CAITLIN CREWS THE MAN BEHIND THE SCARS PDF

Or anyway, as remote as his gaze. As uninviting. Luckily, Angel was not easily fazed. It was also very, very posh.

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Or anyway, as remote as his gaze. As uninviting. Luckily, Angel was not easily fazed. It was also very, very posh. Angel smiled, and then tilted her head slightly to one side, considering him. If possible, his dark eyes grew even colder than before, the line of his mouth grimmer.

She knew then, with a sudden flash of something too like foreboding for her peace of mind, that nothing about this man would ever be easy, whether he was target—a candidate for this game of hers—or no. And more, perhaps even more importantly, that a man like this was unlikely to be impressed with a woman like her.

But she shook that off almost as soon as she thought it. It was the challenge of it, she decided in that moment. She preferred to jump in feet first, and sort it all out later. There was surely no point in changing her plan or even her wicked ways now. No point in false advertising, either. She was who she was, take it or leave it. Stronger, anyway. He could not have heard her correctly. But her perfectly arched eyebrows rose inquiringly over her sky-blue eyes, making her remarkably pretty face seem clever, and she regarded him with the kind of amused patience that suggested that he had, in fact, heard her perfectly.

Rafe was well-used to women like this one catching sight of him from afar and heading toward him with that swing in their hips and that purpose in their eyes. He knew the whole, sad dance by heart. They advanced on him, delicious curves poured into dresses like the one this woman wore, that made her body look like a fantasy come to life—until he showed them the whole of his face.

Which he always did. Even cruelly. It was, he knew all too well, a face that no one could bear to look at for long, least of all himself. It was the face of a monster all dressed up in a five thousand pound bespoke Italian suit, and Rafe lived with the bitter knowledge that the scars were not the half of it—not compared to the monster within.

He took his terrible face out into public less and less these days, because he found the dance more and more difficult to bear with anything approaching equanimity. It always ended the same way. The more polite ones abruptly fixed their attention to a point just beyond him and walked on by, never sparing him another glance. He had seen it all a hundred times.

He told himself they were, at the very least, honest. The sad truth was that he was grateful, on some level, for the scars that so helpfully advertised how deeply unsuited he was to human interaction of any kind.

Better they should all be warned off in advance. Or anyone he did not employ. It is the elephant in the room. Or perhaps the Elephant Man in the room, to be more precise. They did not blend.

They did not, as a wildly optimistic plastic surgeon had once suggested they might, fade. Not enough to matter. And anyway, he preferred them to stay right where they were.

There was less possibility of confusion if he wore the truth about himself right there on his face. A kind of thunderclap reverberated through him.

It took a moment to realize it was pure desire, punching into gut. Teasing him, he realized in some kind of amazement. She was actually teasing him.

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The Man Behind the Scars

Aug 30, Carol Storm rated it it was amazing Wow. I hate the idea of a heroine named Angel. I keep picturing you-know-who, the vampire. But Angel is an original.

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Whatever else this man was, she thought then, anticipation and adrenaline coursing through her, making her whole body seem to hum into alertness, he was a candidate. She moved toward him, pleased to note that the closer she got, the more impressive he was. There was a certain watchful stillness to him that she felt like an echo beneath her ribs. As if he was preternaturally aware of everything that happened around him. For a moment, she saw nothing but that stare. He seemed to see into her, through her, as if she was entirely transparent.

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But her perfectly arched eyebrows rose inquiringly over her sky-blue eyes, making her remarkably pretty face seem clever, and she regarded him with the kind of amused patience that suggested he had, in fact, heard her perfectly. Rafe was well-used to women like this one catching sight of him from afar and heading toward him with that swing in their hips and that purpose in their eyes. He knew the whole, sad dance by heart. They advanced on him, delicious curves poured into dresses like the one this woman wore, that made her body look like a fantasy come to life—until he showed them the whole of his face. Which he always did. Even cruelly.

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