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KISSING THE SPYMASTER
At the sight of her trembling lips, Sebastian said in alarm, “Olivia? Are you all right?”
She feigned a shiver. “C…cold.”
He wrapped his arms around her. “Let me warm you.”
She felt triumphant, yet no smile passed her lips. “Mmmm. You’re so strong, sir.” She snuggled closer, her breasts touching his firm chest, teasing her nipples.
“You’re lips are blue,” he murmured. And pressed his to warm hers.
She arched her back to meet his kiss. All thought flew out of Olivia’s head. Need drove her…
Too HOT For A SPY
PEARL WOLF
ZEBRA BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
To Shelley Freydont
Friend, Mentor, Critique Partner, Wine Lover
Acknowledgments
I am fortunate in my choice of friends and colleagues, for they have been of immense help to me in the writing of this book. In particular I wish to thank first reader Sally Metzger for her comments, and Shelley Freydont, whose guidance and humor I cannot live without.
In addition, surgeon Dr. Rick Nedelman continues to amaze me with his knowledge of medical history. I owe him many thanks for his intelligent input.
My thanks also to all the authors who have written books on the Regency period. Their scholarly works have been an invaluable research tool for me.
Lovers of historical romance are notorious in their diligence when it comes to informing an author of errors in their work. I invite you to let me know when you find mine. I promise to take full responsibility and apologize to you for them.
Chapter One
London, 1816—Saturday, The Twenty-second of June
His Grace, the Sixth Duke of Heatham, and his family were trapped in the crush of carriages that lined the road in Berkley Square. Shouts of drivers and ostlers, snorts of horses, the clatter of hooves and the oohs and aahs springing from the mouths of curious onlookers, greeted their ears with a bizarre street symphony. The duke, however, paid it no mind, for he was engaged in a battle of wits with his eldest daughter, Lady Olivia.
“I’m merely asking you to give young Smythe-Jones serious thought. Why won’t you at least consider his marriage offer, Livy? He has all the qualities I deem appropriate to make you a fine husband.”
“Then you marry him, Father!”
“You aren’t getting any younger, you know.”
“Thank you for that reminder, Father,” she said with asperity. “I hadn’t been aware that my four and twenty years make me such an ancient crone.”
The duke prepared to retaliate with an equally tart retort, but the duchess put a restraining hand on his arm which caused him to swallow his reply. The ongoing war of words between father and daughter had begun almost as soon as the crested brougham had started out for the Hobbleton Ball, one of the last entertainments of the London season.
The battle with her father ran a crease across Lady Olivia’s brow, marring an otherwise lovely face. Emerald green eyes, hair the color of wheat, a pointed chin and seductive lips were an irresistible magnet for many a young man. Tonight she had a special reason for looking her very best. She had chosen a shimmering green gown of silk moiré and Belgian lace cut low to enhance her well-shaped figure. Green ribbons the color of her eyes entwined her long curls, artfully arranged by her clever French abigail Nancy. Matching green slippers sparkled with tiny crystals as they peeked out from under her gown.
When the duke and his family were presented to Lord and Lady Hobbleton, Lady Helena, the more diplomatic of the two Fairchild sisters, turned to her parents and said, “Would you mind if Livy and I take ourselves off to the withdrawing room to freshen up?” With an approving nod from her mother, Helena took Olivia’s hand and spirited her away.
The two sisters were close confidantes, yet they were not at all alike in appearance. Where Olivia was a fair-skinned beauty, Helena, four years her junior, was a dark exotic whose olive skin, slightly slanted brown eyes and high cheekbones held a hint of the Orient. Her hair was brown, lightly bronzed by streaks from the sun. She wore a gown of ivory silk that became her. She was taller than her sister, yet had an equally well-formed figure.
When they entered the withdrawing room, it was already crowded with young ladies gossiping, fixing stray strands of hair, or simply envying one another’s attire. Helena dragged her sister into a quiet corner. “Sit,” she ordered. “It’s clear you need some time to compose yourself. You’ve allowed Father to crawl
