Too Sinful to Deny by Erica Ridley

he not lose time with jasmine-scented blond distractions.
    “You sighed.”
    That warranted a complete set of nails puncturing his arm through three layers of fabric?
    “I did not.”
    “You did,” she insisted, staring at him as if the intensity of her blue eyes could force him to voice his darkest thoughts aloud.
    “So I did,” Evan agreed, so as to derail the current pattern before the conversation degenerated into the black tar of did-not, did-too as so many of his and Timothy’s childhood arguments had gone. “If you must know, my sigh was because I suffer from horrible asthma. My physician says I should stop carrying women about, and the next time you fall . . . I should let you hit the ground.”
    As before, she failed to gasp in outrage. Her eyes were probing, not wounded. And her muttered response sounded almost like . . . “Bollocks.”
    “What was that?” he inquired politely. “I didn’t quite hear you.”
    “I said, ” she began, “I doubt you’d notice if I fell to my death. Something else is on your mind. What is it? The corpse you mislaid?”
    Here he’d thought she’d been about to dispute his alleged lung condition.
    He gave those alarmingly intelligent eyes his most careless smile and marched forward in renewed silence. He’d never have mentioned the missing-body situation had she—and the loss of his brother—not caught him utterly off guard. He was on guard now, however. He’d be watching his back around this little Londonite with big eyes, a dangerously round arse, and a grip like a deckhand. Matter of fact, he’d be keeping his eye on everyone.
    Someone in town was a killer. And Evan would have revenge.
    For best results, however, he would have to keep up appearances of his usual devil-may-care attitude and puss-on-the-prowl activities. In fact . . .
    He slid Miss Stanton a sideways glance.
    She noticed.
    He couldn’t prevent a slow, satisfied smile from curving his lips.
    She noticed that, too.
    “W-what?” she stammered, loosening her grip on his arm and edging away as much as the cliff ’s edge would allow.
    Evan hid his smile and propelled them farther up the narrow path.
    With no imagination at all, the entire town could be made to believe she was his newest conquest. Given the roguishness of his reputation and his well-documented lust for fresh blood, he probably would never have to be within shouting distance of the inquisitive blonde for the rumor to spread like pox at sea. The villain would believe Evan too wrapped up in a new skirt to be playing detective . . . and executioner. Then Evan would strike.
    Blood for blood. Death for death.

    Evan let himself into Ollie’s library with the sneaking suspicion that Miss Stanton’s exaggerated flight from his side upon entering the premises was more ruse than reality, and that she lurked nearby in the shadows. He waited a brief moment on the other side of the door before giving it a sudden wrench open and launching himself into the hallway.
    He was alone.
    The prickles on the back of his neck continued to plague him. He narrowed his eyes at the web of passageways trickling outward like so many rivulets of blood. He had no reason to believe she’d meant to spy on them earlier, particularly given the ghost-white terror in her expression when he’d flown into the hall, but something about the way she’d—
    “Bothwick,” came Ollie’s coarse voice from across the room. “Get in or stay out.”
    With misgivings, Evan returned inside. He locked the library door before crossing to the half-circle of black leather chairs facing the fire, and threw himself into the one farthest from Ollie so he could keep an eye on any subtle changes in expression.
    “I haven’t come to kill you after all,” Evan offered by way of greeting.
    “Thank God, or I’d have to say you’re not worth ship room anymore.” Ollie glanced up from his ledgers. “If you fancy a brandy, get it yourself.”
    “I need your help. He’s