Free Hearts Beguiled by Penelope Williamson

around her wrist, saw the pain of it register in the tightening of her mouth, but she didn't make a sound, and he felt a sudden, and unusual, stab of self-disgust that he was deliberately hurting her.
    He relaxed his grip, although he didn't let go.
    "Open your hand or I'll snap the bone in two," he said, for the first time in his life making a threat he had no intention of carrying through. Still, his voice had lost its courtly inflections. Now it was the rough street French of cutpurses and pimps, and harsh enough to convince her he meant what he said.
    Her eyes were on his face, measuring his strength even as he measured hers. Max knew she could read nothing in his expression, but the maddening thing to him was that he could read nothing in hers. He had never before encountered such a strong will in a woman.
    Then she surprised him again by smiling suddenly, deliberately teasing and tantalizing.
    "Very well, Monsieur de Saint-Just," she said, mimicking his former mocking tone. "Since you've asked me so politely." She relaxed, uncurling her fingers.
    The ring he had bought in the pawnshop that morning lay in her palm. He was surprised, surprised especially at his disappointment that she had come to his rooms simply to steal from him. It had been a long time since Maximilien de Saint-Just had been disappointed by anyone or anything. For to be disappointed, you first had to care.
    Max had spotted the little pickpocket's ploy right away. Noticing things like that had helped to keep him alive during his twenty-eight years, and he was good at staying alive.
    Curious as to what the voluptuous urchin was after—once he realized she was lifting his key and not his purse—he had let her play the trick through, allowing enough time for her, or an accomplice, to make it up to his rooms with the key before following.
    Years of practice had taught Max how to move through a house without making a sound. It was especially easy to enter and walk silently through his own apartment where he knew every loose board and squeaky hinge. He had paused in the doorway to his bedroom, waiting while the girl he knew as Gabrielle searched his drawers, hesitating until he was sure she had found what she had come for.
    Sighing now, he plucked the ring from her hand and tossed it on the marble top of the commode. They watched together as it rolled across the smooth surface to nestle against the velvet bag.
    "And how many times has this particular ring been sold?" he asked, hard weariness in his voice.
    She blinked in confusion. "What?"
    He flashed his mocking smile. "Come now, Gabrielle, the game is hardly an original one, although I'm sure it's consistently profitable. You sell the ring and then steal it back again. Over and over—"
    "How dare you accuse me of such a thing when you're the one who—oooh!" She tossed a clump of copper curls over her shoulder and glared at him. "I know what you're trying to do and it won't work!"
    He laughed. "You'll have to rid yourself of those haughty airs if you expect to play the part of the falsely accused innocent, Gabrielle. Or whatever your name really is."
    "I am innocent! You're the one who's a thief!"
    He shrugged and made a movement toward the door. "In that case, perhaps we should summon the police . . ."
    "No!" She grabbed his arm, desperation in her face and in the strength of her fingers that grasped his sleeve. She forced out a smile. "Surely we can settle this matter without involving the police. I didn't come here to steal from you, I swear, monsieur. Please ..." Her lips trembled and tears filled her eyes. He watched, amused, as she squeezed her lids shut to keep the tears from spilling over. "I only want back what is mine," she said, her voice low and husky.
    Max couldn't help himself. His hand came up and touched her face, his palm cupping her cheek and tilting her head up. "Ah, Christ, Gabrielle—" He cut himself off and pulled away from her, removing her fingers from his arm. "What am I supposed