Free Don't Bargain with the Devil by Sabrina Jeffries

flirtation, so she’d have a chance to extol the school’s virtues. And he’d have to listen.
     
Besides, she could also ask him questions. She still felt that he was even more a Master of Mystery than he seemed, and this would give her the chance to unveil his secrets. It was crucial in any war to know the enemy well. Surely the man had some vulnerability.
     
“All right, Seńor Montalvo. We’d be delighted to have you as a model.”
     
As the girls cheered, he flashed her an arrogant smile and strode to the bench at the other end of the landing.
     
Enjoy yourself while you can, sir, Lucy thought smugly. Those planks will get uncomfortable very quickly. Even half an hour of holding the same position was sure to wipe that self-satisfied expression from his handsome face.
     
When she resumed her seat, he called out, “How shall I pose?”
     
“However you wish.” She picked up her charcoal, annoyingly eager to sketch him.
     
“How’s this?” He stretched out on the bench on his back, crossing his ankles and tucking his hands under his head.
     
When the girls giggled, she scowled. He thought he was so clever. “Planning to take a nap while we sketch you, sir?”
     
“You did say I would be bored.”
     
“Ah, but you’re not allowed to move, even in sleep. I would prefer that you choose a pose that allows you more control.”
     
He sat up to cast her a cheeky grin. “You’re a harsh taskmaster, Miss Seton.”
     
“I do try,” she said. “The way you’re sitting now is fine.”
     
More than fine. He was leaning forward, with his hands planted at his sides and his legs splayed wide, like a man on the verge of rising. It not only lent the pose energy and action, but it flexed the muscles of his thighs beneath his tight breeches.
     
Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea.
     
She should focus on a part of him that didn’t tempt her. Not his broad shoulders straining against his coat. Not the well-shaped calves encased in fine leather. Certainly not those amazing hands that had haunted her dreams…
     
With a groan, she jerked her gaze to his face—where his sensuous mouth reminded her of how he’d kissed her hand yesterday. Nothing was safe with him.
     
Determined to resist his attractions, she forced herself to think of him as an object—a statue, perhaps, like the stuffy ones adorning town halls.
     
For a while, only the scratch of charcoals on paper pierced the silence.
     
Then he cleared his throat. “Am I allowed to talk?”
     
“As long as you move only your lips.” She seized on the opening. “I’m sure the young ladies would enjoy hearing about your home in Spain.”
     
“What makes you think I’m Spanish?”
     
“You speak Spanish.”
     
“And English, Portuguese, and French.”
     
“Fine.” She tried not to be impressed that he spoke four languages. “Tell us about wherever your home is.”
     
“I’m from León.”
     
Her gaze shot up from the sketch pad. “That is a province in Spain, isn’t it?”
     
“You know of it?” He didn’t sound entirely surprised.
     
She knew of it better than she wished. Her mother had died in its frozen mountain passes. “As a girl, I traveled through Spain with my parents.”
     
“Why were you in Spain, Miss Seton?” Tessa asked.
     
“My father served in the army.” Both of her fathers had. Her real father, a British soldier named Tom Crawford, had died at the Battle of La Coruńa, heartsick and weakened by the recent loss of his wife. But not before begging his superior officer, Hugh Seton, to take her in. According to the colonel, neither of her parents had possessed any other family.
     
“So you were on the retreat to La Coruńa,” Diego said, his tone oddly gentle.
     
Tears stung her eyes. “Yes, though I was too young to remember anything except being always cold. And hungry.”
     
Years later, she’d pored over every document relating to that disastrous retreat, looking for information about Sergeant Thomas Crawford or his Spanish wife, Catalina, who’d died beside the