Wanton Angel (Blackthorne Trilogy) Read Online Free

voices of the fishermen echoed along the quay. In the distance Mt. Vesuvius released a lazy curl of smoke, teasing the deep purity of the azure sky. Along the shoreline steep tiers of stucco buildings gleamed white as snow, their seemingly pristine appearance given the lie by the harsh odors of fish and animal dung blending with the sickly aroma of sulfur, all wafting on the balmy breeze.
           It was an invigorating sight to the Englishman after the icy rain of the North Atlantic. Feeling the warmth of the autumn sun beating down on his shoulders, he studied the wide sandy stretch of beach where rude vendor's stalls boasted a colorful array of fresh produce—aromatic bins of golden figs, the deep crimson of halved watermelons, piles of hairy tan coconuts, bright splashes of lemons and oranges.
           That was when he saw her—or rather, heard her. A low rich voice vibrating in a loud burst of staccato Italian, which was generously interspersed with cursing, some of it so idiomatic he could not comprehend the specifics. Her tone of voice combined with the Italian words he did know clearly gave him the gist of it. She stood surrounded by a gaggle of older, lower-class women, dressed as she was in brightly colored skirts and loose white blouses. They appeared to be encouraging her in a diatribe against one of the local fishermen whose catch lay in piles on the sand.
           Derrick struggled to keep up with the argument. The woman was a redhead, a good foot or so taller than any of the other females. When the crowd parted, he could see her great mass of deep russet hair spilling in unruly curls down her back, stopping just short of a tiny waist that rounded out to a pair of beautifully curved hips and a lush derriere. Her Amazonian form was outlined through the thin cotton of her short skirt as the breeze whipped the bright green cloth around slender ankles. He leaned forward on the deck's railing and peered at her, willing her to turn so he could see her face.
           If it's half as good as her backside, I want her tonight, he thought with a sudden tightening in his groin. In service of king and country Jamison could be more abstemious than most, but he saw no reason to deny himself one brief night's pleasure before getting down to the business for which he'd been sent.
           Just then she bent down and seized a large mackerel from the fisherman's pile and smacked him roundly across the face with it. This action seemed to incite the rest of her companions to take up arms. Before the hapless man could beat a retreat, the rest of the women picked up scaly cudgels and pelted him with his offending wares. Seemingly satisfied, the redhead spun on one sandaled foot and strode down the beach.
           “Bloody hell, she's magnificent,” he breathed as the wind molded her soft blouse against high, generously rounded breasts. The strong clean lines of her face in stark profile would have been the envy of a Greco-Roman goddess.
           “You may quit your embarrassing salivating any time now, old chap. It quite unbecomes a gentleman to behave like his spaniel,” Alvin Francis Edward Drummond remonstrated.
           “Do not remind me of that accursed beast,” Derrick said, gritting his teeth.
           A slight smile curved Drummond's lips, then quickly vanished as he recalled how he had spent the previous evening, picking dog hairs from a kerseymere jacket. “Would that I had the luxury of such blissful forgetfulness.”
           The dandy's slight stature and effete mannerisms belied a core of sinewy toughness, and his cool green eyes missed nothing. He was utterly calm under fire, which was precisely why he had been chosen to accompany Derrick Jamison on this assignment.
           Derrick returned his attention to the girl on the beach. “I suppose she's lazzaroni. Shouldn't be too difficult to locate her, hmmm?” he mused.
           “And aren't they the