Free Ritual Sins by Anne Stuart

mother that every child deserves? Did she?” She yanked at him, and he let her, surveying her out of half-closed eyes, fascinated by her passion and sudden fearlessness.
    He reached up and covered her hands with his. His were much larger, enveloping hers, and she released the soft cloth of his shirt in suddenpanic. But he wouldn’t release her, no matter how her fists squirmed in his enveloping hands.
    “Let go of me,” she said fiercely.
    “Let go of Stella. She’s gone. She can’t be your mother, and all the money in the world won’t make up for it.”
    “It’s a start,” she shot back. Her bitter, angry mouth was very close, irresistibly so. Yes, he definitely liked her better this way. Furious with him. He wanted to taste her fury, swallow it.
    He didn’t move, keeping her fists captive. She was leaning over him, balanced precariously on her knees, and he could watch the knowledge of her vulnerability dawn in her eyes.
    “If you try to pull away,” he said in a deliberately lazy voice, “you’ll lose your balance.”
    “Is this the way you treat all your followers?” she demanded.
    “But you’re not one of my followers. Are you?” He decided he didn’t want to wait. He tugged, lightly, and she went sprawling across him in a tangle of arms and legs and soft, small breasts.
    For a moment she lay absolutely still, straddling him. If she stopped to think about it she’d feel his erection, though how she’d react was a mystery.
    She stared up at him, breathless, shocked, so close he could put his mouth against hers before she had time to realize what he was doing. Hecould feel her heat and anger, vibrating around him. Feel her fear. He never thought a woman’s fear would be erotic. Rachel’s was.
    He didn’t move, considering the notion, considering her. She was afraid of him. Afraid of having sex with him. It was small wonder he’d find that obsessive fear fascinating.
    “Let go,” he whispered, his voice low and persuasive. “Stop fighting me. Stop fighting yourself.”
    Uncertainty darkened her eyes. And then she scrambled away, and he released her, reluctantly. A prize worth having was a prize worth waiting for, he reminded himself. And he was beginning to think that Rachel Connery would be a prize indeed.
    He could still smell the scent of her on his fingers, and he wanted to bite her. Instead he leaned back, deliberately, infuriatingly at ease.
    “You won’t win, Rachel,” he said.
    She was leaning against the wall, staring at him like a cornered animal. An apt comparison. But there was still fight in her.
    “You think I should give up?” she said. “Forget about the twelve and a half million dollars, go back to New York, and get on with my life?”
    “Is that the only reason you’re here?” he said softly. “The money? I thought you were looking for your mother.”
    It didn’t quite finish her off, but it came close.Her angry eyes grew bright with unshed tears, and for a moment her full mouth trembled.
    And then it hardened again. “Bastard.” She spat the word out succinctly.
    “Definitely. In spirit as well as fact.” He’d gotten enough out of her for one night, and he surged to his feet with his usual fluid grace, towering over her in the murky light She wasn’t a large woman, and in her current pose, huddled against the stucco wall, she looked deceptively frail.
    He was usually kind and gentle with frail women. Nurturing with those who were suffering from emptiness and loss, filling them with serene, asexual comfort that soothed and healed.
    With Rachel Connery all he wanted to do was prod the wound and make her bleed.
    He looked at her, the fragile, well-defined bones of her face, her slim body. He knew just how little weight she carried, and it bothered him.
    “You don’t eat enough,” he said abruptly.
    He’d managed to startle her. “I don’t like the food here.”
    “I bet you don’t eat enough at a four-star restaurant either.”
    “I don’t see why