The Scandalous Collection. Кейт Хьюит
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that a man like this was unlikely to be impressed with a woman like her. But she shook that off almost as soon as she thought it. It was the challenge of it, she decided in that moment. She wasn’t one to back down. She preferred to jump in feet first, and sort it all out later. She might have cooked up this make-your-own-fairy-tale plan in a wild panic on her flight across Europe, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a good one. There was surely no point in changing her plan or even her wicked ways now. No point in false advertising, either. She was who she was, take it or leave it.
Most left it, of course, or ran up exorbitant debts in her name, but she told herself she was better for the things she’d lived through. Stronger anyway. Tougher.
She didn’t know why she suspected that, with this man, she’d have to be. Or why that suspicion didn’t send her running for the pretty green hills she’d seen as her plane came in to land on this magical little island.
“What happened to your face?” she asked, simple and direct, and waited to see what he’d do.
Rafe McFarland, who loathed the fact that he was currently dressed in fine and uncomfortable clothes for the express purpose of trumpeting his eminence as the Eighth Earl of Pembroke to all of his royal Santina cousins, as duty demanded, stared at the woman before him in the closest he’d come to shock in a long, long time.
He could not have heard her correctly.
But her perfectly arched eyebrows rose inquiringly over her sky-blue eyes, making her remarkably pretty face seem clever, and she regarded him with the kind of amused patience that suggested he had, in fact, heard her perfectly.
Rafe was well-used to women like this one catching sight of him from afar and heading toward him with that swing in their hips and that purpose in their eyes. He knew exactly how irresistible he’d once been to women—he had only to look at the remnants of what he’d once taken for granted in the mirror. He knew the whole, sad dance by heart. They advanced on him, delicious curves poured into dresses like the one this woman wore, that made her body look like a fantasy come to life—until he showed them the whole of his face.
Which he always did. Deliberately. Even cruelly.
It was, he knew all too well, a face that no one could bear to look at for long, least of all himself. It was the face of a monster all dressed up in a five-thousand-pound bespoke Italian suit, and Rafe lived with the bitter knowledge that the scars were not the half of it—not compared to the monster within. He took his terrible face out into public less and less these days, because he found the dance more and more difficult to bear with anything approaching equanimity. It always ended the same way. The more polite ones abruptly fixed their attention to a point just beyond him and walked on by, never sparing him another glance. The less polite gasped in horror as if they’d seen the very devil himself and then turned back around in a hurry. He had seen it all a hundred times. He couldn’t even say the specific reactions bothered him anymore. He told himself they were, at the very least, honest. The sad truth was that he was grateful, on some level, for the scars that so helpfully advertised how deeply unsuited he was to human interaction of any kind. Better they should all be warned off in advance.
This woman, however, in her tiny black dress that licked over her tight, perfect curves, with her short and choppy blonde hair that seemed as bold and demanding as her sharp, too-clear blue eyes, had kept right on coming—even after he’d presented her with his face. With a full view of the scars that marked him as the monster he’d always known he was, since long before he’d had to wear the evidence on his face.
And then she’d actually asked him a direct question about those scars.
In all the years since his injury, this had never happened. Which alone would have made it interesting. The fact that she was so beautiful it made him ache in ways he’d thought he never would again—well, that was just an added bonus.
“No one ever asks me that,” he heard himself say, almost as if he was used to conversations with strangers. Or anyone he did not employ. “Certainly not directly. It is the elephant in the room. Or perhaps the Elephant Man in the room, to be more precise.”
If possible, she looked even more closely at his scars, tracing the sweep of them with her bright blue gaze. Rafe hardly looked at them himself anymore, except to note that they remained right where he’d last seen them, no longer red and furious, perhaps, but certainly nothing like unnoticeable either. They did not blend. They did not, as a wildly optimistic plastic surgeon had once suggested they might, fade. Not enough to matter. And anyway, he preferred them to stay right where they were. There was less possibility of confusion if he wore the truth about himself right there on his face. He didn’t know how he felt about this strange woman looking so intently at them, really looking at them, but he didn’t do anything to stop her, and eventually her clever eyes moved back to his.
A kind of thunderclap reverberated through him. It took a moment to realize it was pure desire, punching into his gut.
“It’s only a bit of scarring,” she replied, that same smile on her mouth, her tone light. Airy. Teasing him, he realized in some kind of amazement. She was actually teasing him. “You’re hardly the Phantom of the Opera, are you?”
Rafe couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled at a society event, even before he’d had this face of his to bear stoically and pretend didn’t bother him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled at all, come to that. But something closer to a smile than he’d felt in ages threatened the corners of his mouth, and more surprising than that, for a moment he considered giving in to it.
“I was in the army,” he said. He watched her absorb that with a small nod and a narrowing of her lovely eyes, as if she was fitting him into some category in her head. He wondered which one. Then he wondered why on earth he should care. “There was an ambush and an explosion.”
He hated himself for that—for such a stripped-down description of something that should never be explained away in an easy little sentence. As if two throwaway words did any justice to the horror, the pain. The sudden bright light, the deafening noise. His friends, gone in an instant if they had been lucky. Others, much less lucky. And Rafe, the least lucky of all, with his long, nightmare-ridden, scarred agony of survival.
It was no wonder he never looked in the mirror anymore. There were too many ghosts.
He didn’t intend to give her any further details, so he should not have felt slightly disappointed that she didn’t ask. But she also hadn’t turned away, and he found that contrary to all of his usual instincts where beautiful women at tedious, drink-sodden society events were concerned, however few he’d attended in recent years, he didn’t want her to.
“I’m Angel Tilson,” she said, and offered him her hand, still smiling, as easily as if she spoke to monsters every day and found it—him—completely unremarkable. But then, he reminded himself sharply, she could only see the surface. She had no idea what lurked beneath. “Stepsister to Allegra, the beautiful bride-to-be.”
Angel, he repeated in his head, in a manner he might have found appallingly close to sentimental had she not been standing there in front of him, that teasing smile still crooking her lips, her blue eyes daring him. Daring him.
He had the strangest sensation then—as if, despite everything, he might just be alive after all, just like everybody else. And that same intense desire seemed to move through him then, setting him on fire.
“Rafe McFarland,” he said, and then, more formally, “Lord Pembroke. Distant cousin to the Santinas, through some exalted ancestor or another.”
He took her hand and, obeying an urge he did not care to examine and could not quite understand, lifted it to his lips. Something arced between them when their skin met, his mouth against the soft back of her hand, something white-hot and wild, and for a moment it was as if the Palazzo Santina fell away, as if there was no well-blooded crowd playing the usual drunken games all around them, no strains of soothing music wafting through the air, nothing at all but this.
Heat. Light. Sex.
Impossible,