with the
frightened eyes of a rabbit caught in a snare, stammer and shake with fear.  She
seethed with anger, but fear reared its ugly face once more, undermining her
righteous anger, which should have given her strength.

Winter could only wonder when
Logan Cordell would strike again.  She could scarcely bear thinking on it, for
each time she did it heightened her anxieties to the point that panic set in,
but she knew she would have to try to prepare for any eventuality.  Perhaps
nothing would come of it after all, she thought hopefully, and she was worrying
herself needlessly.