Storm and Silence(253)

His eyes were so dark… they seemed to draw me in, somehow making it seem as though he and I were moving closer together, though our chairs hadn’t moved an inch.

‘Dalgliesh!’ he ordered, his voice cold and hard. ‘Tell me everything,’

And I did. Well, not everything. I told him how I had gone to Lady Metcalf’s ball, and how Dalgliesh had surprised and questioned me there.

I didn’t tell him about picking out a young blonde lady to distract my sister’s suitor from the object of his adoration. I also didn’t tell him about my meeting and dancing with Captain Carter, for some reason. It just didn’t seem important enough to mention.

Anyway, it was Dalgliesh he was interested in, surely, not some army captain with a strange tiger-waistcoat and an even stranger sense of humour.

So I told all I remembered of my encounter with the suave aristocrat. By the time I had finished, Mr Ambrose wasn’t looking at me anymore, but concentrating on a stack of papers in front of him. Strangely, however, although he normally was a fast reader, he had already stared down at one page long enough to read the complete works of William Shakespeare.

When the last words had left my mouth, he said, without emotion in his voice:

‘You are fortunate that this young man, Edmund, appeared. Had Lord Dalgliesh succeeded in luring you into the garden, you would have gone on very long walk with him. One from which you would not have returned before you had answered all his questions, if at all.’

His words gripped my heart like a fist of frost. So I had been right in wanting to run. But…

‘But he seemed so friendly,’ I burst out. ‘Not threatening at all.’

A muscle in Mr Ambrose’s jaw twitched.

‘Of course he did. He never threatens. He never strikes. He never says a word against the laws of England. And yet, wherever he goes, things happen. A wink from him means ruin, a twitch of his fingers means death. When he nods, wise men turn and run.’

‘He nodded when he met you.’

‘I’ve never claimed to be wise.’

There was a spell of silence, that complete silence that I only ever felt in the presence of Mr Ambrose. Shivering, I remembered Lord Dalgliesh’s friendly, harmless expression, back in the ballroom. Could anyone really be that good an actor?

‘I still can’t really believe-’ I began.

I didn’t get any further. In a flash, Mr Ambrose was up and around his desk. Before I could move he had grabbed me by the shoulders and hauled me out of my chair. Forcefully, I was thrust against the wall of the office, cold stone pressing against my back.

‘Believe!’ he hissed. ‘Believe anything and everything where Dalgliesh is concerned. He’s the man who invented the word ruthless. If you get in his way, he will step on you and crush you like an insect.’ His dark, sea-coloured eyes were burning into me with deadly intensity. Slowly, the grip of his right hand loosened and left my shoulder. He raised it, almost unconsciously it seemed, until it touched my cheek. ‘Stay away from him!’

His hand fell.

Yes! a voice inside me screamed. Yes, I will! I’ll do anything! Just touch my cheek again! And maybe lean a little closer…!

My inner feminist slammed shut the door on that voice.

‘You can’t make me do anything,’ I whispered.

Why the heck did I whisper? My voice should be strong and independent!

It’s those darn eyes of his! They’re sapping the strength out of you, making you feel all gooey and weak-kneed. No man should be allowed to have eyes like that!

‘I can,’ he bit out. ‘Stay away from him. That is an order, Mr Linton!’

I opened my mouth to argue - not because I really wanted to go near Dalgliesh; I mean, I’m not completely nuts - but because I refuse on principle to be ordered around by a man after working hours. But when Mr Ambrose’s head moved forward, the words caught in my throat. What was he doing? Why was he moving so close to me? He was just inches away!

He couldn’t possibly…

Could he?

For just one moment, it looked as though he was going to kiss me.

Then the moment passed, and he halted, his perfect granite face only a fraction of an inch away from mine. His hard body pressed into mine, a living threat, ready to deliver. His eyes narrowed infinitesimally, challenging me to dare and speak the words that were on my tongue. I swallowed.

Memories flooded my mind. Memories of him pressed against me, just like that - only back then, he had taken the plunge, and closed the last bit of distance that separated us. Today, he was in control - of himself and me. The hand that still gripped my shoulder, pressing me into the wall, was steady as rock.

But how long would he hold out? How long would he be able to refrain from reliving our memories?