Master: An Erotic Novel of the Count of Monte Cristo Read Online Free PDF Page A

way,” she told him, standing and starting boldly toward the doorway of the room they were in.
    Sinbad stepped to one side, blocking her path. He was much taller than she. Sturdy, muscular, and he smelled of the sea.
    “If you want nothing from me, then let me pass,” she said with a calm she did not feel. Her heart was racing, her palms damp, her belly aflutter.
    “You do not wish to show any gratitude to your rescuer?”
    She swallowed, refusing to look up at him. Instead, she focused her attention on the broad shoulder in front of her, covered by pale blue silk that clung to the muscles of his chest in a way that cotton and linen would not. The collarless shirt was buttoned up to the throat with simple silk knots. “I have a few francs with me, but more at the—”
    “My dear countess, I am in no need of your money. That is, in fact, the last thing I want from you.”
    Mercédès gripped her hands tightly in the sides of her skirt, feeling the pounding of her heart all the way down her arms like the beat of a funereal drum. She’d glanced up at his words, but the mockery in his eyes sent her gaze skittering away and suddenly she found it locked on his mustache and the hint of fine lips beneath it.
    He smiled and those lips stretched, quirking at one corner, drawing the dark bristles up and away in a fascinating, sensual movement.
    “Perhaps,” he continued in a low voice, “I should ask you what it is you want from me.”
    “Nothing. Nothing but to pass you, to leave.”
    “Then pass. Do not stand there like a frightened cat. If that is what you truly wish, then walk on by, Countess.”
    She hesitated only a moment, then stepped toward him. He’d positioned himself directly in front of the door; the only way she could move past would be to brush against him, to touch that silken sleeve, and for her skirt to bell over his slippered foot.
    “But I don’t believe that is what you truly wish . . . ,” he whispered as she came closer.
    She was touching him now. Her pink linen sleeve, which puffed out three times wider than her upper arm, was crushed as it slid against the blue silk; her skirt crinkled against his leg.
    He put out his arm between her and the door, effectively stopping her. “Is it?” He pivoted toward her, and so they were standing toe-to-toe, chest to bosom, silk brushing linen.
    She felt his warmth and smelled the sea tang on his skin and the gentle scent of man mixed with something like nutmeg. Edmond. Just like Edmond.
    “Kiss me, Countess,” he said softly. His flexed fingers trembled against the wall. “You want to.”
    She did want to. . . . Lord have mercy, she did.
    A woman who had never, despite all he’d done to her, betrayed her husband, wanted to kiss the silken-clad, salty, sweaty sailor who stood in front of her. She wanted to lose herself in the memories, the faint familiarity he brought with him.
    “Let me pass,” she said again. “Please.”
    His arm dropped back to his side. He stepped away, leaving the doorway open. “You are a devoted wife, Countess. How fortunate your husband is.”
    She gathered up her skirts and hurried past him, her heart still slamming in her chest, and found herself in the same room she and Julie had been in earlier that day—where Julie had found on the fireplace mantel a red velvet purse filled with the miracle that had saved her family.
    Clearly this man was who he claimed to be—Sinbad.
    Mercédès turned back to see that he’d followed her, and stood in the doorway between the two rooms. He leaned against the opening, arms crossed over his middle, his eyes dark and their lids at half-mast. A fire burning in the fireplace gave off unnecessary heat and the only illumination in this room besides a small oil lamp.
    Before she realized what she was doing, Mercédès was walking toward him, back toward Sinbad and the temptation he represented: the mysterious pull, the incessant draw, the desire to indulge her sorrow and grief and