Sexy As Hell (Berkley Sensation)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  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

  CHAPTER 32

  Teaser chapter

  Praise for the novels of Susan Johnson

  “Susan Johnson is a queen of erotic, exciting romance who soars to new heights with each novel.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Johnson delivers another fast, titillating read that overflows with sex scenes and rapid-fire dialogue.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A spellbinding read and a lot of fun . . . Johnson takes sensuality to the edge, writing smoldering stories with characters the reader won’t want to leave.”

  —The Oakland (MI) Press

  “Sensually charged writing . . . Johnson knows exactly what her devoted readers desire, and she delivers it with her usual flair.”

  —Booklist

  “Fascinating . . . The author’s style is a pleasure to read.”

  —Los Angeles Herald-Examiner

  “Flat-out fabulous, sexy [novels] so textured they sometimes compare . . . to the phenomenal Judith Ivory.”

  —All About Romance

  Berkley Sensation Books by Susan Johnson

  HOT PINK

  HOT LEGS

  HOT SPOT

  FRENCH KISS

  WINE, TARTS, & SEX

  HOT PROPERTY

  GORGEOUS AS SIN

  SEXY AS HELL

  TWIN PEAKS

  (with Jasmine Haynes)

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

  Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  SEXY AS HELL

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / January 2010

  Copyright © 2010 by Susan Johnson.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-17141-7

  http://us.penguingroup.com/

  CHAPTER 1

  London, January 1892

  OSMOND, BARON LENNOX, was known for his luck at cards. Oz would call it skill, but regardless of the reason, there was no doubt he was on a winning streak tonight. A crowd had slowly gathered round the table as the stakes rose, and Brooks’s members, gamesters to the core, were hazarding wagers on how long Elphinstone would last. Viscount Elphinstone had been losing heavily. While his père could afford it, Elphinstone was clearly rankled. He was slumped in his chair, coatless, disheveled, red faced, and looking pugnacious—although that may have been due to the family’s propensity to breed true on their bulldog features.

  Elphinstone’s major opponent at the table was lounging back in his chair, his dark eyes amused, a half smile on his handsome face, nonchalance in every lithe contour of his tall, lean frame. Or rather, indifference some might say; Lennox never seemed to care whether he won or lost.

  “It ain’t fair, Oz. You always get the good cards,” the young Marquis of Telford groused, staring at his cards with obvious disgust.

  Lennox glanced up. “Lady Luck’s been good to me tonight,” he murmured, taking a card from his hand and dropping it on the green baize.

  “As usual,” Elphinstone growled.

  A servant approached and bent to whisper in Lennox’s ear. The baron nodded without looking up from his cards. “Your turn, Harry. This is my last hand.”

  “Nell getting tired of waiting?” Harry Ogilvie waggishly queried.

  Oz’s heavy-lidded gaze met his friend’s droll glance for a telling moment. “Are you talking to me, Harry?”

  The Earl of Airlie’s youngest son grinned. “Hell no. Slip of the tongue.”

  “Someday an irate husband is going to have you horse-whipped, Lennox,” Elphinstone muttered.

  “Only if he’s not man enough to call me out,” Oz drawled. The viscount’s wife was a pretty little hussy; could he help it if she was in hot pursuit?

  A sudden hush greeted Oz’s soft-spoken challenge.

  The eyes of the crowd locked on Elphinstone, wondering if he’d respond, or more to the point, how he’d respond. Lennox was young and wild, his temper as easily provoked as his lust, and while he’d been screwing his way through the ranks of London’s fair beauties the last two years, he’d also had more than his share of duels.

  With not so much as a bruise for his exertions.

  Elphinstone finally growled something under his breath, his nostrils flaring, his narrowed gaze two pinpricks of anger. Then not inclined to end his life or be maimed, he scanned the breathless crowd. “You won’t see blood tonight on my account,” he spat. Turning back to Oz, he snarled, “I’ll raise you a thousand,” recklessly wagering his father’s money rather than stake his life.

  Held breaths were released, a collective sigh of relief wafted round the table; Elphinstone wouldn’t have stood a chance at ten paces. Or even a hundred. Ask Buckley, who’d barely survived his recent ill-advised challenge.

  Oz almost felt sorry for Elphinstone, who’d no more meet him on the dueling field than he’d satisfy his wife in bed or even know enough to be decent to her. Almost felt sorry. “I’ll raise you another thousand,” he gently said, the cards he was holding as near perfect as the law of averages allowed. What the hell; the ass doesn’t deserve my pity. “Make that two.”

