Lengthening her strides toward the exit without breaking into a run that would draw attention, Ravenna could taste the sweet, fresh tropical air on her tongue, just beyond the wide paneled doors of the hotel. It was a far cry from the smog and foul scents of London, and one she’d grown to love.

“Not so fast, you little scamp,” a gravelly voice breathed into her ear, a huge hand encircling her upper arm in an unbreakable grip. Ravenna gasped, though it wasn’t pain that forced the air from her lungs.

Horrifyingly, the rush of hot breath against her skin and the sultry tenor of his words sent heat flooding through her body and her knees went rubbery.

What on earth was wrong with her? He was going to strangle her and she was falling to pieces. Her breath was short, her stomach was weak, and her heart was racing like a horse on the last leg of a race. This wasn’t a swoon, was it? She’d never swooned a day in her life!

A powerful frame steered her into a receiving room off the foyer and manhandled her into a chair. The salon wasn’t empty, but Ravenna had much worse to worry about, like the incensed male looming over her whose face could be carved from granite. His mouth, that she’d thought so full and supple before, was a flat, furious line. His stormy eyes were unforgiving.

She goggled that this man was Cordy. It was unfathomable! For one, he was huge. Cordy had been rangy but scrawny with nary a muscle in sight. Built like a Roman gladiator, this man looked nothing like the rangy boy he’d been. His complexion was a much richer brown now, after being exposed to the hot sun of the islands. Ravenna had the sudden, inexplicable urge to run her hands over him.

A muscle flexed in that lean, stubbled-dusted cheek, his intense gaze not veering once from her. “I’ll ask you once, brat, who are you?” The ruthless snap of his voice raked across her mind, reminding her that his good looks weren’t the problem. The fact that he was going to toss her into jail was. She had to get out of this mess somehow! “Speak or I’ll make you regret disobeying me.”

This was not good.

“I was a friend…of Lord Richard in Kettering,” she blurted out, fear of discovery making her quiver. Was that too close to the truth? Richard was her second oldest brother who died years ago in a fire along with her father and eldest brother. Blast! Richard had been a bit of a loner, preferring his books to actual people.

Mr. Chase—no, the Duke of Ashvale—would see right through her falsehood and ferret out her identity in an instant.