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The Devil To Pay
The Devil To Pay
The Devil To Pay
Ebook437 pages6 hours

The Devil To Pay

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  • Power Dynamics

  • Betrayal

  • Revenge

  • Deception

  • Survival

  • Enemies to Lovers

  • Forced Proximity

  • Forbidden Love

  • Strong Female Protagonist

  • Love Triangle

  • Hidden Identity

  • Fish Out of Water

About this ebook

2019 RITA® Finalist. From #1 Bestselling author Kate Bateman / K.C. Bateman comes a romantic adventure filled with passion and vengeance.

 

Italy, 1492.

A ruthless mercenary skilled in the art of conquest. 

An heiress who refuses to be tamed. 

The Devil's own bargain . . . 

Cara di Montessori has a price upon her head. Her traitorous uncle has murdered her father and seized her home. Her only hope of survival, and of regaining her birthright, is an alliance with her childhood nemesis, the infamous mercenary Il Diavolo. The most irritating—and seductive—man Cara's ever met.

Battle hardened and world-weary, Alessandro del Sarto has earned the sobriquet Il Diavolo. He needs a politically expedient marriage to secure the lasting peace he craves, but the simpering ladies of court hold little interest.

Headstrong beauty Cara has always been his only weakness, the one woman he's never been able to forget. When she appears at his door begging for help, the two strike a devil's bargain. In return for his assistance, for two weeks Cara must entertain his guests, relieve his boredom—and warm his bed. 

 

Cara has no intention of succumbing to del Sarto's studied seduction, but the passion that simmers between them is more potent than her paper twists of gunpowder. Surrounded by danger and intrigue, she must choose between what she's always thought of as her destiny, and what could be the greatest prize of all—her heart's desire.

 

 

Praise for K. C. Bateman's novels:

 

 "The writing and characterization are superb, the romance is hot, snarky and tender and the hero is delicious. I couldn't ask for much more in an historical romance!"

—All About Romance for To Steal A Heart.

 

"5* . . . . incredibly sexy . . .deliciously wicked." 

—Rakes & Rascals for A Counterfeit Heart.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherK. C. Bateman (Kate Bateman)
Release dateAug 28, 2018
ISBN9781732637801
The Devil To Pay
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    Book preview

    The Devil To Pay - Kate Bateman

    CHAPTER 1

    Central Italy, June 1492.


    Cara di Montessori was sick of people trying to kill her.

    As a child she’d trailed her father through some of the most godforsaken places in Christendom, so it had been a rare week that hadn’t included a scimitar-wielding Saracen or bloodthirsty Moor trying to send her to the afterlife. Familiarity with the experience did not make it any more enjoyable. And besides, those instances had been impersonal, only to be expected of campaigning, whereas this attempt was personal in the extreme. ‘Uncle’ Lorenzo did not want her alive to dispute his seizure of Castelleon.

    His men were proving annoyingly persistent. He must have offered a ransom to keep them on her tail, and though Cara doubted her life was worth a great deal, everyone had their price. In truth, she was staking her life on that very premise, about to make a pact with the Devil himself.

    If she could reach him.

    Alessandro del Sarto, ‘Il Diavolo,’ was the last person in Italy she would have chosen to ask for help, but engaging his dubious talents was her only hope of staying alive and regaining her home.

    He was condottiero. A killer for hire.

    Cara wrinkled her nose in distaste. Mercenary described both del Sarto’s profession and his nature. Il Diavolo sold himself to the highest bidder. He didn’t care which side won or lost, or whether the cause was worth fighting for, only whether the victor could pay his exorbitant fees. Every monarch in Europe wanted him. And now she needed him, too.

    ‘Better to dance with the devil you know,’ Father used to say. Well, she hadn’t seen this particular devil in six long years, not since she was sixteen. He’d knocked her on her backside, then kissed her until she’d seen stars. She’d threatened to kill him in return. He’d haunted her dreams ever since.

    Cara shivered. She hated being cold. At least if she ended up in hell for bartering her soul she’d be warm. She nudged her exhausted horse forward and wished—for perhaps the hundredth time—that she’d stolen a mount with a better saddle.

    The urge to slump over the animal’s scrawny neck was so strong. She hadn’t eaten for two days, hadn’t dared stop for more than an hour at most. Every jolt of the animal’s hooves reopened the wound at her ribs and brought a fresh wave of dizziness and pain. Perchance the quick slash of an assassin’s blade would be preferable to dying slowly of blood loss?

