Free Midnight Flame by Lynette Vinet

Courvoisier, Napoleon’s brandy, he fortified himself for what was to come.
    When he mounted his horse, raindrops splattered across the silken material of his shirt, leaving wet splotches on his broad back. Almost as an afterthought before he kicked at the horse, he withdrew a black hood from his pants pocket, crumpling the cotton material in his large hand.
    Suddenly Jean DuLac appeared on the porch and hailed Tony as he rode swiftly past. “Where are you going? Where is the pretty gypsy girl?” he cried.
    Tony barely glanced at him, steadfast purpose shining in his black eyes. Spurring the stallion, he galloped down the drive onto the road that led through the prairie area back to Washington. Rain pelted him, but he only rode harder, faster until he noticed the wavering flickers of light from the carriage lanterns.
    His prey was up ahead.
    Nimbly he pulled the hood over his head, enclosing his stony features. Soon his revenge upon the woman he believed to be Lavinia would commence in earnest. But not until he had held her in his arms, branded every inch of her ivory flesh with hot kisses, and felt waves of ecstasy wash over her when he entered her writhing body would his vengeance be fulfilled. Only when she had surrendered her body to a nameless, faceless man would she realize what a harlot he thought her to be, know the pain she had caused him by killing his uncle with her greedy passion.
    Soon, very soon, his uncle would be avenged. Spurring his horse anew, he broke into a wild gallop and followed the midnight flame.

CHAPTER SIX

    Within the interior of the leather-upholstered coach, Laurel reclined against the seat. She folded her arms across her breasts in a protective gesture and hurriedly wiped away a tear that threatened to fall from one of her emerald eyes. She willed herself not to cry. Crying never accomplished anything. She had cried countless tears for herself and her parents when she was away at school. The tears had never brought back her parents but gave her a red nose, which her friend, Anne, had gently told her made her resemble a circus clown.
    “Well, I won’t look like a carnival clown because of Tony Duvalier,” she groused aloud. But for all her low-voiced mutterings and the staunch way Laurel bit down upon her lower lip to keep the tears at bay, she felt foolish. Duvalier had ensnared her in a sensuous trap, one in which she had willingly participated. Unable to rid herself of the image of Tony with Simone, she dimly realized she shouldn’t have run away. Their embrace meant nothing to her. She could be as cavalier as Tony about the drugging kisses he had rained upon her face, the way his warm hands had boldly cupped her breasts and snaked up the length of her inner thighs to touch her until she was so besotted that she had wrapped her legs around his back and begged to be taken like the worst whore.
    She should have proved to him that women could enjoy passion as well as any man.
    But the blood rushed to her face to recall what had nearly happened between them, and the memory of it, the way her flesh still tingled from his touch, caused Laurel to place her hands on her heated cheeks. She couldn’t be nonchalant about lovemaking. It wasn’t in her nature to take such an intimate act lightly. Duvalier had intended to make love to her, and afterward he would have left her to seek the arms of Simone Lancier, his fiancée.
    “The conceited bastard won’t have a chance to humiliate me again,” she spoke aloud and wished Tony’s driver would hurry the coach along. The sooner she returned to her room at the hotel and packed her bags for her journey to San Antonio, the better off she would be, she decided. She would forget Tony Duvalier and her wanton response to him. Yet not to remember his dark passion-laced eyes, the sensual stroking of his strong hands on her flesh, would be almost impossible. Even now her traitorous body tingled from the experience.
    “Forget him!” The vehemence of her