Carlson had tried in vain to direct him to a hot bath, but Tobin had stood aboard ship decks in far worse weather and did not require that sort of pampering. What he required was a stiff drink. He paced before the roaring hearth with a brandy snifter dangling between two fingers. He was conflicted, and he was not a man to be conflicted. He never cared enough about anything to be conflicted. And on those rare occasions he did care, as in the case of his father’s unjust death, his path was exceedingly clear—very black and white without even a hint of gray. Yet for a few highly charged, highly pleasurable moments this afternoon, his path had not been so clear. The mud in him had disappeared, and in its place had come a vastly different feeling—he’d been an inferno, wanting the one woman he did not want to want. What he wanted was to ruin her—not to desire her. Not to feel enslaved to her body and her smile. But desire her, he had. Kissing her had breathed lifeblood into him, and he’d risen from the dead in those moments.
What do You think about The Revenge Of Lord Eberlin?
