His Heart's Revenge (The Marshall Brothers Series, Book 2) by Jo Goodman

shimmered down Katy's spine. "Oh, it's you. For a moment..."
    "Yes?"
    "Nothing," she said tersely, regaining control. "What are you doing here, Michael? I specifically told Mr. Grant I didn't care to entertain visitors. Can you not accept no for an answer?"
    "Not where you're concerned." Michael Donovan's smile was smooth and engaging. Even when it failed to coax Katy, the smile lost none of its confidence. True, Michael's light blue eyes became fixed and frosty, but the smile never faltered. "Come here, let me finish unlacing you. I don't mind playing the lady's maid."
    " I mind. Take a seat on the other side of the screen, Michael. Allow me some privacy."
    It was definitely not the time to remind Katy he had seen a lot more of her than she was revealing now. Discretion being, in this case, the better part of common sense, Michael said nothing and took a seat on the chaise longue out of Katy's view. "I told you I would come by this evening," he called to her. "Had you forgotten?"
    "I try to forget all unpleasantness," she replied. Michael Donovan was a most handsome man. An Adonis, she had heard one ingénue in the company call him. If pressed, Katy would have agreed. Michael's features appeared to have been sculpted by an artist's hand with clean, strong, chiseled lines. His light blond hair was streaked with sunshine. A shade darker than his hair, Michael's mustache accentuated the line of his sensual, sulky mouth. He was tall and broad-shouldered and carried himself with pride and confidence. In all the time Katy had known him, he had only been honest about one thing—he did not accept no for an answer.
    Michael ignored her and picked up the paper lying at the foot of the chaise. It was the Chronicle . "Whom were you expecting?" he asked casually, flipping through the pages.
    "No one. That's why you startled me."
    He would not let the lie pass. "That's not true. You were actually relieved to see me for a moment."
    "You're mistaken, Michael. I am never relieved to see you."
    "My, my. You are irritable this evening. Didn't the performance go well?"
    "Do you mean you didn't see it?"
    "I was here opening night, remember? That was enough, I assure you. You are quite wonderful in it, but to turn a phrase, the play's not the thing. You are."
    "I am not flattered." She slipped into a cream satin dressing gown, stepped out from behind the screen, and sat down at the vanity. She pinned up her hair and began to remove the greasepaint that accentuated her features on stage. Beyond Katy's shoulder, Michael's reflection dominated the mirror.
    "Was it my father?" he asked, refusing to drop the subject. "He left home shortly after dinner this evening. Ria remarked that he took a cab downtown. I thought he might have come here."
    "I have not seen Victor in three, no, four days. You might want to check his studio or the Union Club. Your father has a life outside the theatre and interests other than me. You would know that if you paid attention to Victor instead of his money."
    "People who live in glass houses... well, you take my meaning. Suffice it to say you were not expecting him."
    "I told you, I was not expecting anyone. You're being particularly tiresome this evening," she said. "Why don't you take yourself off? Go home to your wife."
    "I despise that butter-won't-melt tone." Michael sat up straighter, folded the newspaper, and tapped it against his knee. He watched her in the mirror, although she never met his gaze. "It doesn't work with me, Katy. I'm ten years your senior. Use it on one of the johnnies who sniff after your skirts, but not on me. I buy your skirts."
    "You are vulgar, Michael. Get out. I mean it. I will call someone to have you evicted. Just because you backed this play with a bit of money, don't mistake yourself for someone important to me."
    Dropping the Chronicle , Michael came to stand behind Katy. He rested his hands on her slender shoulders. His thumbs stroked the sensitive nape of her neck. "You're very