    No. She would reach Il Diavolo. She had hundreds of things she wanted to do before leaving this world, and she’d hardly managed to achieve any of them. Quite apart from avenging her father’s death and regaining her home, she planned on dying a wrinkled old crone in a nice warm bed, surrounded by a huge and loving family. A young, heroic death was all very well in principle, but it looked extremely unappealing now it was a distinct possibility.

    Whirling lights crowded her vision like fireflies and Cara shook her head. The stumbling horse crested a rise, and she let out a breathless prayer of thanks. There it was, outlined against the deepening twilight; Torre di San Rocco, the fortified city stronghold of Italy’s most infamous son.

    Cara kicked the horse into an exhausted trot. She would reach Il Diavolo, or die trying.

    CHAPTER 2

    "Y ou’ve got to choose one of them. What about Lucrezia Borgia?"

    Alessandro del Sarto, ‘Il Diavolo’, drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair and briefly considered strangling his second-in-command. Not enough to kill him, of course. Just enough to stop this infernal listing of prospective brides.

    He’d spent all day scaring the wits out of people and his head ached as if he’d been hit with a battle-axe. First, he’d dealt with a line of petitioners who’d flocked to the castle to beg him to settle their petty disputes. He didn’t care who’d stolen whose goat. Then he’d spent a few hours thrashing the cockiness out of some raw recruits on the training field. That had been fun, admittedly, but now his shoulder hurt like the devil. Lastly, he’d overseen the flogging of a man convicted of assault. All that screaming and begging for mercy had made his ears ring.

    Alessandro took a sip of wine and cast a simmering glance over the crowd milling before the dais. Even those brave enough to meet his eyes failed to hold his gaze for longer than a heartbeat. He smiled at a servant, baring his teeth in the merest hint of a snarl—and chuckled as the poor boy paled in fright and dropped his tray.

    Francesco Neroni shot him a disapproving glance. Stop ignoring me. You haven’t lost your hearing as well as the use of your sword arm.

    Alessandro’s glower usually had the power to send brave men scurrying from the room. Sadly, it had no effect on the grizzled old soldier next to him.

    You look like a bulldog that’s swallowed a wasp, Francesco continued calmly. You forget, my lord, that I’m immune to your scowls. He pushed forward a small portrait. What’s wrong with the Borgia girl? She’s pretty enough. And she’s already buried her first husband, so you won’t have to contend with a simpering virgin.

    I don’t care if she speaks seventeen languages and plays the lute like an angel. I’m not marrying anyone, least of all Rodrigo Borgia’s bastard.

    "He is the Pope. No harm in getting on God’s good side."

    Alessandro snorted. It’s a sad outlook for Christians everywhere if that whoring, murdering tyrant is the Almighty’s best representative on earth. And you’ve conveniently forgotten her brother. Cesare’s a madman.

    Hardly the perfect brother-in-law, I’ll admit. Rumor has it he’s already killed one of his brothers. Francesco drew a line through the name at the top of his list. Pity. You need all the divine blessing you can get.

    Your concern for my blackened soul is touching, Alessandro said dryly. But the answer is still no.

    Fine. Forget an alliance with Rome. What about Naples? There’s the sister of the king of Navarre . . . The next portrait showed a buxom girl with a huge ruby nestled in her mountainous cleavage. Fantastic breasts, Francesco coaxed. It’s like she’s got two piglets wrestling in her bodice.

    Alessandro glanced over. She looks like a horse.

    You love horses.

    True enough. If you can find me a woman as brave and loyal as Saraceno I’ll marry her on the spot, whatever she looks like.

    It was Francesco’s turn to snort. Bollocks! You’ve an eye for beauty, Sandro, whether it’s horseflesh or women. He sighed deeply. I don’t know why you’re being so fussy. They’re all the same with the lights out. You don’t look at the fireplace when you’re poking the fire, do you?

    Alessandro rolled his eyes. I bet the ladies just love that silver tongue of yours.

    I do well enough, thank you, Francesco sniffed.

    "Not with the only one you truly want. How is Renata?"

    A flush reddened Francesco’s neck at the mention of his unrequited love. She’s fine.

    Alessandro shrugged. You’re probably the only man in the whole keep who hasn’t had her. Just go to her room, slip her a few coins, and put yourself out of your misery.

    I will not! She doesn’t do that sort of thing any more.

