Thunder & Roses (Fallen Angels, #1)

by Mary Jo Putney

"You've a tongue like a wasp." He glowered at her until she began to look distinctly uneasy, then finished, "I like that in a woman."

"Why not pride in your integrity, or your charity, or your learning?" she asked with exasperation. "The virtues of adults instead of the vices of small boys."

Intimacy was a web spun of many strands, and each small submission on her part was a point won for him.

"Everything is harder than it looks. That's the first law of life."

"Aristophanes said that boys throw stones at frogs in jest, but the frogs, they die in earnest. You're going to break my life into splinters, then move on without a second thought. Yes, my lord, you terrify me." He became very still. "Only things that are rigid can break. Perhaps your life needs to be splintered."

"A woman's body is a symphony," he murmured, "and every part of you is an instrument crying out to be played."

"Why do you call me that?" His expression eased. "Clare means clear, bright, direct. Clarissima would be the superlative form in Italian. Most clear, most direct. It suits you."

"Ridiculous, and certainly unchristian, to hate someone for the color of his skin, yet such trivial things can change the pattern of a life."

"There's nothing to probe." She stood. "I'm a simple woman and I've led an uncomplicated life." He laughed. "You are many things, but simple isn't one of them. You simmer with intelligence and suppressed emotions."

This kiss was sharing, for danger had made them comrades instead of antagonists.

If there were no consequences—if men and women could freely decide whether or not to share their bodies based on desire, not morality—our world would be very different." "But would it be a better place? Perhaps for men, who could satisfy their lusts, then leave with a light heart and a clear conscience. I don't know if women can be so heedless." "Some can, Clare," he said, an edge to his voice. "Believe me, there are women as reckless and heartless as any man." "I'm sure that you've known any number of females of that sort." She sighed ruefully. "What a pagan you are, Nicholas. An amoral, silver-tongued devil who can make sin look sweet.

But I warn you—your goal is seduction, and mine is to make you decide that I'm not worth the trouble."

"I've always thought that hell must be the absence of music."

"You're a perfect Welsh rose: delicate, sweet-scented, and well-equipped with thorns." He reached out and brushed her chin with his gloved knuckles. "And it's the thorns that make you interesting."

Perhaps honest love is a talent, or simply luck, that some people have and others don't."

Show me a man who has never made a fool of himself and I'll show you someone who is supremely boring."