….and now a sneak peek from Meet a Rogue at Midnight….

Chapter Three
His touch demanded a kiss.
She rocked up on her toes and mashed her lips to his. It was the only way to take control; otherwise Jonas would have the upper hand.
But, he did have the upper hand—smashed to her breast because she’d flung herself at him and his gloved hand had gotten stuck in between. Sensations ricocheted through her body. The cool leather. Five fingers spread wide high in her chest. Nerves singed from his hand resting there.
Heat shot to hidden flesh between her legs. She had an older, married sister. She knew what was happening.
Unfortunately, nothing was happening.
Her mouth locked on his, but neither kissed. What was she supposed to do?
This was nothing like last night’s soul-shattering kiss. The element of surprise was hers, and she’d botched it. Horribly.
Dropping back on her heels, she peeked at Jonas. The outer corners of lapis lazulite eyes crinkled above her, taking in the angles of her face before dipping to his gloved hand.
“My hand.” Jonas removed it from her breast as one might remove their hold on a fragile dish.
Hugging the Halsey tome, she inched away unable to look him in the eye. “That was a disaster.”
What did she expect? Artful, exert kissing? She spent more time with dusty relics than men. Flirting and kissing were two skills she’d not mastered. Lust was easily understood. What to do with it was another kettle of fish.
“Please don’t.” She swiveled around and returned the book to its shelf. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Probably the same thing that overcame me last night.”
His rich baritone message soothed her pride, but with every sense jangled, she couldn’t face Jonas. Not yet. She gathered papers on her desk and ordered them into two neat stacks and re-ordered them again, willing her cheeks too cool off. They were no doubt an unattractive shade of beets.
Snow blew past the tower’s lone window. She rubbed her stomacher, the yellow embroidery ripped from catching the jagged ends of broken mosaics.
“I should be a gentleman and leave,” he said to her back.
“But you’re not going to, are you?”
She swung around and rested both hands on the desk behind her. “You have a talent for leaving when I want you to stay, and staying when I’d prefer you go.”
Jonas pulled a chair out from the work table. He turned it backward and straddled the seat. During her desk organizing he’d removed his hat, gloves, and heavy outer coat. Blue velvet stretched across wide shoulders, the coat flapping open with a casual air. Black leather breeches molded to his thighs, the cut showing he’d patronized one of London’s finer tailors. Pirating must have been lucrative indeed. The Jonas of her youth wore ill-fitting homespun and when he grew larger, the Captain’s oft-mended cast-offs.
With Jonas’s good looks and natty attire, most women would see a dashing man. She saw Plumtree’s quiet rebel son, the young man who’d claimed he didn’t care about wearing patched-up clothes.
Her heart softened. She knew better.
“You look rather comfortable,” she said. “Planning to stay awhile?”

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Happily Ever Afters!