Free Dawn Song by Sara Craven Page A

voice was dry. He looked her over, the hooded eyes
    meditative. 'I think you and I must declare a truce.'
    'On whose terms?' She faced him, chin up, eyes sparkling, refusing to admit
    to herself the potency of his attraction. 'And for how long? Oh, don't tell me.'
    She gave a small, brittle laugh. 'As long as it takes.'
    'Exactly that. There is a great deal to be accomplished, as you've already
    noticed.' He looked around him. 'I hope you're not too disappointed in your
    surroundings,' he went on coolly. 'You'd imagined, perhaps, something more
    glamorous— and definitely more affluent.' He shook his head. 'Without
    money to halt the decline, a house like this can become more of a burden
    than an asset.'
    'That's hardly any concern of mine,' she said brusquely. 'And I don't think
    Madame de Brissot would care to have her private affairs discussed behind
    her back, no matter how old a friend you might be.'
    'I stand corrected.' A faint smile twisted the corners of his mouth. 'So you've
    never wondered about the future, Marguerite—asked yourself what this frail
    elderly godmother of yours might have in mind for her crumbling heritage?
    Or why she has chosen to summon you here at precisely this moment in
    time?'
    'No,' Meg said baldly. 'I haven't.' Yet wasn't this exactly why she was
    here—to safeguard Margot's mercenary interests? her conscience nudged at

    her. Although these seemed to be fading fast, she acknowledged in silent
    satisfaction.
    Jerome laughed. 'You are almost too good to be true, ma belle.' There was a
    jeering note in his voice. 'I look forward to the—furtherance of our
    relationship over the weeks to come.'
    'Well, I don't share your sense of anticipation.' Meg lifted her chin. 'And we
    don't have a relationship, as far as I'm concerned,' she added for good
    measure.
    'No?' He studied her, brows lifted. 'My recollection is rather different.'
    'Perhaps,' she said grittily. 'I remember—a temporary aberration. Nothing
    more.' She drew a breath. 'In fact, monsieur, I get the distinct impression that
    you don't even like me very much.'
    'Liking?' His voice was contemptuous. 'What has that bland word to do with
    the flame of the senses between a man and a woman? Last night, Marguerite,
    your body cried out to mine. And nothing—no denials—no regrets—can
    change a thing.'
    Two swift strides brought him to her. Before she could assimilate what was
    happening and take avoiding action, Meg found herself pulled into his arms,
    pinioned with merciless strength against the hard length of his body. His
    thigh thrust between hers, parting her legs in harsh and devastating intimacy.
    Her lost and frightened cry was stifled in her throat as his mouth closed
    hungrily on her trembling lips.
    The kiss seemed endless—eternal. She couldn't breathe, and sparks of fire
    danced behind her closed eyelids. She could hear the thunder of her pulses,
    like the reverberations of yesterday's storm, feel the blood running thick and
    hot in her veins. Reason was suspended. In spite of herself she was
    transformed into sheer physical sensation.
    Jerome's hands slid down her spine, cupping her buttocks, urging her
    towards him, to the fierce, compelling pressure of his muscular thigh against
    the moist, soft centre of her womanhood.

    Oh, God, she screamed wordlessly, as her body ground eagerly, greedily
    against his, seeking an assuagement she could only imagine. Every fibre of
    her being was focused with an almost savage intensity on the burn of his
    mouth and body against hers, until she thought she was going to faint—or
    die.
    The bed was so close. All she had to do was sink back on to it, pulling him
    down with her... And then, with devastating suddenness, she was free again.
    Jerome tore his lips from hers, putting her away from him almost roughly.
    His hooded eyes glittered, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his
    forehead.
    He said raggedly, 'So let's not talk of aberrations, my beautiful little
    hypocrite.