Sweet Surrender by Cheryl Holt Read Free Book Online Page B

supposedly performed the wedding ceremony."
    "They won’t tell you anything different from what I’ve told you."
    "Pardon me if I say that I’d like to find out for myself."
    "After you’ve had my story confirmed, then what?"
    "I haven’t a clue."
    She chuckled at that.  "Since we’re trading insults, let me admit that I had assumed a good result by coming here.  I’m not usually such an idiot."
    Her pert nose stuck up in the air, she marched by him.  As she passed, he couldn’t resist grabbing her arm to stop her.  She was too brash and condescending for a female, and she annoyed him immensely.  Her conduct wasn’t seemly, and he was fascinated by her discourtesy and disregard.
    The women of his world were all soft edges and sleek lines.  They quietly glided by on the periphery of his attention, making no waves, causing no trouble, stirring no discord.  They submitted to his wishes and bent over backwards to accommodate his whims.
    But not her.  Not Grace Bennett.
    She glared at the spot where he was clasping her arm, then she raised her incensed gaze to his.  He was impaled by her beautiful green eyes, and the strangest shiver raced down his spine.  She was too perceptive, and she seemed to see things she had no business seeing.
    He shook off the peculiar sensation, disturbed that she could rattle him.  He wanted to unsettle her in return, but he had no idea how.
    "Do you hate all men," he asked, taunting her with a reversed version of her own prior, ridiculous question, "or is it just me?"
    "Yes, I hate most men," she blithely replied, "but I believe I hate you most of all.  Goodbye."
    She jerked away and moved toward the door, but before she could begin her haughty escape, she stumbled, her knees giving out.
    He’d always had quick reflexes, and if he hadn’t reached for her, she’d have collapsed at his feet.  To his stunned surprise, she’d fainted—when she was hardly the fainting type. 
    He picked her up and carried her to the sofa.  As he was easing her down, her eyes fluttered open.  Clearly confused as to her whereabouts, she gaped around, trying to get her bearings.
    "What…happened?" she stammered.
    "You swooned."
    "I did not."
    "You did."
    "I’ve never swooned in my life," she huffed but without much vigor.
    "There’s a first time for everything."
    He was hovered over her, his arm tucked under her back.  The unusual positioning meant they were very close.  He could see every detail of her flawless skin, her perfect brows, and rose-bud lips, and it dawned on him that she was very, very pretty.
    She’d been so busy aggravating him that he hadn’t noticed, and he grew even more aggravated.  He didn’t want her to be pretty; he didn’t want to notice that she was.
    Her cheeks had paled so she looked fragile and weak and in need of protection, and to his utter disgust, his masculine instincts surged to the fore.  For a fleeting instant, he was eager to offer any sort of assistance she might ultimately require, which was patently absurd.
    He didn’t know much about her, and what he did know, he didn’t like.  From the moment she’d entered the Abbey, she’d been a nuisance, and he didn’t expect that increased acquaintance would change his attitude or her conduct.
    But still—when he should have drawn away—he stayed where he was. 
    "Guess what I think, Miss Bennett," he softly murmured.
    "I don’t care what you think."
    "I think you’re not quite as tough as you pretend to be."
    "I never claimed to be tough."
    "When was the last time you ate?"
    She scowled, pondering.  "Yesterday?"
    "Yesterday…" 
    He was suffering from the strongest urge to scold her.  He felt as if he’d known her forever, as if they were on intimate terms and he had every right to chastise.  His feelings of fond association were so potent that—if he’d been informed she was a sorceress who cast spells—he’d readily admit that he’d been bewitched.
    What was wrong with him?
    "I am