A Rake by Midnight
Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesA short conversation with Gail Ranstrom will convince readers that she should have written a book titled "Jobs I Have Had. " Before taking up the pen, her work experience ran the gamut from a seamstress making waitress uniforms for a German beer garden, to inventory clerk at the University of Montana where she was attacked by a chimpanzee, stepped on dead lab rats in dark basements and located missing satellite spy cameras in–oh, wait, that's classified–to advertising coordinator and PR writer.Most recently Gail was a commercial property manager in the Los Angeles area, troubleshooting incidents as wide ranging as having a SWAT team surrounding one of her buildings, a naked men in the ladies' restroom and rattlesnakes coiled in front of tenants' doors. In between, she partnered with a good friend in an antique business. Don't even get her started on her experiences at antique auctions!She enjoys traveling frequently to see her children in Montana and Florida and to visit friends and a brother in London. As an unabashed Anglophile, she says she could easily spend months in the Cotswolds, an entire summer in Scotland or a year in London. Sometimes that "other Eden" feels more like home to her than her real home.Gail writes historical romance fiction because she loses herself in the past more completely than she can in the present or future. Combine that with her lifelong love of words and reading, the desire to entertain and the fact that she's too shy to do stand-up comedy, and what was left?To aid her in writing romance fiction, she credits fabulous friendships with remarkable women, from family and bridge clubs to work mates and writers' groups. They are the models for her heroines: strong, intelligent and beautiful, while still managing to be caring and vulnerable and very human. Gail says that it is their strength of character and grace under fire that have been her inspiration. And every hero must be a man worthy of them.Readers can contact Gail at GailRanstrom@cs. com.
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“I don’t give a fig where you think I should go!” she exclaimed.
“Don’t you see the danger? Don’t you know what the mere sight of you does to a man?”
She opened her mouth to ask what he meant, but it was too late. His left arm went around her to hold her captive while his right hand cupped the back of her head, preventing her from turning away.
His mouth came down on hers with desperation she could feel in every line of his body. His lips were challenging, not punishing. They were firm, warm and tinged with sweet wine. She had never felt anything as exciting as this before and she was dizzy with the heady sensation.
Surer now, more confident, he softened his assault to coax an answering moan from her. She scarcely recognized her own voice in that sigh. Encouraged, he deepened the kiss and Gina knew she was being branded, claimed, owned entirely by this man. Only James Hunter could have robbed her of the will to resist.
Heavenly and wicked at the same time.
A Rake by Midnight
Harlequin>® Historical #1013—October 2010
Author’s Note
As I near the end of the Hunter brothers’ stories, I have been asked by readers what I have planned for the future. That’s a difficult question to answer. By the time I finish one book, the next character is usually whispering in my ear, telling me a story that I just have to write. So when I finished A Rake by Midnight, Charles Hunter was telling me about this woman he knew, who… Well, you get the idea. And now that I’m nearing the end of that story, a new voice is calling my name. He inhabits the same world of Regency Noir, but he is reluctant to make a comment so early on. Very hush-hush, you know. Clandestine operations, and all that. Please check in for updates!
Meantime, I hope you enjoy A Rake by Midnight.
With affection and gratitude to my readers, who have embraced my characters and the world they inhabit.
Available from Harlequin>® Historical and GAIL RANSTROM
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The Missing Heir #753
The Courtesan’s Courtship #783
Broken Vows, Mended Hearts #803
“Paying the Piper”
Indiscretions #824
Lord Libertine #868
Unlacing Lilly #912
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“A Little Christmas”
A Rake by Midnight #1013
Praise for
Gail Ranstrom
Lord Libertine
“[T]his dark tale…neatly juxtaposes the seamier side of the Regency period with the glittering superficiality of ‘polite society’…a good choice for the Halloween season.”
—Library Journal
The Courtesan’s Courtship
“This book should not be missed.”
—Rakehell
The Rake’s Revenge
“Ranstrom crafts an intriguing mystery, brimming with a fine cast of strong and likable characters and a few surprises.”
—RT Book Reviews
The Missing Heir
“Ranstrom draws us into this suspenseful tale right up to the very end.”
—RT Book Reviews
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Epilogue
Prologue
London, England
July 13, 1821
Her first awareness was of bone-chilling cold at her back, then the incessant cadence of muted voices. She blinked in the flickering red-hued darkness, but pungent smoke stung her eyes so she closed them again, waiting for the air to clear. Incense? No. Something acrid that clogged and burned the back of her throat. Something more intoxicating?
She tried to focus, to gain her bearings, but found the task impossible. Searching her mind for her last lucid memory, she had a vague notion of drinking a glass of wine—bitter wine—given to her by a handsome blondish man. Mr. Henley? Her stomach roiled and she feared she would vomit.
She ached. Every muscle, every part of her, screamed in outrage, but she did not know why. Time was shifting, blurring. She couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t she remember?
The chanting stopped and a single voice rose above her. Someone standing at her head. The shadows closed in, then leaned over her, becoming vague faces and outlines. Yes. She was elevated, lying on a stone slab. The man above her stopped talking and reached over her to open whatever was covering her.
Bare! She was being exposed to all those faces surrounding her. She tried to move, to cover herself, but her limbs did not respond. Why couldn’t she move?
Nameless terror squeezed her chest, cutting off her breath. She tried to scream, but she could only utter a tiny squeak barely audible above the chanting of dozens of voices. Everything had gone dreadfully wrong, but she could not make sense of it.
Another man appeared, kneeling between her legs. Lifting his robes. She knew. Oh, now she knew. She was to suffer Cora’s fate.
Now terror had a name. The Brotherhood.
“No!” a distant voice screamed. Her sister’s voice? Dear Lord! All was lost if they had Bella, too.
But suddenly the night was chaos and nothing made sense to her muddled mind. The clash of blades, shouts, shrill whistles and, suddenly, a blade at her throat. Searing pain. The warm ooze of blood as it seeped from her wound. She turned her head and closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable, praying it would be quick.
