Free Inamorata by Megan Chance Page A

what her brother had captured in his sketch, a deep, almost primal carnality, some occult attraction. . . . He had not invented that eroticism, as I’d thought. It was there. It was real.
    I’d known only one other woman who possessed that quality, and while Sophie Hannigan could not possibly be so dangerous—in fact, I would have said she was completely unaware of just how bewitching she was—I knew enough to be wary.
    There were a hundred reasons to stay away from Sophie Hannigan—not the least of which was her relationship with her brother. What he’d seen in her, well . . . it was strange that a brother had noted it, though I told myself it was obvious enough that he no doubt saw other men’s reactions to her. But even beyond that, there was another strangeness about them. While Joseph Hannigan was compelling on his own, the two of them together were curiously irresistible, as if each enhanced the other. It made it impossible to stop looking at them. I was not the only one so captivated—Giles was as well. Perhaps it was only that they were twins and so shared that womb-deep connection I’d heard about but never before witnessed. Whatever it was, I didn’t quite understand it, though it was perversely fascinating, and it only served to feed the desire I’d felt for her since I’d seen that sketch. Such desire was reason enough to keep my distance; it was a complication I couldn’t afford. To keep Sophie Hannigan’s brother in my sights while I worked toward destroying Odilé would take concentration. I could not be distracted by another woman, no matter how tempting the package.
    I resolved to be friendly to Miss Hannigan, but to hold her at arm’s length. Later, perhaps, when her brother was safe and Odilé was gone, I could reassess.
    The Gardens were a swath of green at the very end of the Riva, a sudden crowding of leafy trees and winding walks dotted with statuary. One came out of Venice’s crowded, close calli and canals, a city of water and stone, and stepped into a different world, onto paths lined with hedges and roses and vines. The day was warm, the sky cloudless, the Euganean Hills blue and the Alps dappled with snow in the distance. There were several people walking the paths, reclining in the shade of the trees, lingering at tables by the balustraded wall overlooking the lagoon, San Giorgio Maggiore and the Lido.
    After an hour or so of wandering about, we sat at one of those tables. The Hannigans had brought lunch: wine and sausage, bread and melon. Hannigan cut big chunks of the orange flesh with a knife, and I did my utmost not to notice the sensuous way Sophie Hannigan ate it. She had peeled off her gloves, and the juice dripped over her slender fingers, trailing down her wrists to disappear in the somewhat yellowed lace edge of her sleeve.
    Giles was obviously equally enraptured with her. “To inspiration,” he said, raising a glass to her, his gaze fixed upon her plump lips.
    “As elusive as it may be,” I added.
    Joseph Hannigan bent to pick a bright pink rose from a bush twining near our table. He snapped off a thorn and then tucked it behind his sister’s ear, smiling broadly. “The pink becomes you. Don’t you think so, Dane?”
    It did, of course. That shocking pink against her hair, bringing out the pink of her cheeks touched by the sun. I kept my voice as blandly polite as I could. “Indeed. It’s quite your color, Miss Hannigan.”
    “You should be covered in pink,” Giles said fervently. “From head to toe in roses!”
    “I should think the thorns would make such a thing quite uncomfortable,” I said wryly.
    Hannigan tore off a chunk of bread and leaned back in his chair, studying his sister the way I’d seen a hundred artists study their subjects, a critical, assessing eye that depersonalized her completely. “Hmmm. Maybe not head to toe. But a few here and there, I think. Maybe against white, to highlight your skin. Perhaps we’ll try it. What do you