Free Lord of Fire by Gaelen Foley

knew Harry’s name and that he showed even a flicker of concern. “All he’s done is cry for her,” she added, on her guard but relaxing by a degree or two. “It’ll be worse over the next few days. He just broke out this morning.”
    “It was a hell of a lot of trouble for you to go to, coming here. For your information, chicken pox aren’t that serious.”
    “They are if you’re three,” she said indignantly.
    “Well, you’ve got me there,” he retorted under his breath. Shaking his head, Lucien turned away and went to the table beneath the dragon’s-eye windows. He pulled out one of the wooden chairs for her. “Sit,” he ordered, then stalked over to the door and hauled it open. “Find Lady Glenwood and bring her to me immediately,” he ordered the two big, black-clad men posted there.
    “Yes, my lord.”
    Alice sank into the chair, overhearing his command with considerable relief. The men marched off to do his bidding. Folding her hands nervously in her lap, she tucked her feet under the chair and watched him in trepidation as he slowly closed the door. He just stood there for a moment, his head down, the red light playing over his broad back and athletic shoulders; then he turned around and leaned wearily against the door, his angular face veiled in shadows.
    He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and stared at her, keeping a wary distance. In her mind, she could still feel his hands gliding up her legs. She quickly tucked her chin, avoiding his penetrating gaze.
    “Miss Goody Two-Shoes,” he taunted softly.
    She stiffened, sliding him a frown. “I do not appreciate being called that.”
    His insolent gaze traveled over her body. “I hear you’re quite the little saint.”
    “Compared to whom? Caro?”
    His cynical smirk widened to a genuine smile at her retort. “I daresay you’re having a bit of an adventure tonight, aren’t you?”
    “An ordeal is more like it.”
    “Well, you seem to have come through it all in fine spirit.” He pressed away from the door and sauntered toward her.
    Her heart began pounding anew as he approached, and once more, she felt the inward shudder of fate as he drew near. Gooseflesh rose on her arms as though someone had walked over her grave. He stopped beside her, the lean, belted waistband of his black trousers at her eye level. She dared not meet his gaze, but felt the throbbing heat that radiated from his body, smelled the musky male scent of him; then she noticed the great cylindrical bulge in his trousers. It was right in front of her eyes, after all, and too astonishingly large to miss. She tore her gaze away from that region and cursed herself for looking, but now that she had noticed his most manly attribute, she could not seem to forget about it.
    She jumped when he captured one of her long tresses again and ran the length of it slowly between his fingers like a satin ribbon. Resenting the galling forwardness of his touch, she glanced up at him angrily only to be captivated by his smoldering, hypnotic stare.
    When he spoke, his voice was an intimate murmur that could have coaxed the deepest secrets from her heart. “Virginal Alice Montague. Tell me, what do you think of what you’ve seen here tonight?”
    She shook her head and looked away, blushing. “I do not know.”
    He lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze, diamond-sharp, crystal-clear. “Does it arouse you?”
    Her eyes flared with shock. She could not find her voice even to tell him that she had no intention of answering such a question, but he cut her off before she could speak.
    “Don’t lie,” he chided in a velvet whisper, holding her chin between his fingertips so she could not look away. He gazed at her as though his keen, crystalline eyes could see into the depths of her heart, things she had never revealed to anyone—the unruliness of her passions, the hunger in the core of her. His gaze seemed to accept it all with dark, satin gentleness. “Tell me,” he