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Anything on this Earth can be Bought.

Thirty-six-year-old Anne Aimes is a spinster whose only attraction is her wealth.  But her plain looks mask a passionate woman who yearns to know a man’s intimate caresses.  Michel des Anges—Michael of the Angels—is renowned for his ability to bring women to pleasure.  All it will cost her is ten thousand pounds…

Praise for The Lover
[The Lover] is dark and sensual. ~Under the Covers

[The Lover] is dark and sensual, and for those of you who like your heroes scarred and tortured, physically and mentally, than you will love Michael, and for those of you who like a curvier, plainer heroine just discovering her sexual power, than Anne is your gal. ~Under the Covers

Creepy, compelling, yet deeply empowering. ~Female Sexuality, the Gothic, and Romantic Suspense: Robin Schone’s The Lover.

What happens when an author bent on celebrating women’s sexuality … pushes against the boundaries not only of romance fiction, but also of the Gothic? You get the creepy, compelling, yet deeply empowering book that served as one of the earliest examples of the erotic romance. ~Female Sexuality, the Gothic, and Romantic Suspense: Robin Schone’s The Lover.

[Robin Schone] relies on the mounting sexuality, akin to 9 1/2 Weeks, to keep the reader wondering. ~RT Book Reviews

Robin Schone knows how to write sizzling erotic love scenes and create suspense. She relies on the mounting sexuality, akin to 9 1/2 Weeks…to keep the reader wondering if it is love or vengeance that drives Michael. Those looking for a hot read will find it in The Lover and they will never look at a banana or chocolate the same way again.” ~RT Book Reviews

Schone has such an elegant writing style that nothing seems tawdry, just very adult-oriented. ~The Romance Reader

Robin Schone has again proved that she will accept no boundaries when detailing sexual scenarios. Very little is taboo, yet Schone has such an elegant writing style that nothing seems tawdry, just very adult-oriented. ~The Romance Reader

The Lover Excerpt

You were burned.

His fingers tightened around the bottle, the glass, absorbing the cold, drawing upon the strength of sand that had been transformed by fire. The memories of his defeated cries of agony blended with those of the woman he had brought to ecstasy.

I was burned, he agreed tonelessly. He was vaguely surprised at the steadiness of his hands as he poured the champagne.

Chest tight, he offered her the glass of bubbling wine, waiting, waiting….

For a miracle to obliterate the never-ending terror.

For this woman to take him, as he would take her, endlessly, tirelessly.

Sensation bolted down his spine. He almost dropped the glass at the silky contact of her gloved fingers.

It had been five years since a woman had touched his hand. Whores stuffed his cock inside them rather than risk his scarred flesh touching theirs.

She seemed impervious to the phenomenon that had just occurred. Tilting her head, she sipped champagne—the golden liquid sparkled underneath the shadow of her hood—before firmly setting the glass down on the white silk tablecloth. Why do you call yourself Michel … des Anges?

The question momentarily caught him off guard.

It had been so long since he had been Michel.

Why didn’t she repudiate him?

Thick black lashes shielded his eyes, a Michel trick, studied and perfected underneath the madam’s tutelage. “ Voir les Anges,  he murmured cryptically, wondering how far he dared go, how risque to be.

Some women liked blunt, sexual talk. Others preferred sensual euphemisms.

He did not understand this spinster woman.

She carefully translated his words, as if she had not spoken French outside of finishing school.  To see the angels. 

 To see angels,  he silkily corrected her, monitoring her reaction. “It is a French expression for having an orgasm.”

It was not the answer she expected.

You named yourself because of your ability to have an orgasm?

Slowly he poured champagne into his own glass, making her wait for his response. Thrusting the bottle deep into the ice—as if it were his phallus and the bucket her sheath—he snared her gaze. I am named, chérie, for my ability to bring women to orgasm.

Shock gave way to blazing cognizance.

Of her sensual needs.

Of his ability to satisfy them.

Sex was an exciting game. A dangerous game.

One that even an unfashionable spinster could engage in. If she could afford it.

She played with the stem of her glass. You have been with many women.

Yes.

First in France, then in England.

Have you brought each one of them to orgasm?

Echoes of passion long gone but never forgotten reverberated inside his head. Each woman made a particular sound when she reached her peak.

Every woman. Michael curved his fingers around his glass, shaping it as he would a feminine breast. Every time.

Sparkling liquid sloshed onto her hand. A dark stain spread over the back of her pale gray silk glove.

I am a virgin.

She was a plain spinster, but surely there had been someone in her life—a childhood friend to experiment with, a boy who was more interested in exploring the mysteries of femininity than in courting the local beauty. A footman, a stable boy, someone.

Why? he barked, Michael now, not Michel who had never slept alone.

Why would any woman give her virginity to a man who looked like him?

Her head snapped back, the chimera of sexual tension broken. I beg your pardon?

He leaned toward her, eyes narrowed, face only inches away from the candle flame that could so easily burn out of control. For ten thousand pounds, any bachelor in this tavern will marry you. The Speaker of the Commons sits three tables away. Baron Stinesburg sits directly behind you. Why are you doing this? With me, of all men?

Candlelight flared. It reflected off of a slender nose, revealed the tightening of pale lips that were neither full nor thin. Perhaps, Monsieur des Anges, I have seen too much death to be cheated by a few scars. Perhaps I wish to see angels.

The Angel Series