  Five minutes later, much richer and in a hurry, Oz was in the entrance hall and a flunkey was holding out his coat for him. “It’s still raining hard out there, sir.”

  “That’s England,” Oz said with a smile, sliding his arms into the sleeves and shrugging into his grey overcoat. “More rain than sun.” Handing the man
a sovereign, he turned and strode toward the door. Standing outside under the portico a moment later, he watched the rain pouring down as though the heavens had opened up, felt the wind tugging at his coat skirts, surveyed the distant treetops tossing in the gusts, and was suddenly reminded of Hyderabad during the monsoon season. Christ, he must have drunk more than usual tonight—too many of those old memories were surfacing. Shaking off the unwanted images, he dashed down the stairs and entered his waiting carriage. “Drive like hell, Sam,” he said, dropping into a seat with a smile for his driver who had been taking refuge from the storm inside the conveyance. “I’m late as usual.”

  “I’ll get you there right quick.” Sam slipped out the opposite door.

  As the well-sprung carriage careened through the streets of London at a flying pace, Oz half dozed, his life of late slightly deficient in sleep. With Nell’s husband in Paris, she’d been consuming a good deal of his time. In addition, he had a shipping business to run, he’d been working at translating a recently purchased rare Urdu manuscript, and of course, Brooks’s was a constant lure to a man who loved to gamble.

  Once Lord Howe returned from Paris next week, Nell would be less persistent in her demands. He smiled faintly. Not that he was complaining. She had a real talent for acrobatics.

  As the carriage drew to a halt before a small hotel, newly opened by a gentleman’s gentleman who had recently retired with a tidy sum, Lennox came fully awake, shoved open the carriage door, and stepped out into the downpour. “Don’t wait, Sam,” he shouted and ran for the entrance.

  A doorman threw open the door at his approach. Swiftly crossing the threshold, Oz came to a stop in a small foyer. He smiled at the proprietor behind the counter. “Evening, Fremont. Damn wet out there.” He shook the raindrops from his ruffled hair.

  “Seasonal weather I’m afraid, sir. Would you like a servant to run you a hot bath or bring up a hot toddy?”

  “Perhaps later. Which room?”

  “Thirteen, sir.”

  Nell had chosen Blackwood’s Hotel in Soho Square for its seclusion, and they’d been coming here with great frequency the past fortnight. Taking the stairs at a run, he considered his apology. He couldn’t say the game was too exciting to leave; he’d have to think of another excuse.

  He strode down the hallway, glancing at the passing brass number plates until he arrived at the requisite room. He opened the door and walked in.

  “You’re late.”

  A soft, breathy tone, with a touch of impatience. Knowing well what stoked Nell’s impatience—the randy tart liked it morning, noon, and night—he answered in a suitably apologetic tone. “Forgive me, darling, but one of my ship captains arrived just as I was leaving the house.” Christ, it was dark. Why was just a single wall sconce in the far corner lit? Was Nell in a romantic frame of mind? But then he saw her toss back the covers and pat the bed beside her, and rather than question the degree of darkness, he quickly shed his wet coat, his two rings, and stripped off his clothes.

  “I like your new perfume,” he murmured as he climbed into bed. Dropping back against the pillows, he pulled her close. “Are you cold, darling?” She was wearing a nightgown.

  “No.”

  “In that case, we can dispense with this.” Pushing the silk fabric up over her hips with a sweep of his hand, he rolled over her, settled smoothly between her legs, and set out to apologize to Nell in the way she liked best.

  A door to the left of the bed suddenly burst open, a gaggle of people trooped in, the bedchamber was suddenly flooded with light, and a portly man in the lead pointed at the bed. “There!” he cried. “You are all witnesses to the countess’s base and lewd moral turpitude!”

  Lennox stared at the woman beneath him. Not red-haired Nell. A blonde. “What the hell is going on?” he growled.

  As if in answer, the spokesman declared with an oratorical flourish to the cluster of people crowded round the bed, “If required, you will testify in court as to exactly what you have seen here tonight—to whit . . . a clear-cut case of moral turpitude and venery! Thank you, that will be all,” he crisply added, dismissing the motley crew with a wave of his hand.

  His eyes like ice, Lennox surveyed the female under him. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” he said with soft malevolence. Obviously he’d been gulled for someone’s monetary gain.

  “Nor need we be,” the lady cooly replied. “You may go now. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  Lennox didn’t move other than to turn his head toward the only other man remaining in the room. “Get out or I’ll shoot you where you stand.” He always carried a pistol—a habit from India.

