Julia London by Wicked Angel The Devil's Love Read Free Book Online Page B

This was quickly turning into her worst nightmare. Nothing was as she had envisioned. Where was the armful of roses they had been so certain he would give her? The reminders of how long he had waited? For goodness’ sake, why was he so disagreeable? She glanced at the sideboard where several crystal decanters of brown liquors were kept. She did not think she had ever tasted whiskey in her life—despite the fact that Aunt Nan was quite enamored of the stuff—but it suddenly seemed appropriate.
    “May I?” she asked, nodding toward the sideboard. His cool gray eyes flicked to her, then to the crystal decanters, and he impatiently nodded his assent. She practically jumped from her seat and sprinted for the spirits, pouring a drink from the nearest decanter. Michael gave her full glass a doubtful look when she turned to face him but said nothing.
    Abbey quickly returned to her seat before her shaking knees betrayed her. He was watching her, his piercing gray gaze following her every move. She carefully lifted the glass to her lips and sipped, and was immediately overcome by a spasm of coughing as the liquid burned down her throat. He stood slowly and came around the desk to take the glass from her trembling hand. She heard him go to the sideboard as she tried to regain her composure.
    “I think,” he said as he handed her a glass with a sip or two of the liquor heavily diluted with water, “you will enjoy it more if you just wet your lips.”
    “Thank you,” she rasped. Very unexpectedly, he smiled. It was a gorgeous smile, full of brilliant white teeth, and Abbey found herself staring at his mouth and incredibly full, soft lips. She quickly averted her eyes when a blush began to creep into her cheeks.
    “I must say you caught me by surprise,” he said, his tone less clipped. He sat down in a chair across from her and casually balanced an ankle upon his knee. Behind the cover of her glass, Abbey gazed at his muscular legs straining against the fabric of his buckskins. “When I think of the littlehell … girl I knew twelve years ago, I can hardly believe you are one in the same,” he abruptly admitted.
    “I am a bit surprised by that,” she replied hoarsely, still recovering from the firewater. “You do not look so different now than you did then. A little fuller, perhaps, and a little darker, but all in all, you rather closely resemble yourself.”
    Michael’s chuckle was low and deep. “I should rather hope I do.” His smile was brief and thin. “I was nineteen when I sailed with your father. You were, what, eight or nine?”
    “Ummm, nine, I think.”
    “Nine. A nine-year-old girl with scabby knees and the grime of several weeks on her neck is a far cry from a grown woman of one and twenty.”
    She made an effort to laugh lightly, but she thought she sounded like the hyenas of the Egyptian desert. “I most certainly was not covered with grime, Michael.”
    He looked almost surprised but quickly recovered his stern look. “You most certainly were. And your hair was always bound up in that pirate scarf. Do you recall? You were forever shouting and carrying on as if you were constantly beset by your imaginary pirates.”
    Abbey lifted her chin. “What I recall is being terrorized by an older boy, who, incidentally, decapitated the
one
doll I had as a child!”
    “Ah, yes, that was a rather unfortunate incident,” he agreed indifferently.
    “I have thought it rather callous of you in hindsight, but I buried my grudge long ago.”
    Michael cocked his head to one side and considered her. “Excellent, for I, too, have buried the grudge for the torture I endured at the tip of that wooden sword you carried about.”
    She recalled the sword; a rush of memories invaded her that were close but not quite what he was telling her, and she blushed. “I am sure I do not know what you mean,” she muttered. “I rather prefer not to reminisce about that summer. Clearly I was mistaken in my belief that you would