    Alessandro raised his hands in surrender. Eh, I admire her. At least she and the other camp followers are honest in their dealings. He nodded at Francesco’s paper. Those high-born girls on your list are no different, though they pretend otherwise. They’re all willing to sell themselves. The only difference is the price.

    Francesco deleted another name. No to Principessa d’Albret then. He brushed the feathered end of his quill back and forth against his chin, where it caught against the short bristles of his beard. You’re not making this easy. How hard can it be to choose a wife from scores of rich, beautiful women?

    Ah, yes, it is wonderful to be me. Alessandro spread his arms wide in a mocking, theatrical gesture that made the nearest candles flicker. Behold, Il Diavolo, he lowered his voice so only Francesco could hear. "I couldn’t even fight an old woman at the moment. Who wouldn’t want me as a husband?"

    Stop being so dramatic. Your shoulder will be fine in a few weeks.

    Alessandro growled. We got back from Spain three months ago and it still hurts. Those same princes begging me to marry their daughters would all be challenging me to a fight if they knew I’d been injured. He glared at the room in general. God, I hate sitting around doing nothing. I’d give anything to be spurring Saraceno into battle.

    Francesco shrugged. I’m not the only one who’s grateful for a roof over my head and hot food in my belly. The men are glad to be taking a break, though they’d never admit it. Maybe it’s a sign that you should think about settling down.

    Alessandro didn’t answer, so Francesco forged on. You’ve rejected Florence, Naples, Rome, Milan, and Venice. There’s hardly anywhere left. He pinched the bridge of his nose. You haven’t had a woman since we got back, Sandro. It’s doing nothing to improve your temper, let me tell you.

    None of those girls would have me if they knew they were being bound to a cripple.

    Don’t exaggerate. It’s only temporary. Francesco inhaled sharply as a new thought struck him. "God, you haven’t lost the use of that blade, have you?" He shot a meaningful glance at Alessandro’s crotch.

    Alessandro chuckled at his horrified expression. No.

    Sure? Want me to send a girl up? Check everything’s in working order? We’ve just got a new kitchen maid from Bologna. She’s not a great looker, but I hear she’s very enthusiastic.

    Not tonight. I’m in no mood for company.

    Your loss. Francesco studied his list again. You know, you’re going to have to choose one of these girls eventually, just to keep the peace.

    Alessandro suppressed a howl of frustration. The scheming and machinations of court life bored him to tears. He hated the endless plotting and posturing, gossiping and backstabbing that would accompany his guests when they arrived in a week’s time. All those overdressed, slyly manipulating ladies with their not-so-subtle innuendoes and flirtations. Offers to grace his bed in return for a glittering trinket or a political favor.

    It wasn’t in his nature to pander and fawn. In his mind, action was always better than diplomacy. Bad enough that he was considering a pact of non-aggression with his neighbors so they could unite against the French. But to marry one of their spoilt, whining daughters as well, to sweeten the deal? That was too much.

    They’ll never leave you alone until you’re married, Francesco murmured.

    Don’t you ever give up?

    The commander shook his head.

    On the battlefield Francesco’s refusal to admit defeat was a quality Alessandro truly appreciated. In this instance, however, it was just irritating. He stretched his hand forward with a resigned sigh. Oh, give it here. I’ll look at it again, but not tonight. I’m going to bed.

    CHAPTER 3

    Cara clutched the hilt of her dagger and pressed back into the shadows. A guard passed her hiding place and she waited a few minutes to make sure he’d gone, then flexed her fingers on the grip of her dagger. Her palm was sweaty. She could practically hear her father’s chiding voice, echoing down the corridor.

    A lady never mentions such things as sweaty palms, Cara.

    Her heart twisted in her chest. Poor Father. He’d always wanted her to be a model of feminine respectability. Unfortunately, it seemed a little late to start now, at the ripe old age of twenty-two.

    She inhaled a deep breath, crept forward, and pushed the heavy door inward. The room beyond was dark. Only a low fire glowed in the huge open fireplace and she could just make out the shape of a man slouched in a huge wing armchair. Her pulse pounded in her throat.

    Francesco sent you, didn’t he?

    The voice, the one she remembered so well, was a gravelly purr, deep and forbidding. When this man spoke, he was obeyed. Without question.

    What on earth was he talking about?

    Cara edged closer, keeping her dagger hidden in the folds of her cloak.

    Alessandro lifted his head and scowled. He hadn’t bothered to light the candles; the gloom suited his mood. He could barely see the cloaked figure that had entered.

