Don't Tempt Me

Beautiful women were excellent at luring such commodities from men.



“You have a lovely home,” James said.



“Merci.”



James was tall and lean with brown hair, dark eyes framed by brass spectacles, and a strong jaw. He was not handsome by any definition, but Desjardins’s daughter Anne was infatuated with the man’s “intensity” and spoke of him incessantly. Anne took great pains to join any outing or excursion that included James and noted all the minute details, such as how he liked his tea. Because of this, Desjardins felt he had a strong grasp of the type of man James was. He intended to feed that information to Lysette, which she could then use to become perfect for him.



“What are your plans for the rest of the week?” Desjardins asked.



He listened carefully to James’s reply, cataloguing the finer points to include in his notes for Lysette. He hoped the secretary enjoyed his brief time with the lovely blonde who was far above his station.



She would cost him his employment and reputation, if not far more precious things. Such as his life.



Chapter 4



“So, we finally part ways,” Lysette murmured.



Simon grinned. If this had been the end of a liaison, he would have affected a more flattering show of melancholy. As it was, such subterfuge wasn’t necessary.



“Look how happy you are.” A reluctant smile curved her lips and he noted how it transformed her features. Lysette was truly one of the most beautiful women he had ever met. Her glorious tresses were shot with various shadings of pale gold and light browns. Her skin was like the richest ivory satin, her eyes the blue of a clear summer sky, her lips lush and pouty within her heart-shaped face. She was petite and lithe but perfectly proportioned. Not too curvy or too thin. Because of her exterior flawlessness, he found it somewhat unnerving to realize that, aside from the moment he first met her, he had never had any desire to tumble her. Even after the last few weeks of abstinence and near constant proximity to her, he hadn’t considered bedding her.



“You must be relieved to be rid of me, as well,” he said easily.



“Of course.”



The hard glimmer returned to her eyes and he sighed inwardly. Once again, the moment he felt the slightest softening toward her, she reminded him of why he did not like her. It had nothing to do with her lack of affection for him and everything to do with the fact that she was so mutable. At times she seemed confused, at others she appeared to relish her work far too much for his tastes. He suspected she was a bit touched and he had learned to avoid those who suffered afflictions of the mind. They were a danger to themselves and others.



As soon as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the small home on a quiet street, Simon opened the door and leaped out. Then he extended his gloved hand to assist Lysette down.



Her hat rim came into view first, then it rose as she tilted her head back to gaze at the front of the residence.



“What is this place?” he asked.



“My home.”



Simon studied her openly. She seemed pensive and melancholy, her pale blue eyes shadowed with secrets he did not care to know.



Lysette Rousseau was one of the most cutthroat individuals he’d ever had the misfortune to meet, one who took pleasure in the misery of others. It was oftentimes difficult to reconcile her beautiful, fragile exterior with the hardened woman he knew her to be. He’d watched her kill a man with novel ferocity, an act even more disconcerting when committed by a lovely seductress. Yet she had the bearing and tastes of a woman of breeding. The combination of civility and blood thirst was discordant.



Frankly, he could not wait to be rid of her and the mystery she represented. He was weary of prying into other people’s lives on behalf of a king he cared little about. He wanted to live his own life and he had—finally—accumulated enough wealth to do so. No longer would he serve the needs of another. The world was his, or it soon would be, once he exchanged the wily Lysette for Richard and the others.



He pivoted and wrapped her arm around his. “Ready?” he asked.



Lysette inhaled sharply, then nodded.



Simon noted that tiny act of gathering courage and felt a brief flare of concern. He almost asked her if there was some assistance she required, but he held his tongue. While the last vestiges of his chivalry urged him to assist a damsel in distress, the blunt truth of the matter was that she had made her own bed and now she must lie in it. His responsibility was not to her but to the dozen men who worked for him. Still, despite thinking so callously, he let kinder words leave his lips.



“I will remain in Paris for a month or so.”



The statement was not a romantic appeal and she knew it. He was offering a temporary harbor in case of a possible storm. The startled look she gave him in response afforded him a brief glimpse of an unaffected Lysette. For a moment she glowed from within, a shimmer of wary hope and innocence.



Then it was gone.



He steeled himself for a sharp and jeering rebuke, as was her usual response to any friendly overture. Instead, her mouth curved slightly and she gave an almost imperceptible nod.



