Free One Night of Sin by Gaelen Foley Page B

it now. And as he continued undressing for her, she was not sure she wanted to.
    She stared at him for a long moment, trying not to look shocked and virginal.
    “You love to tease me, don’t you?” she asked after a moment.
    “Who, me?” he whispered coyly.
    Mrs. Whithorn’s voice in her head promised fire and brimstone, but Becky did not budge. She held her ground, trying to prove, perhaps, that she could be sophisticated and worldly, too.
    Alec watched her watching him, and then her gaze traveled down his body. She could not help staring at the way his thin white shirt clung to his skin, wet linen hugging every muscled line of his broad shoulders and lean waist. He was even lovelier than she had thought. When she looked into his eyes again, she read an invitation there that took her breath away.
    No, she was not ready to touch him yet.
    With the leisurely air of a man biding his time, he sat down on the vanity stool and pulled off his shoes, chucking them aside. He stood up again, his bare feet long and princely, cushioned by the thick Persian carpet.
    He reached for his wine, took a sip, and then shrugged his black suspenders off his shoulders. He started to take off his shirt, but paused. “Do you want to help?”
    “No.”
    His eyes danced. “Suit yourself.” Then he peeled his shirt off over his head, and Becky stifled a gasp at the glorious flex and play of sculpted muscle. He sent her a speculative glance, the promise of undreamed pleasure smoldering in his eyes.
    So, he wasn’t an angel, after all. No, she concluded, her heart beating faster as he helped himself to a towel. He was a veritable Greek god—all smooth and strong and perfect. No angel could inspire such wicked thoughts. Her hand trembled as she lifted her goblet to her lips and took a steadying sip of wine, but she could not help staring as he patted the towel over the flowing lines and broad dimensions of his damp chest, then ran it lower, caressing oh-so-invitingly the intricate rippling fretwork of his taut belly, lapped by unsteady candlelight.
    Who could have guessed that the male physique was endowed with such beauty under all those starchy cravats and layers of tailored clothing—shirt, waistcoat, jacket? She was entranced and wondering if he’d mind if she kissed every hard plane and curve. She’d make a ring of kisses around his adorable belly button. . . .
    She took another feverish gulp of wine, thinking that she really ought to leave now. His black pantaloons were still damp from the rain and bordered on indecency—skintight, vaguely see-through, outlining every delicious inch of him—including regions that no young lady had any business staring at. Good Lord, were all men that big down there?
    He turned away, finally finding a remnant of modesty, but when he peeled his trousers off, Becky choked on her wine at the sight of his sleek hindquarters, bare as the day he was born.
    Far more beautiful than any statue, he straightened up, kicking off his trousers. “Are you all right?” he asked as she kept coughing. When he turned to her, buck naked and completely at ease, Becky inhaled a couple of droplets of wine and shook her head violently. He started toward her. “Do you want a clap on the back?”
    Retreating, she flung up her hand to ward him off. “I’m fine,” she croaked. “Just fine—thanks.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Positive,” she wheezed, then whirled around and fled the room with the golden vision of him emblazoned on her mind in all his primal glory.
    Her hasty exit must have puzzled him, but a second later his jolly laughter followed her, resonating from the dressing room.
    “Shy, Becky-love?”
    “Oh, do stop!”
    “Teasing you? Never!” he called back amiably. “I think I’ve found a new hobby.”
    She tried to scowl in his general direction, but somehow she couldn’t stop smiling.

CHAPTER
    THREE
    R eaching the salon, Becky immediately spotted the source of the mouth-watering food smells wafting