Nicole Jordan Read Online Free PDF Page A

their own little ton and can be quite as ruthless as London’s Upper Ten Thousand.”
    “I would be willing to risk it just for a little peace.”
    Thorne gave him a scrutinizing glance. “Ah, I fancy I know what your problem is. You were infected.”
    “Infected?”
    “By Cyrene’s spell. It gets in your blood.”
    Taking another swallow of brandy, Max shook his head. “I heard something about a mythical spell, but I don’t believe in such things.”
    “Even so, the island affects some people strangely. It has seductive qualities that can be downright dangerous.”
    That much was true, Max agreed silently. He had found it enchanting, seductive, beguiling….
    “Is that why you settled there?” he asked his friend. “You were seduced by the island?”
    To his surprise, Thorne gave an enigmatic smile. “In part. But Cyrene has other appealing traits that aren’t apparent at first glance.”
    Reportedly, Thorne had been exiled to Cyrene years ago by his infuriated noble father. But even though he’d eventually reformed enough to appease his sire, he still chose to make his home on the tiny island in the western Mediterranean, between Spain and Sardinia. Max had never quite understood why; he wouldn’t have thought such serene allure could attract a man of Thorne’s reckless nature.
    “Perhaps you should pay another visit there,” Thorne added. “The tranquillity might do you good.”
    Indeed it might, Max reflected, remembering the peace he’d found so briefly. Warm, golden sun. Sparkling aquamarine seas. Mountain peaks wooded with pine and holm oak. Rich valleys lush with vineyards and orange orchards and olive groves. Ancient ruins. Spellbinding, moonlit nights…
    Paradise.
    The thought was so tempting. Though he loathed admitting it, he still hadn’t completely recovered from the years of war. The long conflict had been over since Napoleon’s abdication in April, yet Max was still plagued by the nightmare. By his own private hell. He had returned alive, when other, more deserving men had not. In the darkest hours of night, it was only by determinedly dreaming of his ministering angel that he could keep the guilt and grief at bay.
    Just then his attention was diverted by a familiar curvaceous figure beyond the potted palm, and he let out an oath, barely quelling the urge to shrink farther behind the column.
    “I certainly haven’t found tranquillity here,” Max muttered, eyeing the blond-haired widow who was scanning the ballroom, doubtless in search of him.
    “Then come home with me at Christmas,” Thorne said. “My obligations will keep me in London until then, but I plan to spend the holiday on Cyrene and would be delighted to have you join me.”
    “I could easily be persuaded. I’m eager to see for myself that Yates has recovered.”
And to meet a certain tempting angel again…
    He knew better than to bring up the subject, but the question seemed to be dragged out of him. “What do you hear about Miss Evers?”
    “Caro?” Thorne’s eyebrows rose with curiosity. “Ah, yes, you met her when she nursed Yates.” He smiled slowly, as if recalling a fond memory. “Why, she’s as singular as ever. Caro tends to set the blue-blooded denizens of Cyrene on their ears with regularity.”
    “She did strike me as rather unconventional.”
    “She is that indeed,” Thorne said with a low laugh that suddenly faltered. “What in blazes…?” His eyes narrowed. “Speak of the devil.”
    Following his gaze through the palm fronds, Max glanced past the throngs of dancers, toward the main entrance to the ballroom. A woman stood there, looking starkly out of place among the begowned, bejeweled, befeathered ladies. She wore plain dark traveling clothes, and she was searching the crowd impatiently.
    Max felt every muscle in his body tense. He recognized her from his dreams. The proud carriage of her slender body. The delicate strength in the set of her jaw. The compassion in her healing