The Return of the Disappearing Duke by Lara Temple - Book Blitz + Giveaway
The Return of the Disappearing Duke
A scarred mercenary…Or the Disappearing Duke of Greybourne?
Rafe has spent years running from his true identity. He’s a lone wolf, living far from aristocratic England and his violent father. Then unconventional Cleopatra Osbourne requests his protection as she crosses the Egyptian desert. In Cleo he discovers a fellow outcast—and a fierce desire! Cleo must return to London, and here lies Rafe’s dilemma—because following his heart means claiming the title he’s avoided for so long!
Purchase Links
Amazon US paperback: https://bit.ly/RafeDuke1
Amazon UK: https://bit.ly/RafeDukeUK
Bookbub: https://bit.ly/RafeBookbub
ExcerptRafe is used to people’s shocked reaction to his scars, but when Cleo catches him washing by the oasis well with his shirt off he thinks her reaction is due to disgust at his scars. In this scene Cleo makes is clear it wasn’t disgust that had made her act strangely. Far from it…
ExcerptRafe is used to people’s shocked reaction to his scars, but when Cleo catches him washing by the oasis well with his shirt off he thinks her reaction is due to disgust at his scars. In this scene Cleo makes is clear it wasn’t disgust that had made her act strangely. Far from it…
‘That’s is not why I
looked…however I looked, Rafe. I wasn’t even thinking of your scars…no, that is
not quite true. I was thinking of them, but they don’t frighten me. The
truth is…’ She came forward and took a deep breath before resting her palm
lightly on his scarred neck. ‘I don’t know you very well, but I hate the
thought of you being hurt.’
Rafe froze.
I hate the thought of you being hurt…
It meant nothing, nothing
at all. He’d seen people react a thousand and one ways to fear and loneliness.
It took everyone differently. It clearly took Cleo into unnecessary realms of
compassion.
So said his mind. His
body, however, already on its knees, dropped at her feet like a panting puppy.
There was nothing he could do to stop it marshalling the troops against him. It
gathered the feel of her hand on his skin, the warmth of her legs close behind
his back. It added images from the long, hot, dusty days—the way she wiped the
perspiration from her cheeks or tilted her head back to catch the first breeze
of the afternoon, exposing that little dip at the base of her throat where her scent would rise with each beat of her pulse.
He kept still, waiting for
his mind to reassert dominion over his body. It was usually faster in coming to
his defence, but the heat kept rising like the Egyptian sun—becoming
incomprehensibly hotter, spreading from her hand like a curse, seeping through
his skin into his veins and skidding along merrily to attack him from within.
It bothered him far more than the erection that pulsed into life within seconds
of her touching him. This heat felt far more dangerous than a lustful surge—it
felt as though it was plotting against him.
What the devil was wrong
with her to touch him like that? It would serve her right if he’d do what every
base cell in his body ached to do.
He drew away, very
carefully, as one might from a poisonous snake.
‘I don’t need pity, Miss
Osbourne.’
‘That is good. I haven’t
any for you.’
He uncoiled himself and
stood. She stepped back and again he saw that same widening of her eyes and
pupils. Damn it, he knew fear when he saw it.
‘You tell a fine story,
Cleo-Pat, but you have to work on not flinching or blushing with
embarrassment.’
She gave a small,
strangled laugh, surprising him.
‘I wasn’t flinching and
it’s not embarrassment. I’m beginning to think Birdie has grossly exaggerated
your knowledge of women, Mr Grey.’
He clasped her arm before
his mind even fully registered her meaning. She didn’t pull away, just stood there. He had been right—she looked flushed and flustered.
But he had been absolutely, peculiarly wrong—it wasn’t fear, or disgust, or
even compassion. The latter had been in her touch and voice, but not in her
eyes, at least not now.
She could as easily have
looked away, lowered her lashes, anything, but she let him take it in—the
almost sleepy look in her eyes, the sultry heat colouring her cheeks, the
tension in her parted lips. It wasn’t an invitation; it was an admission. She
wanted him to see the truth because she would not allow him to believe the
alternative—that his damage either frightened or repelled her.
He had no idea what to do
with this gift.
Oh, hell.
Author Bio –
Lara Temple writes strong and sensual Regency romances about complex individuals who give no quarter but do so with plenty of passion. She lives with her husband, two children, and one very fluffy dog and they are all very understanding about her taking over the kitchen table so she can look out over the garden as she writes and dreams up her Happy Ever Afters.
Social Media links
Amazon author page UK: http://bit.ly/LaraTempleUK
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