HIS WICKED KISS
“Why don’t I remember you?” she asked. With his great height and very handsome head he was hardly invisible. “This is all quite astonishing.”
His thumb caressed her soft lips. “You couldn’t see me, You were guarded well.”
“I see you now,” she whispered, her gaze drawn to his mouth.
“Now you are mine.” He bent his head and brushed his mouth across hers. She stopped breathing altogether. His lips felt soft and warm, and when she didn’t recoil, they lingered, slow, tender, coaxing. She melted inside. Her eyelids sank. She felt his arms stealing inside her cloak, around her waist, pressing her to his torso. His heat, his scent—a musky blend of cognac, fire, and something else, more intoxicating than the sunny air or the salty breeze—tantalized her. He kissed her as one enjoyed a scoop of cream—thoroughly, unhurriedly. The tip of his tongue dampened her lips, seducing them to part for him. Though hesitant at first, she complied. Her tongue touched his, and a heady wave of pleasure swamped her.
Low sounds rose in his throat as her response gathered confidence and their kiss deepened. His mouth was no longer tame but hot and needful…
MY WICKED PIRATE
RONA SHARON
For Iris—
my mother, my heroine, my heart, my brightest star.
I love you.
Special thanks go to:
Zeev Sharon,
Dana Sharon,
Dror Peled,
Eli & Shula Gorenstein,
Tali Dowek, Tali Yekutiel,
Niza Abarbanell,
Yael Ron,
Shay Gamliel,
Yael Yekutiel,
Dania Broukman,
Chilik Hochberg,
and to Evan Marshall and John Scognamiglio—
for making my dream come true.
Thanks!
CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER 1
Tingoccio replied, “Lost? If a thing is lost, it can’t be found; so what on earth would I be doing here if I were lost?”
“That’s not what I mean,” said Meuccio. “What I want to know is whether you’re among the souls of the damned, in the scourging fires of Hell.”
—Boccaccio: Il Decamerone
West Indies, September 1705
Alanis opened her eyes in response to the loud banging on her cabin door. She sat up, intoxicated by the smell of salt and sea blowing in through the ports and by the sweet fragments of her dream. She was running barefoot on a white, sandy beach dotted with palm trees. She remembered an azure ocean and roaring waves breaking into white foam. She was free.
“My lady, may I come in? It’s urgent!” John Hopkins, the chief mate of the Pink Beryl, insisted beyond the door, his voice strained with concern.
Alanis heaved a sigh, letting her dream fade away. “Yes, Mr. Hopkins. Do come in.”
The door opened. Hopkins’s lamp pierced the darkness. His face looked grim. “I apologize for disturbing you at such an ungodly hour, my lady, but—” His voice caught at the sight of her.
Blinking lazy cat eyes, she pulled the sheet up to her chin and swept back tangled locks, which appeared more silvery than golden in the moonlight. “Yes, Hopkins, what it is?”
“Pirates! We are under attack—”
Cannons roared on the horizon, discharging an ear-splitting broadside, and a terrible blast hit their ship. Walls shattered. The ship tilted sharply. Mayhem ensued outside her door. Thrown against her pillows, Alanis heard officers bellowing, sailors scurrying on deck, guns firing.
“Bloody hell!” Hopkins dropped to his knees beside her bed. “My lady, are you all right?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine.” Alanis gasped, shaken but still in one piece. “And you?”
“Fine.” Hopkins stood up, yanking his navy jacket back in place. “We must get you off this ship, my lady. Pardon my cheek, but you ought to dress and make haste about it, for they will be upon us in minutes. We can only hold head to a warship for so long, and theirs is a seventy-gun frigate. I must ensure you are safe and away by the time they come.”
“Safe
