Not that he wanted rest. Indeed, what had transpired in the breakfast room earlier was proof enough of that. The moment he’d allowed himself a degree of normalcy, the thoughts, the urges, had come surging back. They always did.
Placing his quill in the groove of the gilded inkstand, he stood and strode to the door. After a moment’s hesitation, he unlocked it and pulled it open.
A vision of pure, pink loveliness stood on the other side, and he cursed again inwardly. Just what he needed: Miss Weatherfield disturbing what little solitude he’d managed to erect for himself.
She smiled prettily and pushed the door open further, sweeping past him, into the room. “Is this where you’ve been holing yourself up?” She fingered a scrap of parchment lying on the wide desk. “I see you’ve taken the liberty of making yourself at home. Several of the guests are quite put out, you know. Turns out several of them enjoy reading. I wouldn’t be surprised if they stormed in with torches and pitchforks.”
Morning light filtered in from the large windows along the back wall, making her look ethereal in her pink morning gown, her hair pulled up into a knot, delicate honey-colored tendrils trickling down her temples. She was beautiful, a vision, and when she turned to smile at him, his breath snagged in his chest.
He glanced away quickly. “I have business that cannot wait.”
He turned to close the door, and just as he did, a dark, familiar image swept into his mind—his sister lying in a coffin, dead, her face ghostly white. Panic squeezed his chest painfully and the urge to close the door, lock it—properly—overwhelmed him.
Christ, not again. Not now.
He clicked the door shut and turned the key in the lock. But the overwhelming sense that the door wasn’t secured properly grew heavy in his chest. He unlocked the door, opened it, shut it, and locked it. Then again, and again, and again. Countless times, until the image of his sister faded and the feeling that he’d satisfied his purpose settled over him.
“Are you certain the door is securely locked? Fiftieth time is a charm, you know.”
Her tone was light, flippant, not at all the reaction he’d expected. He usually concealed his oddity well, but the few people who had witnessed it were not quite so…unaffected. Indeed, they were usually quite alarmed by his behavior and regarded him cautiously thereafter.
Gabriella was quite different in that regard. If his behavior bothered her, she made no outward show of it. She was not easily shocked, it would seem, and that facet of her intrigued him.
“Are you always this bold, Miss Weatherfield?”
“Yes,” she said with a self-satisfied grin. “Always.”
With a low growl, he whipped around and pinned her to the bookcase beside the door in one fluid movement. She gasped and her green eyes went wide. Oh, how he enjoyed setting her off balance. Ripe, luscious curves pressed against the hard planes of his body, offering a welcome distraction from the torment. And the astonished look in her eyes was almost worth the invasion into his solitude. Almost.
Then, she drew her hand back and slapped him across the face.
His head whipped to the side and he smiled. Well, he certainly hadn’t seen that coming. And unfortunately, the shock of it did little to douse the burning need that pulsed through his veins.
With the sting of her hand still throbbing on his cheek, he caught her wrist and pulled it up over her head, then the other. She was now his captive, an image he found acutely tantalizing.
“Well aren’t you a petulant little creature,” he said. “What was that for?”
“Sheer amusement—mine, not yours.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I thought I told you to stay away.”
“You did, most certainly. Then you approached me this morning—which changes the rules a bit, does it not?” She lifted her chin a notch. “I wasn’t likely to stay away, anyway, so you can stop looking so tortured and disagreeable.”
Yes, he thought, the damn dare she’d accepted. How could he possibly forget? He was nothing but a game to her, a victory to be won.
Despite his annoyance, he fell just short of pushing her away. Perhaps it was curiosity, or boredom, or both, but her bold emerald glare and ripe, dewy lips fascinated him. He wanted to taste her, fuck her, tear open her soul and sample that as well.
The woman was pure, undiluted temptation—a potent brew of wit, intelligence, naiveté, and raw, erotic beauty. Just the sight of her off balance, slightly breathless, heated his blood.
Still holding her, his swelling cock pressed against her belly, he whispered in her ear, “I told you last night that I wouldn’t let you go so easily. I meant it.”