Scoundrel's Honor. Rosemary Rogers

      Slamming shut the door, he turned to glare at his companion in the muted light of the fireplace.

      “What the devil are you wearing?”

      With a sharp tug, she freed her arm from his grasp. “You were the one to insist I dress in an appropriate fashion.”

      Clearly, he had been out of his mind, he acknowledged, searing a hungry gaze over the delectable curve of her breasts.

      “Appropriate, not designed to create a riot.”

      “It is no more revealing than those gowns worn by the finest ladies in St. Petersburg,” she protested.

      “Then why did Prince Matvey nearly knock himself senseless by walking straight into a wall? And why did one of my most trusted servants drop an entire tray of champagne?” he growled.

      “You are being ridiculous. I witnessed women wearing far more daring gowns before you so rudely hauled me away.”

      A voice of reason whispered that he was overreacting, but Dimitri was in no mood to listen. Not when his entire body burned with the need to haul her to the nearest bed.

      “Perhaps more daring,” he husked, “but none so enticing.”

      She nervously licked her lips, the unwitting gesture making Dimitri groan in frustration.

      “First you complain my gown is too prudish and now you complain it is too revealing. Are you never satisfied?”

      Unable to resist temptation, he stepped close enough to trail his fingers along the elegant line of her shoulders. His body stirred, hardened; responding to her with a near painful intensity.

      It wasn’t uncommon for him to desire a woman.

      He was a healthy male with all the normal appetites.

      But this biting ache combined with a fierce possessiveness was utterly unfamiliar.

      And equally unwelcome.

      “Ironically I was quite satisfied until my peaceful existence was disrupted by an intimidating spinster who is far too fond of her independence.”

      She shivered as his fingers traced the plunging line of her bodice.

      “Dimitri.”

      He stepped closer, breathing in the tantalizing scent of warm woman and clean soap.

      “I never knew such skin truly existed,” he rasped. “It is as soft and perfect as fresh cream.”

      “We are supposed to be searching for the gentlemen who took Anya.”

      “In a moment.” Wrapping one arm around her waist, he carefully lifted the veil, his gaze sweeping over her pale, beautiful features. “First I must taste you.”

      “No—” Her protest fell on deaf ears as he captured her lips in a branding kiss. He wanted to wrap her in his arms until she melted with soft compliance. He wanted to mark her with his touch, his scent, his desire. He wanted to ensure that every man who caught sight of this woman understood that she belonged to him. Only him. “As sweet as honeyed almonds,” he muttered, his tongue teasing her lips until they slowly parted in invitation. “Yes, moya dusha, open for me.”

      She groaned, her hands clutching at his shoulders as if she struggled to keep herself upright.

      “The cognac…” she muttered.

      He gripped her hips, pressing her against the blatant evidence of his arousal.

      “It is not the cognac that is causing your head to spin and your heart to race.”

      She arched back to stab him with an angry frown, but Dimitri did not miss her small shiver of awareness.

      “You believe yourself to be irresistible?”

      “It is the hunger that burns between us that is irresistible,” he corrected, his voice hard. He had made his fortune on catering to other’s weaknesses. He had never dreamed he might himself become a victim. “I always thought this sort of craving a myth. Now I do not know whether to have you locked in my dungeon or hauled off to Siberia.”

      She licked her lips, and Dimitri swallowed a groan as his cock hardened with tormenting anticipation.

      “Do not say such things,” she breathlessly commanded.

      “Even if they are the truth?”

      An unmistakable fear darkened her hazel eyes as she lifted her hands and pressed them against his chest.

      “I may be attired as a tart, but I assure you I am a lady,” she gritted.

      His lips twisted. “I am painfully aware you are a lady, Emma Linley-Kirov, and for the moment you are under my protection.”

      “Then release me.”

      His gaze lowered to her honeyed lips that could drive a saint to sin.

      “Is that what you desire?”

      “You must.”

      “Damn.” Pushing away from the delectable heat, Dimitri shoved his hands through his hair and struggled to regain command of his rebellious body. “You should never have come to St. Petersburg.”

      AT ANY OTHER TIME, Emma might have been dazzled by her surroundings.

      Who knew that a den of iniquity would be a sprawling honeycomb of ivory-and-gold rooms with crimson carpets and marble columns that soared up to the vaulted ceiling painted with Greek gods playing among the clouds? Or that the massive chandeliers would cast a blazing light over the elegant gentlemen who weaved their way among the card tables and flirted with the women dressed in low-cut gowns?

      She had assumed the place would be dark and cheap with furtive men hunched over their cards, or tossing dice in the corner.

      Which only proved she truly was naive as Dimitri claimed.

      Dimitri…

      She covertly glanced at the man walking at her side, a dangerous excitement fluttering in the pit of her stomach. Even elegantly attired, there was no disguising the ruthless predator that lurked just beneath Dimitri’s polished exterior.

      Not that his dark beauty and experienced touch was an excuse for the manner in which she had melted beneath his kiss. Or the prickling awareness that continued to torment her. She was supposed to be a sensible female of advanced years, not a giddy maiden who dreamed of being rescued from her life of drudgery by a handsome prince.

      After all, she was quite reconciled to being a spinster, and even if Dimitri were a prince rather than the Beggar Czar, he was not interested in making her his princess. Just like Baron Kostya, Dimitri considered her worthy of a quick tumble, but nothing more.

      She felt an odd pain knife through her heart, but before she could consider the cause, a tall, silver-haired gentleman in a burgundy jacket and gold-striped waistcoat that did nothing to flatter his rotund figure deliberately stepped in their path.

      “Tipova,” he said, his beady eyes skimming over the veil that once again hid Emma’s face before latching on to the swell of her bosom. “As always you have managed to create a sensation.”

      Dimitri wrapped an arm around her shoulders, shielding her from the rude leer.

      “I fear I cannot take the credit on this occasion, Prince Matvey.”

      “Do you intend to introduce me to your companion?”

      “Actually she is visiting from Moscow and prefers to keep her privacy.” His smile was one of sheer male possession. “Is that not so, moya dusha?”

      She huddled in the protection of Dimitri’s arm. “Yes.”

      “Ah.” The prince licked his fat lips. “A mystery.”

      “Have you seen Count Fedor?” Dimitri demanded.

      “Tarvek?”