Free A Touch of Sin by Susan Johnson Page B

was playing to such a knowing audience. If you'll excuse me now," she said, her voice suddenly ice cold. "You look as though you're busy."
    Pasha's dark brows instantly came together in a scowl. "It's not what you think."
    "I don't care what it is, Pasha. I didn't even know you yesterday, so none of this really matters." Angered, embarrassed, hurt, reminded afresh of the treachery of men, all she wanted to do was get as far away as possible.
    "Pasha, please!" the modiste interposed, wailing afresh, tears pouring from her eyes, her petite form draped in a half-swoon against Pasha's tall, powerful body. "You have to do something right now or I'll die!"
    The lurid vision struck Trixi with ominous foreboding—a cast-off lover, grief-stricken and in distress—a presage of her own future if she stayed with Pasha. Men of his ilk never offered more than transient pleasure, and while she'd understood that, she'd rashly chosen to overlook the bitter consequences. Turning from the appalling scene, she dashed from the room, the young woman's laments following her, ringing in her ears.
    Deceit, lies, deceit, lies, everywhere in Paris—everywhere she turned in Paris. Deceit, lies—the litany cycled through her mind as she ran through the reception rooms without a care for the employees' startled looks. Jerking open the glass-paned door, she fled into the cool morning air, wanting only to forget the hideous, wretched scene, the crying woman, Pasha's disgusting involvement.
    Swiftly moving toward the carriage, she lifted the cover on the luggage compartment, pulled out her valise and, ignoring the driver's anxious queries, raced away.
    She'd recognized from the beginning that Pasha's style of man—handsome, wealthy, prodigal—was without conscience, for all his charm. She should have known better than to become involved, she reflected, hindsight always keen and clear. Run, run, it's not too late, her inner voice urged. Run, run… run.
    The streets in the affluent arrondissement surrounding Mme. Ormand's shop were quiet at that hour of the morning, the inhabitants of the opulent homes not yet about their activities of the day.
    Putting distance between herself and the shop as quickly as possible, she hoped Pasha might consider himself well rid of another troublesome woman and not follow her. Pray that were true, she thought, hastening past the fenced and gated properties lining the street.
    But short minutes later, Pasha's shout echoed down the boulevard and, fear gripping her, she glanced over her shoulder. He was running hard, his dark hair streaming out behind him, his great strides fleet, like a coursing animal after its prey.
    An involuntary cry burst from her lips.
    How could she possibly outrun him?
    Her heavy valise struck her leg with every step as if to remind her of her physical limitations, her lungs were already burning from her exertions, and the street stretched limitless before her. She desperately needed concealment if she had any hope of escape. With her pulse beating in her ears, her breath rasping in her throat, she scanned the street ahead.
    The morning sun shone brightly through the canopy of leaves, dappled light glowing in dancing patterns on the pavement before her, the brilliant spring morning unmindful of her wild, headlong flight. Forcing herself to pick up speed despite her flagging energy, she covered the next half block in record time, the gated mansions providently giving way at that point to elegant town
houses. Perhaps an alley or mews might offer her refuge now, she thought, urging herself on, and with her lungs laboring painfully, moments later, a narrow break in the elegant facades appeared. Swerving sharply to her left, she raced into a cool, shaded corridor, the sun abruptly eclipsed by the buildings, shadow engulfing her, and she felt a small hope. Panting, her valise dragging on her arm, she sprinted with the last vestiges of energy, searching the rear elevations for some sanctuary. Dare she