Little Red Writing by Lila DiPasqua Read Free Book Online

well, yes. I thought . . .” She was adorably flustered. She wasn’t a giddy woman. She was educated, intelligent and always poised, and he loved that he could fluster her. However, that she caused him to make missteps was something he didn’t find quite as appealing.
    “Rather . . . I didn’t see you there.” She bit her lip.
    Oh, how he was going feast on that pretty mouth. In fact, on her entire sweet, edible form until he got his fill.
    Before she left this room again, she was going to express, not avoid, her desire for him.
    “Was that your intrigue and adventure story you placed in the desk?” Nicolas kept his tone light, feigning mild interest.
    “No. It was simply an accounting ledger. Henriette often helps your grandmother with accounting matters. I was placing it there for her.”
    “I see.” He would see—the ledger and the rest of the contents of the desk. Later. After he had the key. And the woman before him. “It was very kind of you to send the trunk of books. Thank you,” he said.
    She formed a smile, donning a cordial mask. One he wanted stripped away. Her writings had given him a glimpse of the real Anne de Vignon. Definitely passionate. He wanted to see more. Know more.
    Sample some of that very passion firsthand.
    “You’re welcome. I hope you enjoy them as much as the Comtesse. You may discover you have more in common with her than you think.”
    Jésus-Christ , he hoped not. “Perhaps so. But I noticed that some books were missing. Ones I’m sure she loves.”
    Her delicate brows drew together. “Oh?”
    He held up the book still in his hand. “Like this one.”
    Anne pulled her gaze away from his handsome face to the brown leather volume. Her book of poems.
    “This is yours, isn’t it?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    In his dark blue justacorps and breeches, he looked so good. So tall and strong. So potently male. Was it possible that he looked even more beautiful today?
    “Why didn’t you add this to the trunk? Surely the Comtesse loves your work,” he said. “I doubt she’d be your patroness otherwise.”
    Her two volumes of poetry had been written when she was a different person. With whimsical ideas of love. Before Roland had disillusioned and disenchanted her.
    Both she and Henriette had had the misfortune of knowing love and its stinging effect.
    “I didn’t think you’d be interested in reading a book of love poems.”
    Something glinted in his eyes. “You’re right. I’m not interested in reading a book of love poems.” He sauntered around the desk. She watched his approach, heat flaring in her belly. He stopped beside her, his body all but touching hers, and handed her the book. “I’d like you to read it to me.”

Chapter Five
    Anne forced her gaze down to the book in her hands—a completely futile attempt to divert her attention and collect her wits. Maddeningly, she didn’t have to look at Nicolas to know he was there. Every fiber of her being was acutely aware of him.
    And what he was doing to her . . .
    Her pulse raced. Her breasts felt achy, and her sex was slick. She was a mortifying mess. What irony—for a woman who wrote the stories she did. Who tried to embolden women and discourage this very sort of vulnerability.
    With his exceptional looks and charismatic comportment, Nicolas was just the kind of man who could sweep a woman off her feet, into his bed. And shatter her heart.
    She’d already been down that road.
    She’d never venture there again.
    And yet, as he stood close to her, all the warnings, all her good reasoning, were being drowned by the powerful urges flooding her body. He tempted her. Sorely.
    She wasn’t naïve. She knew he was trying to seduce her. From the moment they met, all the signs were there. It was in his every look, every well-timed touch and well-practiced tone. Other men had attempted to stir her desire with similar tactics, but none had invoked her interest. Until Nicolas.
    She had no idea why this man called to