Alex was going to rip his arm off. Step away from him. Gwen. What the hell are you doing?
She turned toward him, in the process dislodging his hands from her waist and hair—by design, Alex wanted to think, but God damn it, he could not be sure. She gave Barrington a mysterious little smile, perfectly designed to madden a man with its indecipherable promise, and then brushed past him, walking around the room, trailing a casual hand across the furnishings. At the desk, she came to a stop. “Drawings!” she said. “Are you an artist?” She spread out the pages casually.
Barrington followed her and caught up her hand, lifting it to his mouth. “Alas, no. I’ve lacked proper inspiration until now.”
She gave a light, tinkling laugh. “I find that difficult to believe,” she said as she walked onward, letting her hand remain in his as long as possible, until her arm was fully outstretched. Barrington trailed after her rather than release it. She was examining the walls, now—a series of masks hung in a row on the back wall.
If she kept strolling the perimeter, she was going to lead Barrington straight to him.
Turn around, Alex willed her. Leave.
But Barrington was growing bolder now, his hand skating down her rib cage, his head bowing to place a kiss upon the top of her head. It occurred to Alex that her casual stroll was actually not so casual: she was making a circle back toward the door, and had he not been hiding there, her facsimile of interest in the furnishings would have been a very clever route of escape.
But the screen was too damned lovely to ignore.
He saw the moment she spied it. Her mouth opened to make a comment.
And then her eyes met his and flew wide with realization.
He held his breath. He had no idea how his discovery could be smoothed over by talk. An unpleasant conversation followed by eviction never harmed any guest, but the fact that Barrington had armed guards strolling his property did put a different light on matters, greatly diminishing Alex’s hope that they would be turned out with a simple round of scathing words.
He would have to immobilize the man. The prospect would not have bothered him if they’d met in a salle d’armes, or if he’d had proof that Barrington had harmed Gerard. But right now, all he knew was that he disliked the man. And he’d never been particularly interested in punishing people for failing to charm him. He’d left that role to the bullies of the world.
Gwen interrupted his silent deliberations by making a choice of her own. She turned away from him, spinning on the ball of her foot and launching herself directly into Barrington.
For a split second of disbelief, Alex thought she meant to attack the man. Perhaps Barrington had a similar idea; taken off guard, he grunted and staggered a pace backward. But he caught the idea before Alex did—and caught something else, besides. Hauling Gwen up by her arse, he smashed his face into hers.
Well, Alex thought. Well. This was . . . clever of her. A clever distraction.
Her arms twining around his shoulders, she forced Barrington around, putting his back to the door.
Also just to distract him.
Alex was beginning to see this scene through a peculiar red haze.
Gwen loosed a moan, a sound that really did not belong in the hearing of any other man that Alex had or ever would meet, and then clawed her fingers into Barrington’s hair, yanking his head down toward her breasts.
Barrington obliged quite happily.
Her eyes found Alex’s over the man’s shoulders. Go, she mouthed. Go now!
He stared back at her. The little idiot. Did she really think that he was going to slip out of this room and let Barrington have what she had offered to him but he’d been too much of a goddamned unforgivably thickheaded cowardly idiot to take?
Jesus Christ, what had ailed him? This was what he had planned by refusing her, wasn’t it? For her one day to be in some asinine Englishman’s arms, with him apart, elsewhere, claimless, no one to blame for it but himself?
She widened her eyes dramatically. Lifted her hand and pointed emphatically toward the door. And then rotated her hand and made a come-hither crook of her finger.
What the hell did that mean?
Barrington lifted his head. She gave a breathy gasp and pushed his head back down. Now her leg started to wrap around Barrington’s calf.
The meaning of the gesture suddenly penetrated. God above, he was a fool. He slipped out from behind the screen and opened the door, sliding silently into the corridor and pulling the door noiselessly shut behind him. And then he lifted his fist and banged. Once, twice, thrice. No more. Not waiting for an answer, he threw the door open so loudly that it cracked against the jamb.
“You little trollop,” he spat.
Gwen slapped her hands over her mouth and leapt away from Barrington—but rather than springing toward Alex as he’d envisioned, she instead raced to stand behind the desk.