Chapter One
Amanda knew exactly why the man on her doorstep was a
prostitute. From the moment she had ushered him inside in
the manner of someone harboring an escaped convict, he had
stared at her in dumbfounded silence. Obviouslyhe lacked
the cranial equipment necessary to pursue a more
intellectually challenging occupation. But, of course, a
man didn't need brains to do what he had been hired for.
"Hurry," she whispered, tugging anxiously on his muscular
arm. She slammed the door behind him."Do you think that
anyone saw you? I hadn't thought that you would simply
appear at the front door. Aren't men of your profession
trained to show some discretion?
"My...profession," he repeated in a bemused manner.
Now that he was safely concealed from public view, Amanda,
allowed, herself to stare at him thoroughly. Despite his
apparent dullness of wit, he was remarkably good-looking.
Beautiful, really, if one could apply such a word to an
obviously masculine creature. He was big-framed and lean,
with shoulders that seemed to span the width of the front
door. The layers of his gleaming black hair were thick and
neatly cut, and his tanned face glowed from a precise
shave. He had a long, straight nose and a voluptuary's
mouth.
And he had a pair of remarkable blue eyes that approximated
no other shade she had ever seen. Except, perhaps, at the
shop where the local chemist made batches of ink by boiling
Indigofera plants and copper sulfate together for days
until they formed a blue so dark and deep that it
approached violet. And yet his eyes did not have the
angelicquality on one might usually associate with such a
color. They were shrewd, seasoned, as if he had gazed far
too often at an unsavory side of life that she herself had
never seen.
Amanda could easily understand why women would pay for his
company. The thought of hiring this masculine, opulent-eyed
creature to do one's bidding was extraordinary. And
tempting. Amanda was ashamed by her secret response to him,
the hot and cold chills that chased through her body, the
burning color that rose to the crests of her cheeks. She
had resigned herself to being a dignified spinster...she
had even convinced herself that there was great freedom in
her unmarried circumstance. However, her troublesome body
didn't seem to understand that a woman should no longer be
bothered by desire at her age. At a time when twenty-one
was considered to be old, thirty was most definitely on the
shelf. She was past her prime, no longer desirable. An "ape-
leader" was what people called such a woman. If only she
could make herself accept her fate.
Amanda forced herself to stare directly into his
extraordinary blue eyes. "I intend to be frank, Mr....no,
never mind, don't tell me your name, we shan't be
acquainted long enough for me to require it. You see, I've
had a chance to reflect on a rather hastily made decision,
and the fact is...well, I've changed my mind. Please do not
receive this as a personal affront. It has nothing to do
with you, or your appearance, and I will certainly make
that clear to your employer, Mrs. Bradshaw. You are a fine-
looking man, in fact, and very punctual, and I have no
doubt that you are very good at...well, at what you do. The
simple truth is, I have made a mistake. We all make
mistakes, and I am certainly no exception. Every great once
in a while, I do make a small error in judgment --"
"Wait." He lifted his large hands in a defensive gesture,
his intent gaze fastened on her flushed face. "Stop
talking."
No one in her adult life had ever dared to tell her to stop
talking. Surprised into silence, Amanda struggled to stem
the cascade of words that threatened to flow from her lips.
The stranger folded his arms across his muscular chest and
leaned his back against the door to stare at her. The glow
from the lamp in the tiny entrance hall of her fashionable
London house cast a fringe of shadows from his long lashes
onto the stark, elegant planes of his cheekbones.
Amanda couldn't help thinking that Mrs. Bradshaw had
excellent taste. The man she had sent was surprisingly well
groomed and prosperous looking, dressed in fashionable but
solidly traditional attire, a black coat and charcoal-gray
trousers, and black shoes polished to an impeccable gleam.
His starched white shirt was snowy against his swarthy
skin, and his gray silk cravat was arranged in a simple,
perfect knot. Before this moment, had Amanda been pressed
to describe her ideal man, she would have described him as
blond and light-skinned and fine-boned. Now she was forced
to revise her opinion entirely. No fair-haired Apollo could
begin to compare with this large, robustly handsome man.
"You are Miss Amanda Briars," he said, as if requiring
confirmation, "The novelist."
"Yes, I write novels," she replied with forced
patience. "And you are the gentleman whom Mrs. Bradshaw
sent at my request, are you not?"
"I seem to be," he said slowly.
"Well, you have my apologies, Mr....no, no, don't tell me.
As I explained, I have made a mistake, and therefore, you
must go. Naturally I will pay for your services even though
they are no longer required, as the fault is entirely mine.
Just tell me what you usually charge, and we'll settle the
matter immediately."
As he stared at her, a change came over his face, his
bemusement giving way to fascination, the blue eyes,
sparkling with a devilish amusement that made her nerves
twitch uncomfortably.
"Tell me what services were requested," he suggested
gently, pushing away from the door. He moved closer, until
his body loomed over hers. "I'm afraid I never discussed
the details with Mrs. Bradshaw."
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