Blackwell had become that jaguar she'd evoked the first time she'd laid eyes on him. His shoulders rolled and bunched just so he settled in for a feast.

It wasn't the many slashes and scars marring his chest that caused her sudden gasp, though she felt the pain of each one. It was the unparalleled beauty of his physique that stole her breath. Dorian's body was rendered by some ancient god of war. No Greek sculpture could compare, no artist could re-create the sleek, predatory masculinity rippling through the complex landscape of his torso.

A dark shadow leaped from the stairs, his long coat flowing behind him like demon wings, landing in between her and Warrington.Dorian.He looked like the devil, come to take his minion. His hair black as obsidian. His scarred eye glittering with so many dark things, Farah couldn't identify a single one through her shock.

An eye patch covered his damaged eye, only allowing glimpses of the edge of his scar, but the message illuminated by the fire didn't need both eyes to be conveyed.'I have you now.'How true that was. Her life depended on the mercy of this man who was infamous for his lack of mercy.

Rich as Midas, they said, powerful as a Caesar, and ruthless as the devil. So he didn't have a pretty face for the ladies to coo over, but a man such as Dorian Blackwell drew feminine notice wherever he prowled. Fear and fascination proved to be powerful tools of seduction, and women reacted one way or the other toward the dark giant.

Of all the evil Farah had had a chance to glimpse in this room, Dorian Blackwell's smile, full of his own blood and teeth and challenge, had to be the most frightening Farah had witnessed in her entire life. His eyes were dead, devoid of any hope or humanity, the milky blue one utterly motionless but for the reflection of the torchlight lending it an unnatural pagan gleam.

His thoughts became as scattered and aimless as the rivulets sluicing down her lush curves. She was a goddess rising from the water. Like Botticelli's Birth of Venus, except with heavy silvery hair darkened by her bath that, unlike Venus, she didn't use to hide her feminine secrets. She stood with her chin held at an obstinate angle, her shoulders straight in an observance of good posture, those soft gray eyes staring at him with a mixture of resolution and expectation.

She's efficient and well liked, but keeps to herself. Quiet. Which is a rare and commendable female trait, in my experience. She works harder than the other two clerks, but gets paid less.

To distract himself from the pain, he focused his blurring vision on the droplets of moisture collecting like diamonds in her abundant curls. Instead of making her hair heavy and straight, the rain seemed to coil the ringlets tighter and anoint the silvery strands with a darker gloss of spun gold.

Farah gaped, unable to fathom his brutality. She shouldn't be shocked, she'd been around the worst sort of criminals for more years than she'd care to admit. But, somehow, it astounded her that one so cultured, so relaxed and wealthy and tailored, could issue such a threat with a civil tongue. The criminals of her acquaintance were dirty and foul with explosive tempers and crude language. Blackwell threatened violence as though discussing the price of Irish potatoes.