Behind the Courtesan’s Mask by Marguerite Kaye Page B

green young whippersnapper. Which, he thought to himself purposefully as he dragged back the curtains of the pink salon to let in the light, was precisely why he was here.
    He took his time inspecting this most notorious and highly paid of London’s highfliers, noting the fiery streaks in her thick curls, the heaviness of the loose top knot. Her hair was long, it looked as if it would reach all the way down her back. Perfect skin that seemed to owe nothing to artifice. That surprised him. Her beauty was famed, but still, the freshness of it, the heart-shaped face, her huge almond eyes, the plumply sensual curve of her mouth, took him aback. Here was no painted whore. Seeing her now, he understood quite clearly why she was so infamous, and why that young fool of a boy who was the ambassador’s son was so besotted.
    â€œSo, you are the infamous La Perla.”
    Constance flinched. It hadn’t occurred to her, as she opened the door in Annalisa’s finery, that she would be taken for her, but now she realized how foolish she had been. Was this handsome stranger a prospective lover? Did they customarily turn up on the doorstep like this? Were all her lovers so very attractive? Sinfully attractive. Sin. The word would not leave her alone. Annalisa would sin with this man, and men like him. Her own sister. She shivered, but not from cold.
    â€œWill you at least tell me who you are, sir,” Constance asked.
    The stranger hesitated. “You may call me Troy.”
    Unusual enough to be anything other than true, Constance reasoned, but he obviously intended to give little else away, for whatever reason. It made her hesitate to declare her own identity. “And what precisely is the nature of your business here? What do you want with my—with me?”
    â€œIsn’t it obvious?” Troy had been leaning against the window, but now he closed the gap between them. The dress she wore was low-cut, revealing just enough of her full breasts to make him want to see more. The pearls caressed her skin, nestling in the dip of her cleavage. “La Perla,” he said, catching the end of the long strand, lacing it through his fingers. “Cool and smooth,” he murmured ambiguously. Her bosom rose and fell hypnotically. He was surprised to find himself hardening. Knowing what he did of her reputation, he had not expected to find her so attractive. In his book, such women were as out of bounds as other men’s wives. He wound the pearls round his fist, drawing her toward him. “La Perla. I hope you are not, like these famous beads of yours, beyond price.”
    â€œLet me go.” Constance fought to control her breathing. She was not frightened. He thought she was Annalisa. She was beginning to think it herself, the way he was looking at her, the way he was touching her, the way she was allowing him to do both. No, she was not frightened, but she was—she was—something. She didn’t know what. His physical proximity was unnerving. He was too male. Too big. Too powerful. Heat and something else emanated from his body. Something almost feral. She reached for the pearls, tried to tug them from him to free herself, tried to muster the resolution to put him straight as to her identity, but his hand closed over hers. A large hand. Warm. Long, strong fingers.
    â€œLet me go,” she said again, though even to her own ears, her request sounded just a bit unconvincing.
    â€œYou know you don’t mean it.” Troy coiled a strand of her hair round his other hand, effectively binding her to him. “Mock resistance is your stock-in-trade.” And it was working. He didn’t want to let her go. What he wanted to do was kiss her. She was intoxicating. The brush of her breasts against his chest, the rustle of her silks against his legs, the scent of her, like an exotic flower. It occurred to him, serendipitously, that if she kissed him back it would be evidence of a sort. But he