Wicked Intentions 1 Read Online Free PDF Page B

replied. “You’ve bedded enough whores.”
    “I have needs—”
    “You have indulgences,” St. John interrupted quietly, “and you make no effort to rein them in.”
    “And why should I?” Lazarus asked. “Does the wolf mourn his joy at running down his prey? The hawk the desire to soar and then dive to catch the hare in his talons? It is in their nature, just as my… needs … are in mine.”
    “The wolf and the hawk have no conscience, no soul, as you very well know.”
    “The women I use are paid quite well for their time. My needs hurt no one.”
    “Don’t they?” St. John asked softly. “I wonder if they hurt you, Caire.”
    Lazarus curled his upper lip. “This is an old argument and one that neither one of us has yet to win.”
    “If I give up the argument, I give up you as well.”
    Lazarus rapped his fingers against the worn tabletop, saying nothing. Damned if he’d submit to St. John’s worries. His needs were unusual—strange, even—but certainly not morbid.
    Of course, St. John had no problem with probing where he wasn’t wanted.
    The other man shook his head and leaned back in his chair. “You were out last night.”
    “Gracious me! Have you become a fortune-teller? Or were you ’round my town house last night and found me absent?”
    “Neither.” St. John calmly pushed his spectacles up onto his forehead. “You wear the same look as last time I saw you, a kind of—”
    “Weariness?”
    “I was about to say desperation. ”
    Lazarus took a sip of the hot coffee, damnably aware that he was buying time, but in the end, all he could reply was, “I didn’t know you had such a flair for the dramatic. Desperation seems to overstate the case by miles.”
    “I don’t think so.” St. John peered absently into his own tankard of coffee. “You’ve worn that look since Marie’s death. Do you deny that you were searching for her killer last night yet again?”
    “No.” Lazarus sat back in his chair, regarding his old friend from beneath half-lowered eyelids. “What of it?”
    “You’re obsessed, man.” St. John said the words evenly, which somehow only gave them more impact. “She’s been dead nearly two months, and you’ve spent every night looking for her murderer. Tell me, Lazarus, when will you give up the hunt?”
    “When would you give up if Clara were murdered?” Lazarus shot back.
    The only sign of how deeply the arrow hit was a small tic on St. John’s jaw. “Never. But the cases are different.”
    “How? Because you are married to your woman whilst Marie was merely my mistress?”
    “No,” St. John said gently. “Because I love Clara.”
    Lazarus looked away. However much a mean-spirited part of him wanted to deny that difference, he couldn’t in truth do it. For St. John was right: he did love his Clara.
    Whereas Lazarus had never loved anyone at all.
    “I DON’T LIKE this, ma’am. I don’t like it at all,” Nell said late that night in the foundling home kitchen.
    “You’ve made your disapproval quite plain,” Temperance muttered as she tied her cloak under her chin.
    Nell was undeterred by the reminder. “What if he has designs upon your virtue? What if he seduces and abandons you? Or worse—what if he sells you to a whoremonger? Oh, ma’am! Terrible things could happen to you!”
    Temperance suppressed a shiver at the thought of Lord Caire doing “terrible things” to her. It should have been a shiver of revulsion. Instead, the thought of Lord Caire’s sexual proclivities made her unnaturally curious. That wicked wanton part of her sat up and twitched its nose, eager as ever to be let loose. That she couldn’t let happen. Once, long ago, she’d let her base nature take control and had committed an unforgivable sin. Ever since, she’d lived every day knowing she must atone and refrain from letting her demons loose again.
    Temperance yanked her hood over her head. “I very much doubt Lord Caire is interested in doing anything atall to