The Corrupt Comte Read Online Free PDF Page A

word stop —for reasons other than her stutter—she realized she’d already subconsciously decided against resisting him further. Sick.
    No, self-preservation. That’s what this was. “You want to talk about S-S-Sabien? Let’s t-talk.”
    That finger kept descending, until it brushed the plump top of one breast. “Are you in love with him?”
    Hardly. What she felt for the lieutenant was a detached sort of…of desperation. A recognition that he was strong enough—powerful enough—to shelter her from whatever storm her parents brewed. And maybe, someday, she could grow to care for him, and him for her. “N-no.”
    “If not love, why Sabien? Do you need money?”
    It appeared she had finally met the only soul in Paris unaware of her vast wealth. Strangely, it softened her toward him. “M-money is the last thing I need.”
    He sighed, irritation weighting the sound. “So why the rush to have him?” His fingertip found the line of her cleavage, toyed there. The hand pressed atop her heart dropped away, leaving only that damning finger, shocking in its assumed familiarity—insulting, really.
    And yet…
    She shrugged, as much she was able with her arms outstretched, like wings from her shoulders. Yet another of Grandpére ’s lessons knocked against her temple. If you show them you do not care, they may wonder why. But eventually they will cease to torture you about it. He’d intended the advice as a means of handling her parents when they were particularly vicious, but she could apply the same logic here, with the comte .
    His hand fisted around the neckline of her gown. “When I ask, you answer.”
    But words were her mortal enemy, and Claudia didn’t want to answer. So she shrugged again, this time lifting her chin in a meager show of defiance.
    A calculating expression tightened his features. “ Chaton. ”
    A word so random it startled her into speech. “Did you just c-call me a kitten ?”
    “ Oui. You look like un chaton , all soft, but sharp at the edges.” He paused. “Will you scratch me, kitten?”
    Oh, she’d like to scratch him. Each passing moment ratcheted her anger one notch higher, fear nothing but an echo in the back of her mind, until she imagined claws tipping her fingers. She pictured shredding the linen at her wrists and then leaping forward to slice furrows into his smooth cheek. He deserved punishment, this comte , for making her body yearn for more of his touches, and scratching him bloody would do nicely.
    Her breathing unsteady, her pulse racing with adrenaline born of this wretched situation, Claudia regretted ever following Sabien into the parlor. After years spent learning to avoid volatile situations—tiptoeing around her father’s tempers and her mother’s fits—she’d foolishly made herself a victim. No matter how she softened toward the comte , her foolishness could prove deadly, to both her reputation and her person.
    Weary of her thoughts, of fighting, she tipped her head back against the shelf and closed her eyes, needing to shut out the sight of him. “What d-do you want, t-truly?”
    Silence reigned. She listened to his breathing, steady and calm, and tried to match hers to it. Perhaps she was missing an obvious solution, a plainly routed escape, all because of the exhilarating terror that had her by the throat.
    “I wish to help you.”
    With Sabien? Now it was her turn to ask, “Why?”
    The fist in her gown unclenched, fell away, the fabric loosening immediately across her breasts. “As I said, Sabien is my friend.” He paused. “If you can please him, perhaps you should have him.”
    She swallowed hard, a reflex exacerbated by the exposed expanse of her throat. “I d-don’t know,” she admitted in a whisper.
    “What do you not know?”
    “If I c-can—” Breaking off, she raised her head, opened her eyes. “If I can p-please him.”
    He moved away to fetch the lamp from the closet floor, and she immediately exhaled in some mutant form of relief,