Product Description Award-winning, bestselling author Jo-Ann Power is the Daphne du Maurier of the '90s. She last captivated readers with Never Say Never, the enchanting third installment of her American Beauties trilogy. Now, in her vintage style, she sweeps us back to Victorian England in a compelling tale of artful passion and deadly intrigue.Cerise Lindsay is a promising young sculptress in Italy when she receives the news that her older sister, Madelaine, has drowned accidentally at a party on the Isle of Wight. Devastated, Cerise immediately returns to England to settle her sister's affairs. Upon her arrival, she finds the estate nearly bankrupt and soon suspects foul play. Cerise vows to solve the mystery, beginning with an investigation of the man who hosted the party that fateful night -- the Earl of Sandown. As the sole heir, Cerise must restore the family's financial stability by selling a beloved -- and valuable -- heirloom, a coveted statue known simply as Allure.Blake Hargrove, the eighth Earl of Sandown, is determined to get to the bottom of Madelaine Lindsay's death. After all, she died while sailing one of his boats. When Blake and Cerise meet by chance, he's struck by her humor, her impressive knowledge of classical art...and by her radiant beauty. But when Cerise realizes who Blake is, she questions his motives. Then she learns to trust him -- and surrender to a desire she cannot deny. As the pair gets closer to the truth, the closer they grow to each other -- and to a passion burning between them. But before they can see a future together, they must settle the past...before a murderer does. About the Author Jo-Ann Power is the author of romance novels, historical fiction, and mysteries. She lives in Texas. Find out more at Jo-AnnPower.com. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Chapter OneThe main thing is to be moved, to love, to hope, to tremble, to live!Auguste RodinLondon, EnglandApril 1881Her palms lingered over him, smoothing across his chest, caressing the sleek muscles as if absorbing his strength through her skin. Her fingers traced the valley of his breastbone, down the ridges of his ribs to the flare of his hip, the cut of his thigh -- and the fullness of his manhood. And then she defined his virility with a lazy fingertip, sweetly, thoroughly, examining each indentation of the huge fig leaf.Fighting the urge to hoot in laughter, Blake Hargrove clenched his teeth as he stood by the door watching the young woman stroke the statue.Still totally fascinated and suddenly frustrated, she yanked her tiny glasses down her nose to peer over the gold rims at the statue's bulging bicep. Her eyes narrowed on the flow of the marble, her finger following the blue vein that ran along the contour of the arm.Who was she? This woman who savored the headless, legless marble man like his living lover? She was bold to stand here in a public place such as this tiny art gallery and explore the fellow as if he were flesh and blood.Blake grinned at his errant wish that she were caressing his flesh. Lord knew, she certainly roused his blood. Poor form, old man. Look at her walking suit, her carefully coiled chignon. The gleaming red hair. She's of a class which usually does not permit its women to go out alone, much less to a private gallery. Certainly not its back room either, filled solely by classical nudes.What's more, this lovely woman admired the naked male body with such abandon that she had not heard Blake enter the back room. Even now, she caught her tongue between her teeth in concentration and pushed her nose flush against the fellow's forearm. She appeared to be ready either to kiss him or lick him, head to toe.Blake wanted to chuckle -- or groan.Time to break in on her reflections before he lost his own senses."Pardon me, madam," Blake injected, bowing slightly, though he hated to take his eyes off her for fear he'd miss another antic. Intrusion into the privacy of a