Ruthless Charmer Read Online Free PDF Page A

earthly reason why he should deny what was in his heart any longer. If Claudia could befriend a lowly footman, he thought irritably as she lifted her tankard to her lips, then she could very well treat him as if he were someone other than a malevolent stranger. Frankly, he could not remember a time when a woman had ever treated him with such disdain. Ridiculous little chit—who did she think she was?
    Julian looked away, searching for the innkeeper. Catching that man's attention, he signaled for another tankard, then glanced toward Claudia's table again, and started badly. She was looking straight at him; her clear blue-gray eyes boring a hole clean through him.
    Unbelievable!
    How was it possible that of all the days, the hours, the moments in villages and countries around the world, he should appear here, in a small inn in an even smaller French village? He was supposed to be in Paris! her mind screamed, and after all the trouble she had gone to just to make doubly sure she would not see him, here he was!
    Maybe her mind was playing a trick on her. Maybe that handsome gentleman was actually unknown to her—after all, it was growing rather dark, and he was sitting in the shadows. She pivoted in her seat. "Herbert," she said to the footman, indicating the man in question, "Qui est-ce?"
    Herbert squinted at the gentleman; a smile spread across his face. "Monsieur le Comte de Kettering, madame."
    Oh, honestly! Claudia turned toward the wastrel again and he smoothly acknowledged her with a nod. All right, all right, how long until the packet boat sailed? Three hours? Maybe four? She was not going to invite him to her table. She would preempt him, have Herbert send the innkeeper to tell him he was not welcome!
    "Herbert," she began, then paused, pressing her palm to her forehead as she racked her brain for an appropriate French phrase. As none was forthcoming, she slid her gaze to the rogue again as the innkeeper placed another tankard in front of him. One corner of his mouth lifted in a lazy smile; he lifted his tankard in silent salute.
    Lord God, the man was impossibly handsome, she thought as he came indolently to his feet. An Adonis, really. He was tall, two or three inches over six feet. His wavy black hair was far too long, nearly to his shoulders but terribly appealing—particularly as unkempt as it was, with one thick lock draping his forehead. His coal black eyes reminded her of a raven, keen and glittering as if they focused on his prey. His nose was perfectly straight and patrician, his face sculpted into high cheekbones and a square jaw that was covered with the shadow of a beard. He possessed a pair of broad shoulders, but even more startling, she thought wildly as he started toward her, was that his legs looked to be all muscle in the form-fitting trousers he was wearing, impossibly long—and the unmis-takable protrusion between them
. . .
oh, Lord. . . . Suddenly frantic, Claudia turned to Herbert and whispered loudly, "Herbert! Ah . . . aidez-moi, s'il vous plait!"
    Her clumsy request for help startled Herbert. "Pardon?"
    She could hear each clop clop clop of his boots on the oak planks as he neared them. "Don't let him sit here!" she whispered madly.
    A light dawned on Herbert's face. "Ah!" he exclaimed, and nodding eagerly, straightened in his chair as Kettering came to a halt next to their table. Herbert fairly exploded into French, gesturing wildly at Claudia, then his foot. Kettering folded his arms across his chest and shifted his weight to one hip as he listened patiently to the footman, nodding occasionally. His casual stance belied his appearance; his neckcloth was stained, his coat rumpled, and the heavy stubble of his beard suggested that he hadn't shaved in more than a day. Actually, he looked as if he had been involved in some altercation. As Claudia was pondering that, his gaze slid to her and one brow arched quizzically. From the sound of it, Herbert was now explaining the unfortunate