  Isolde Perceval, Countess of Wraxell in her own right, lying prone beneath the very large man, nodded at her barrister. Not that he was likely to put his life at risk for her, but should he be considering anything foolish, she rather thought she would prefer to deal with this hired actor herself.

  As Mr. Malmsey shut the door behind him and quiet prevailed, Isolde gazed up at the man who’d come to rest between her legs with a casualness that bespoke a certain acquaintance with dalliance. “I thought Malmsey explained what was required of you,” she said. “But if you’d like an additional payment, kindly get off me and I’ll be happy to fetch my purse and pay you whatever you wish.”

  Oz’s brows rose. “Is this some farce?”

  “Far from it. With your cooperation, of course. As Mr. Malmsey no doubt pointed out, your silence is required.”

  Silence about what? Through a minor alcoholic haze, Oz speculated on how he’d landed in this bizarre scenario. “What room number is this?”

  “Thirteen.”

  Then where was Nell? Still waiting somewhere. Merde. “Don’t move,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” His expression was grim. “If you wish my silence, I suggest you comply.”

  “There’s no need for belligerence. I’m not going anywhere.”

  You had to give her credit. The lady wasn’t easily rattled, although having organized this performance—with witnesses to boot—bespoke a certain audacity on her part. He slid off her and rose from the bed. Lifting his overcoat from the chair on which he’d dropped it, he slipped it on, buttoned it, then exited the room and made his way downstairs to speak to the proprietor.

  Isolde debated dressing, but should he return quickly, she ran the risk of being caught in some degree of nudity, and with a forward fellow like this actor, she was safer where she was. Her purse was within reach. Furthermore, there was no doubt in her mind that they could reach a monetary agreement. Malmsey had already paid him for his night’s work, but the life of an actor was one of financial insecurity. So she’d simply ask him what he required to forget that he’d been here and she’d pay it.

  Downstairs, Oz was offering the proprietor of Blackwood’s Hotel a rueful smile. “A slight problem has arisen, Fremont. Room thirteen is occupied by an unknown person.”

  “My apologies, sir.” The trim, dapper man quickly flipped through the guest ledger and a moment later glanced up with a genuinely pained expression. “My most profuse apologies, my lord. I should have said room twenty-three.” His face was beet red. “I most humbly beg your pardon.”

  “Rest easy, Fremont,” Oz replied good-naturedly. “No great damage has been done. Although, if you’d be so kind as to inform the lady in room twenty-three that I’m unable to meet her tonight, I’d appreciate it. Tell her that a business matter of some importance has delayed me.”

  “Naturally, sir, as you wish, sir.” Relieved he wouldn’t meet with the baron’s wrath, the proprietor deferentially added, “Would you like me to express your regrets to the lady?”

  “I would, thank you. And see that she has a carriage waiting for her.”

  “Yes, sir. Consider it done.” Fremont gave no indication that he knew Lennox was nude beneath his coat. The baron was a very generous man, his gratuities commensurate with his fortune. Not to mention his forgiving nature tonight was a profound relief.

 
; Oz turned to leave, then swung back. “You don’t happen to know the name of the lady in room thirteen?”

  “A Mrs. Smith, sir,” Fremont answered, one brow lifting at the obvious fraud.

  “Ah—I see. Thank you.”

  Not prone to self-reflection after an evening of drink, he gave no more thought to the lady’s pretense. Taking the stairs at a run, he returned to room thirteen, slipped inside, and shut and locked the door behind him. There she was—right where he’d left her. That she’d not taken the opportunity to run suggested this situation was critical in some way. Interesting . . . as was the lovely lady. Shedding his coat, he walked to the light switch by the connecting door, flicked off the intolerably bright overhead fixture, and moving toward the bed, turned on another wall sconce.

  A touch of apprehension appeared in Isolde’s eyes. Even in worldly London, even with an actor from the free and easy world of the theater she’d not expected such shamelessness. “What are you doing?” Seated against the headboard, she jerked the covers up to her chin.

  “Coming to make a bargain with you.” While he was not entirely sure what had motivated his reply, the persuasive influence of a beautiful woman, opportunity, and considerable liquor couldn’t be discounted. Not to mention that on closer inspection, her charms were even more impressive.

  “Kindly do so once you’re dressed.”

  “You’re not in a position to give orders,” Oz gently noted, thinking he really must have drunk too much tonight that the alarm in the lady’s eyes was so perversely satisfying. Prompted by his thoughts, he looked around the room. “Is there any liquor here?”

  “No.”

  But he spied a tray with decanters on a table in the corner. He walked without haste to the table and poured himself a brandy. Returning to the bed, he raised his glass to her. “See—you were mistaken. Would you like some?”