    Francesco must have sent a girl up anyway, the disobedient swine. She lingered uncertainly by the door—afraid of him, he supposed. Who wasn’t? Still, for some reason her reluctance annoyed him. Come forward.

    The girl took a tentative step. A hood shielded her face and a dark cloak concealed her body, but she looked slim, beneath the folds. What had Francesco said about that kitchen maid? Ugly, but skilled.

    She took another step closer and the firelight offered a brief glimpse of smooth jaw and pink lips beneath the hood. Skin the color of honey and cream.

    An unexpected throb of desire shot to Alessandro’s groin. He usually preferred well-rounded, experienced females who knew how to play the game. Women who understood that this was nothing more than a straightforward exchange, money for brief mutual gratification.

    Still, perhaps he wasn’t as tired as he’d thought. Maybe Francesco was right. A night in the arms of a willing wench might relieve the dissatisfaction that had plagued him for so long.

    Cara took an instinctive step back as Il Diavolo stood and straightened to his full, impressive height. Lord above, he was even larger than she remembered.

    You might as well come in, now you’re here. And take off the cloak. We’ll get to the rest later. He beckoned her forward with an imperious wave of his hand. Closer. I won’t bite. White teeth flashed. Not unless you want me to, of course.

    He must have seen her lips part in confusion because he shook his head and his low voice shimmered across the darkness. No talking, sweeting. I’m not paying you for conversation.

    Cara’s brain took a few seconds to assimilate his words. And then her jaw dropped. A whore. He thought she was a whore! She almost laughed out loud. This was definitely the first time in her life anyone had made that mistake.

    He cocked his head to one side, like a bird of prey eyeing its next meal. A log rolled down as the fire collapsed, sending up a flare of sparks, and the sudden orange glow showed his features in sharp relief. Flames danced over one high, angled cheekbone and a jaw faintly darkened with day-old beard.

    Cara forgot to breathe.

    No wonder he’d been dubbed ‘Il Diavolo.’ He truly resembled a sulky, brooding demon. She suppressed a growl. There was no justice in the world. A heartless mercenary shouldn’t look like this. Years of remorseless killing should be etched upon his features, a visual map of his sins. He should be old and bloated, grotesque and jowled. He should look like the devil they called him.

    She swallowed. Oh, he looked like the devil, all right. Tall and darkly beautiful. Languid and sulky—and unmistakably dangerous.

    He’s a murderer. A killer for hire. Absolutely not the kind of man to be attracted to.

    And yet a strange heat uncurled in the pit of her stomach, a reaction she always associated with him; fear laced with . . . anticipation?

    She forced herself to take another step forward, glad of the blade in the folds of her cloak, and kept her eyes downcast rather than look him full in the face. She took a steadying breath—and immediately regretted it when she inhaled his scent; a disturbingly appealing combination of leather, wood-smoke and man.

    Do not get distracted.

    He caught her hip with his big hand and tugged her the last remaining inches into his chest. Cara forced herself to remain passive, fought the urge to pull back from the searing, intimate contact. Her skin felt too hot, too tight. He bent his head, obscuring the light, and pushed back the hood from her hair.

    She ducked her chin, hiding her face against his shirt as he pressed his face into her hair, then stroked the side of her neck. His breath warmed the sensitive skin behind her ear. Cara swayed, her senses reeling as she fought a fresh wave of dizziness.

    Enough.

    She slid her hand up his ribcage, feigning a caress, and her blade found the spot under his armpit where the artery throbbed close beneath his loose white shirt. She leaned into him, trying to ignore the press of her breasts against his rock-hard chest, and increased the pressure. Sharpened steel pricked flesh.

    Il Diavolo froze.

    And then, to her astonishment, she felt him smile; the faintest curve of his lips tightening against her throat.

    Put that away, sweeting. It’s a little late to defend your virtue.

    I’m not here to defend my virtue.

    His chuckle was soft against her skin. Good thing, too. We both know it’s a distant memory.

    Cara pursed her lips. You mistake my meaning. It’s your attention I want, not your kisses.

    "Believe me, my lady, you have my undivided attention." There was mockery in his tone, but whether it was aimed at her, or himself, she couldn’t tell.

    Cara pulled back, just a fraction, curiosity warring with pique. Aren’t you afraid I might kill you?

    He pushed aside her cloak and dropped a leisurely kiss onto her collarbone, still not looking at her face. Plenty have tried, but none have succeeded. Give it your best, though. If you prevail, at least I’ll die happy.

