Master of Sin by Maggie Robinson Page A

tug up your dress and display some ankle so you don’t trip on your skirts again. I promise I won’t look.”
    â€œHah.”
    She knew as well as he did his promise was hollow. He would have to master himself soon or he would go mad. He watched the voluminous fabric sway as she stumbled up the steps, bracing himself for another accidental encounter. But alas, she made it to the top of the stairs without incident. He heard Marc down the hall, singing to himself in his crib. It was an Italian song Miss Peartree had sung to him, her voice surprisingly lush coming from so slight an instrument.
    Andrew could not remember a time his mother had ever sung to him. Perhaps she had, and other, less pleasant memories had layered and crusted over his early years making them impenetrable. Molly Rossiter had fallen so deep in poverty that her looks and spirits had deserted her, and then she had deserted him. Andrew owed his male beauty to her, but his survival skills were all his own.
    He watched as Miss Peartree lifted a sleep-flushed Marc from his bed, his yellow ringlets damp and tufting. Andrew had decided to keep his own hair shorn; no point in looking like an angel when one had fallen so very far. There were no more lovers to exclaim upon his curls or run their fingers through his sex-rumpled hair—unless he could somehow persuade the nameless Miss Peartree to abandon her virtue and good sense.
    A winter in this wild, desolate place just might do it. When Andrew set his mind—and his body—to it, all manner of things were possible. But it was best to keep Miss Peartree safe from his predatory nature. It was the least he could do to thank her for the miracle she was working with his son. As his dreams reminded him, it was far too late to work any miracles with him.

CHAPTER 8
    G emma snuggled with Marc close against her breast, wishing it was the father instead of the son she held so close. It had been a very near thing on the stairs, falling down and into Andrew Ross’s embrace. She had let her temper get the best of her as usual and been rude to her employer once again, but really—he had taken advantage of her helplessness and her hideous dress and her own confusion.
    Although she’d vowed to be wiser, it was futile not to want Andrew Ross. He was all attractive sin, wit, and mystery. He’d held her so carefully, his clear blue eyes looking down straight into her soul. He smelled of lime and oatmeal soap—and good enough to eat, really. If she ever wanted to devour a gentleman, Andrew Ross would be at the top of the menu.
    She wondered about his unhappy marriage and his need to hide on this island. It wasn’t as if this was his ancestral home or he spoke the language or he loved the wintry weather—if anything, it must make his poor damaged arm ache like the devil. She saw the white lines around his mouth, watched his eyes flash with discomfort every time he jarred it or attempted normal activities. It must be torture to hold his own child and hard on his pride when old Mr. MacLaren was far more capable than he was to make ordinary repairs.
    Though she ached for him, she was careful not to show it. It had become a difficult chore to be as rude to him as she was. And now that her job looked secure—at least for two weeks, although she was sure he was only teasing—she would be shut up in this house with him all winter. He was temptation incarnate.
    A gust of wind rattled the window frame. “No!” cried Marc.
    She carried him to the window. “That’s right. It’s snowing again. Pretty, yes? Bella ? White. Bianca . I don’t imagine he ever saw snow before coming here,” she said to his father.
    â€œNo. He lived on the Mediterranean coast. Every day was filled with sunshine and gentle bay breezes.”
    â€œIt sounds like heaven.” Gemma imagined picnics, replete with wine and exotic foods. Andrew Ross might peel her a grape as she dozed on