She closed her eyes. From the distance came the dull crash of the tide against the cliffs and the babble of guests somewhere nearer by. The sun had taken its warmth with it; the deep breath she took held a bite more familiar to her in autumn, and the scent of the pepper trees, and Alex: starch from his shirtsleeves, the tang of his sweat. He was a warm, solid presence, the strength in him undeniable. She had the sense of great struggles being waged inside him, but it seemed clear that questions were not going to unlock his tongue. All he wanted from her was to lie still in his grip.
Through her free-floating thoughts, this last observation refused to pass. It stopped squarely at the forefront of her brain. He was gripping her so tightly that she could hardly move. This was what he wanted.
Amazement made her jerk. His hand tightened briefly, as if in warning.
She caught her breath. She felt as though some soundless, enclosing bubble had burst abruptly, baring her senses to a new and altered and far more vibrant scene. His embrace was fierce, unyielding, but also comfortable—more than comfortable. His arms were strong and adept and he wanted them around her.
Heavens, she must be the shallowest woman in the world. She should find no joy in this moment. As adventures went, tonight was an awful and violent entertainment. If the guard found Barrington before they managed to leave the grounds . . .
“All right,” he said quietly, and set her on her feet. “The Monte Carlo party is running late, it seems. Our good fortune.” Taking her hand, he led her around the corner.
A handful of guests in their evening finery stood under the portico, waiting to board Barrington’s carriage. Francesca Rizzardi spotted them immediately. “To the casino?” she called.
“Where else?” Alex sounded suddenly mischievous, playful, eager for a night of good fun.
“Then you’ve arrived just in time!” Signora Rizzardi laughed. “But we’ll have to crush in like sardines!”
“Oh, I’ve no objection to it.” Alex flashed the lady a suggestive smile. “Unless . . .” He turned to Gwen, his mouth quirked, his brow lifted.
She forced her own lips into a smile. “Darling,” she said, and laid a hand on his arm. “So long as I’m crushed into you, I can think of no better way to travel.”
It came out credibly, probably because it wasn’t a lie.
Alex kept his eyes on the house until the carriage turned onto the coast road, which sloped downward past an embankment that blocked his view. He was watching for signs of alarm—as if alarm would make itself so visible. Hell. What did he imagine? An explosion of lights? The sudden howling of dogs? Barrington was not so well equipped. He traveled well-guarded but clearly he had little experience of hostile negotiations. Only a fool invited into his house a man whom he knew to be deceiving him.
Barrington was not the only fool here.
Alex took a long breath. This urge to violence was new to him. It made his muscles jump at odd intervals. He knew how to inflict pain, but until now he’d not understood the possible pleasure in it.
So casually he’d decided to include Gwen in this idiocy. Accepting the invitation to Côte Bleue had seemed harmless. Such an economical way to put Gerard’s matter to rest. In his own mind, profit and cost had been the key considerations. And for Gwen? It would be a lark, a bit of fun, an escapade: such had been the terms in which he’d justified how she might profit by it. Profit. Always profit. Profit and entertainment; money and fun. Such bloodless words—bloodless, and boundless, too. Let the fun never end. May the profits never cease. Money knows no language. Let the world be your oyster. Go, go, go. Run. It had hurt to run as a boy but it never hurt now; he tested himself regularly.
He could have gotten her killed. Gwen’s blood on his hands.
Try to run from that.
Gwen stirred at his side. Her hand settled on his arm, the lightest touch, recalling him to his role. He turned a bland smile onto the company. As the signora had predicted, they had piled in as closely and carelessly as children into a tree house, and about as cheerfully, besides. On the opposite bench, Francesca Rizzardi perched on her husband’s lap, gasping and exclaiming in Italian as every bump in the road threatened to unseat her. Between bumps, she was reading aloud from a newspaper her husband held open for her, some chronicle of doings about Monte Carlo: Lord This had left on the green cloth a total of fifteen thousand dollars, but vowed to have it back within the week; Sir That had suffered similar losses, then made an excellent run at trente et quarante, and now sailed onward to Lazlo forty thousand in the black.
Beside the Rizzardis, Madame D’Argent, a dark-eyed and suspiciously youthful widow, cuddled the wall with a secret smile. Perhaps she knew these news items were nonsense—tales that the casino paid its mouthpieces to publish.