    CHAPTER 4

    Cara barely saw him move. One minute her knife was pressed against his ribs, the next he’d shoved her face-first against the wall. Hard.

    The cloak whirled around her legs and her hair went flying out around her shoulders. Pain lanced along her side as her ribs cracked against the stone—and her blade went spinning beneath the vast bed that dominated the centre of the room.

    Il Diavolo pinned her to the wall with ridiculous ease. He pressed himself full-length against her, using his weight to keep her there, effortlessly emphasizing his superior strength. One hand held her wrists together behind her back, trapped between their bodies. The other covered her mouth and nose.

    Cara opened her mouth to protest and her lips moved against his palm. She tried to bite him. He chuckled. His warm breath fanned across the back of her neck. She bucked furiously, arching her body away from his and trying not to notice how they fitted together in the most interesting places. He was bigger in every possible way. Taller, wider, stronger. His thighs were rock-hard against her backside.

    She felt very small, and suddenly very afraid. Despite his past loyalty to her father, this man was practically a stranger. She tried to scream but only managed a muffled murmur.

    Shhhh, sweeting. He eased his hand from her mouth.

    Let me go!

    Now, now. Where are your manners? It’s rude to pull knives on people you’ve just met. We haven’t even been introduced. I’m Alessandro. And you are?

    She bucked against him again and he smiled at her rebellion. Come on. You’ve just tried to kill me. That means we’re acquainted well enough to use first names.

    Release me!

    Tsk. Didn’t your father teach you any manners?

    My father’s dead.

    You sound as if it’s my fault. Did I kill him?

    No. My father was Ercolo Montessori.

    That got his attention. Every muscle in his body went taut. There was a pregnant silence, as if he weighed the truth of her words, and then he released her wrists, allowing her just enough room to turn within the confines of his arms. He caught her chin and angled her face toward the firelight. Coal-black eyes studied her features with a painful intensity.

    Cara raised her eyebrows in what she hoped was a haughty manner.

    Cara di Montessori. His tone held more accusation than welcome. Well, well. I didn’t recognize you without the scowl. How long has it been? Four years? Five?

    I don’t remember.

    Six years, three months, two days. Not that she’d been counting.

    His lips quirked. The last time we met, I knocked you on your arse.

    And kissed me like the world was ending. Don’t forget that, you beast.

    His gaze dropped to her mouth as if he recalled it, too. Cara flushed and lifted her chin. Let him look. At twenty-two she’d come to accept she wasn’t the kind of woman to ignite a man’s lusts.

    His grip tightened.You say Ercolo’s dead? When? How?

    My ‘uncle’, Lorenzo, murdered him three days ago.

    He frowned down at her. Your father never mentioned having a brother.

    Lorenzo is a half-brother, my grandfather’s son by one of the maids. He arrived at the keep last week claiming kinship, and Father welcomed him. Three days ago we went hunting, and Lorenzo’s men ambushed us.

    Cara swallowed, reluctant to relive those awful memories. There was nothing she could do to bring him back; she had to focus on her current problem instead. Lorenzo has seized control of my home. I’m Castelleon’s rightful heir.

    Del Sarto lifted his brows. Your father intended for you to rule alone?

    She felt her cheeks heat. Actually, father had expected to have her married off long before she inherited, but that wasn’t something she intended sharing with this arrogant brute. Of course. My entire adult life has been spent managing that keep. I ran it single-handed while the two of you were off terrorizing Europe the past few years.

    He narrowed his eyes, ignoring the jibe. Why aren’t you dead, too?

    Bile rose in her throat at the images that bombarded her brain but she forced herself to continue. Father and his men gave their lives, fighting so I could escape. And Lorenzo only sent a couple of men after me. He thought I’d be easy to catch.

    Del Sarto’s lips twitched. He obviously doesn’t know you.

    They’ve been following me for three days.

    His gaze sharpened. "Why did you come here?"

    Because father sent me to you.

    His last words had been shouted as he drew his sword and slapped her horse’s rump. Il Diavolo, Cara! Go!

    Cara took a deep breath. I can’t challenge Lorenzo on my own. His mercenaries outnumber the troops loyal to me. Castelleon might be small, but its location and harbor make it tactically important. It’s in your best interest to help me get it back.

    Del Sarto stayed silent, so she forged ahead. I have a proposition.

    He raised one black eyebrow. Ah. Now you’re beginning to interest me.

