Sexy As Hell

Table of Contents

 

 

Praise for the novels of Susan Johnson

“Susan Johnson is a queen of erotic, exciting romance who soars to new heights with each novel.”

—
Romantic Times

 

“Johnson delivers another fast, titillating read that overflows with sex scenes and rapid-fire dialogue.”

—
Publishers Weekly

 

“A spellbinding read and a lot of fun . . . Johnson takes sensuality to the edge, writing smoldering stories with characters the reader won’t want to leave.”

—
The Oakland (MI) Press

 

“Sensually charged writing . . . Johnson knows exactly what her devoted readers desire, and she delivers it with her usual flair.”

—
Booklist

 

“Fascinating . . . The author’s style is a pleasure to read.”

—
Los Angeles Herald-Examiner

 

“Flat-out fabulous, sexy [novels] so textured they sometimes compare . . . to the phenomenal Judith Ivory.”

—
All About Romance

HOT PINK
HOT LEGS
HOT SPOT
FRENCH KISS
WINE, TARTS, & SEX
HOT PROPERTY
GORGEOUS AS SIN
SEXY AS HELL
TWIN PEAKS
(with Jasmine Haynes)

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

SEXY AS HELL

 

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / January 2010

Copyright © 2010 by Susan Johnson.

 

eISBN : 978-1-101-17141-7

 

CHAPTER 1

London, January 1892

 

 

 

 

 

 

OSMOND, BARON LENNOX, was known for his luck at cards. Oz would call it skill, but regardless of the reason, there was no doubt he was on a winning streak tonight. A crowd had slowly gathered round the table as the stakes rose, and Brooks’s members, gamesters to the core, were hazarding wagers on how long Elphinstone would last. Viscount Elphinstone had been losing heavily. While his père could afford it, Elphinstone was clearly rankled. He was slumped in his chair, coatless, disheveled, red faced, and looking pugnacious—although that may have been due to the family’s propensity to breed true on their bulldog features.

Elphinstone’s major opponent at the table was lounging back in his chair, his dark eyes amused, a half smile on his handsome face, nonchalance in every lithe contour of his tall, lean frame. Or rather, indifference some might say; Lennox never seemed to care whether he won or lost.

“It ain’t fair, Oz. You always get the good cards,” the young Marquis of Telford groused, staring at his cards with obvious disgust.

Lennox glanced up. “Lady Luck’s been good to me tonight,” he murmured, taking a card from his hand and dropping it on the green baize.

“As usual,” Elphinstone growled.

A servant approached and bent to whisper in Lennox’s ear. The baron nodded without looking up from his cards. “Your turn, Harry. This is my last hand.”

“Nell getting tired of waiting?” Harry Ogilvie waggishly queried.

Oz’s heavy-lidded gaze met his friend’s droll glance for a telling moment. “Are you talking to me, Harry?”

The Earl of Airlie’s youngest son grinned. “Hell no. Slip of the tongue.”

“Someday an irate husband is going to have you horse-whipped, Lennox,” Elphinstone muttered.

“Only if he’s not man enough to call me out,” Oz drawled. The viscount’s wife was a pretty little hussy; could he help it if she was in hot pursuit?

A sudden hush greeted Oz’s soft-spoken challenge.

The eyes of the crowd locked on Elphinstone, wondering if he’d respond, or more to the point,
how
he’d respond. Lennox was young and wild, his temper as easily provoked as his lust, and while he’d been screwing his way through the ranks of London’s fair beauties the last two years, he’d also had more than his share of duels.

With not so much as a bruise for his exertions.

Elphinstone finally growled something under his breath, his nostrils flaring, his narrowed gaze two pinpricks of anger. Then not inclined to end his life or be maimed, he scanned the breathless crowd. “You won’t see blood tonight on my account,” he spat. Turning back to Oz, he snarled, “I’ll raise you a thousand,” recklessly wagering his father’s money rather than stake his life.

Held breaths were released, a collective sigh of relief wafted round the table; Elphinstone wouldn’t have stood a chance at ten paces. Or even a hundred. Ask Buckley, who’d barely survived his recent ill-advised challenge.