Page 13 of Tempting the Scoundrel
“Well, that’s hardly my problem is it?” The bell over the shop door gave a jingle, and Alexandra ignored whoever entered. “Thisbook was on your shelves, and sothisis the one I want.”
Mr. Marlowe smiled at his new customer with a pleasant look he certainly never gave her. “Morning, sir. If you’re in need of any assistance, do give a shout.” Then, to Alexandra, he hissed: “It’s inappropriate, amoral, depraved rubbish. Unsuitable for women.”
Alexandra held it out of his reach. “Why, Mr. Marlowe, I ought to tell you that only makes me more determined to have this. I have a personal interest in depraved literature. I will double my offer.”
The bookseller’s lips flattened as he crossed his arms. “No.”
“Triple it, then. Come now, I know you’re in need of a roof repair.”
Mr. Marlowe hesitated. “My lady—”
“Might I offer some assistance?” Alexandra went still at the masculine voice behind her, for it was as smooth as a glass of fine port.
Slowly, she turned to see its source. Alexandra was struck by his beauty; he had the kind of features that ought to be sculpted into marble and displayed for all to admire. That strong jawline, those high cheekbones, hair as black and gleaming as polished obsidian . . . Alexandra had never seen any man so handsome. No, a statue would not do him justice. It could not capture the way he boldly admired her.
But Alexandra had grown accustomed to male attentions. She knew she was beautiful; she took after her mother, after all.
Men usually admired her before she spoke. She doubted this one would be any different.
At the reminder, Alexandra lifted her chin. “Unless you are able to persuade Mr. Marlowe to take my legal tender, then no. You cannot offer assistance.”
“Sir,” Mr. Marlowe hastened to say, “the book is absolutely inappropriate for a lady. As I have explained tothis onein detail.” He gave Alexandra a glare.
She almost rolled her eyes.This one. Bah!
The stranger raised an eyebrow and gestured to the book she held. “May I?” She complied, noticing then how dark his eyes were. Why, they were as deep and black as a pool of ink. “Pandora’s Box,” he murmured, returning it to her. “Mythology?”
The bookseller gave a choking cough.
Alexandra’s smile was slow. “No, no,” she said. “Clever euphemism for another box.”
His surprise was fleeting, replaced with a soft laugh that was as lovely as his voice. Something warmed within Alexandra. Why, he was amused!
Mr. Marlowe sputtered, his face a mottled red. “Getout.”He pointed to the door in some wild gesture. “Get out of my shop!“
“Very well,” Alexandra said. She would have to resort to subterfuge. “Then I shall take the Anne Brontë”—she began to gather her things—”and leave you with coin for the trouble. Thank you very much indeed, Mr. Marlowe. And to you, sir,” she told the beautiful man. “Good day, gentlemen.”
Alexandra hurried out of the shop and strode down the road at a decent clip. The Hampshire countryside stretched before her, the hills awash with summer green. The village of Stratfield Saye was quiet—a relief, otherwise someone might stop her. She needed to be quick.
“Miss!“
Damn.
Alexandra walked faster.
“Miss!“ The man from the bookshop caught up to her. “Miss, you forgot your hat.”
“Oh.”Thank goodness.She took it from him without pausing. “I’m sorry, but I must keep walking. Fast.”
He kept up with her easily. “Are we fleeing someone?”
“You might say that.” She reached into the fabric of her dress and held her prize aloft.
Bookshop Man threw back his head with a laugh. “You stole that book?”
“Shhh!“ She glanced around, relieved to find no one about. “I paid Mr. Marlowe extra in coin. And I have merely taken it off his shelves before his son, who is always soused, discovered it was a naughty book and stole it to do . . . “ She glanced at him. She was being far too familiar with a man she didn’t yet know the name of. “To do whatever it is men do in private,” she muttered.
“I see. It was a kindness, then.”