    You’re a mercenary. That means you take orders for money, doesn’t it?

    Depends on what the orders are. His voice held a trace of laughter.

    She ignored that. I’ll pay you to escort me back to Castelleon and expel my uncle. I assume all we need to do now is negotiate a price?

    He shook his head. I don’t negotiate. I demand a fee. The other person pays it. Or not.

    Cara restrained the urge to stamp her foot. She crossed her arms instead. Name your terms.

    The subsequent silence jangled her nerves and she held her breath, wishing she knew what the fiend was thinking.

    Hmm. It’s a thorny problem. What price your life, eh? His voice was pure devilry. How are you going to pay me? You don’t exactly look weighted down with coin.

    She didn’t have anything with her. She’d barely escaped with her life. All her money was hidden back at Castelleon—which was under her uncle’s control. The sum should have been her dowry, but she had no intention getting married any time soon. If ever. She didn’t need a husband to rule Castelleon. She wasn’t going to accept some miserable dynastic marriage just because it was expected of her. She would have what her parents had shared; a union of mutual love and respect, or nothing at all.

    She attempted a nonchalant shrug. I have enough to pay a blackguard like you.

    I doubt it. Professional blackguards don’t come cheap. Not with my level of expertise.

    The way he said it, laden with innuendo, made her shiver. He paused, as if considering, then named a price so outrageous it made her gasp.

    Believe me, I’m worth every florin.

    Her stomach dropped. It was more than she had in the world. And he knew it, the beast.

    His deep voice was honeyed with amusement. You can’t afford me. Besides, I’ve already got more money than I know what to do with.

    You can’t refuse! You’re a mercenary. Everyone has a price.

    Interesting you should say that. I made the same point to my captain earlier this evening. But I’m taking a break from fighting at the moment. Sorry.

    He didn’t sound sorry. And she didn’t have any other options. Like it or not, she needed him. For my father’s sake, then, Cara said desperately. You fought by his side for years. You were friends. Doesn’t that mean anything?

    Il Diavolo shrugged. Your father’s dead. I can’t help him. And I make it a rule never to support lost causes, which is what you are. Forget about your home and move on. Go and throw yourself on the mercy of a kindly relative.

    I can’t do that! My people need me. I can’t abandon them. Besides, the only relative I have is trying to kill me. Have you no honor?

    Mercenary, remember? The two are mutually exclusive.

    A mercenary’s what I need.

    "No, you want an assassin."

    There’s a difference? she sneered, thoroughly annoyed. She tried to pull away from the disturbing closeness of his body but he stopped her with an impatient move that only pressed him closer.

    Of course. An assassin only kills one or two people at once—

    —whereas you kill hundreds in one fell swoop, she finished bitterly. I see. But a murderer’s a murderer, surely?

    His eyes flashed. Killing a man in the heat of battle’s very different from dispatching someone in cold blood. And might I remind you that it’s unwise to insult me when my murderous ways are exactly the reason you’re here.

    She flushed. I don’t want Lorenzo dead. Just gone.

    He shook his head. You want him dead. Whatever action you take has to be final. He studied her closely. You know, paying to have someone killed is almost as bad as wielding the blade yourself.

    No it’s not.

    "Ah. So it’s all right if my eternal soul’s damned, but you’re loath to jeopardize your own, is that it?"

    I doubt the state of your soul is something that keeps you awake at night, Cara snapped, goaded beyond endurance.

    His lips quivered. Quite true. I have far more interesting things to keep me awake at night.

    Her face heated at the suggestion in his tone. He chuckled and flicked his finger across her cheek in a casual, devastating caress. You should blush more. It suits you. You’re too pale.

    She wasn’t too pale now—her cheeks were burning. She suddenly remembered why he thought she’d come to his room; he’d been expecting a courtesan. If you won’t help me, I won’t keep you from your . . . evening activities any longer. Let go of me!

    He clicked his tongue. You shouldn’t give up so easily. As you said, every man has his price. Including me. Make me another offer. One I might be more inclined to accept.

    Renewed hope and anger clenched her stomach. What game was he playing now? You just said you never negotiate.

    He gave a shrug of his muscled shoulders. There’s always a first time.

    "Fine. What else do you want?"

    Something money can’t buy, of course. His lower body still kept her pinned against the wall. The raw heat emanating from him contrasted sharply with the chill of the night air.

    Cara gave an impatient sigh, feigning boredom,

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