Together they climbed the steps and entered her home. As they walked into the foyer, the lilting notes of a pianoforte greeted them. An elaborate and stunning crystal-covered chandelier hung above the gold-veined marble, and fresh flowers displayed in alcoves contributed their fragrance to the genial welcome.



Lysette led him into a parlor decorated in soothing shades of yellow and gold. Amid the soft palette, the emerald-garbed Comte Desjardins could not be missed.



“Bonjour, Mr. Quinn,” the comte greeted, rising to his feet from his seat at the pianoforte.



“My lord.” Simon once again marveled that such a short and slightly built man would have such a powerful voice. He doubted such volume could be contained in a whisper, a thought even more startling considering the body to which the voice belonged looked as if a stiff wind could topple it over.



“Lysette, ma petite.” Desjardins approached her with a look of pride and affection on his long face. He caught up her hands and kissed her cheek. “Comment te sens-tu?”



“Bien, merci.”



Lysette’s response was much more subdued, without a hint of warmth. The comte seemed unaffected by her lack of joy at being returned to his care.



“Excellent.” He turned back to Simon. “Would you care for some tea, Mr. Quinn?”



“No, thank you.” Simon’s brows rose slightly at the ease with which Desjardins appropriated Lysette’s home. “I prefer to conclude our transaction and go on my way.”



“What of Jacques and Cartland?” Lysette asked.



Desjardins gestured for Lysette to take a seat. “Arrangements will be made.”



She glanced at Simon and he answered with a querying lift of his brows. She frowned, apparently as clueless as he was.



“Your men were released when you arrived, Mr. Quinn,” the comte said, “as promised.”



Simon moved over to the window and looked outside, then he glanced at the clock on the mantel. “I will enjoy your company for a few more moments, if you have no objections.”



Lysette’s mouth quirked. They all knew Simon would not leave without ensuring his men were safe, objections or not.



The comte shrugged. “As you wish. Stay as long as you desire. I am grateful to you for returning Mademoiselle Rousseau in good health.”



“I take no pleasure in wounding others,” Simon said grimly. “And I cannot expect to receive my men unharmed if I return damaged goods.”



“Very civilized of you. So what are your plans now?” Desjardins asked, rocking back on his heels and smiling innocently.



“None of your damned concern,” Simon drawled, growing impatient with the comte’s facetiousness. “No offense, my lord.”



“None taken.”



A short rap on the door heralded the arrival of a tea service delivered by a housekeeper as elderly as the butler. Both looked as if they should have been pensioned off long ago. As Lysette began to strip off her gloves, Simon looked out the window again. Across the street, a flash of red caught his eye. He grinned and turned about.



“I will take my leave now,” he said.



“See?” Desjardins gloated. “I am a trustworthy fellow.”



Simon choked. He moved to Lysette and she extended her bare hand to him.



“Au revoir, mon amour,” she purred.



He bent and kissed the smooth skin, his gaze locking with hers. “Try to stay out of mischief.”



“What fun would there be in that?” Although she teased, the lines of strain that rimmed her eyes and mouth belied her nonchalance.



Simon glanced at Desjardins with a scowl, irritated to discover that he was unable to leave Lysette if she felt endangered. But the regard the comte bestowed upon her was affectionate. There was warmth in his eyes and his smile. The inequality of the exchange for her return was also a sign of her value. She would land on her feet, of that Simon was certain. And if there was trouble, she knew where to find him.



With a last squeeze of her hand, he released her, and after bowing to the comte, he departed. There was a slight spring to his step as he returned to his waiting carriage.



When the bars restraining his men had been opened, he had been freed as well. He answered to no one now and nothing held him back.



As Lysette poured tea, she also watched Desjardins. The comte stood at the window, watching as Simon left. He looked thinner and more gaunt, which was disturbing. But when he turned about and faced her, he seemed genuinely happy.



“You look well,” he said, assessing her carefully.



“As well as can be expected under the circumstances.” She added liberal amounts of sugar and cream to the comte’s serving, then held the cup and saucer out to him.



He stepped closer and accepted it. “Tell me what transpired.”



Lysette straightened. Her last assignment had gone horribly awry, despite how simple the plan had seemed on the outset. Quinn’s closest associate, Colin Mitchell, had left Quinn’s employ with the intent to return to England. Jacques had been tasked with befriending Mitchell in an effort to discover the identity of Quinn’s superior—the man who took French secrets directly to the English king.