Wicked Becomes You(84)

Alex slid the bolt home, locking them inside, then leaned back against the door and fixed her with a cold, steady regard. “For the time being,” he said.

She blinked. Far from the reassuring tone she’d expected, he spoke very sharply. And he was looking at her as though he were sizing her up for execution—his eyes narrowed and blazing, his jaw so rigid that it made an almost perfect square. “Are you . . . angry?” she asked in bewilderment.

“Am I angry,” he repeated softly. The corner of his mouth tipped. It was a smile she never wished to see again. “What do you think, Gwen?”

“I can’t think of a single reason—”

“A single reason?” He paused for an audible breath. “Setting aside your stupid heroics on the lawn—you went into that room with him. With Barrington.” Each word was distinct, a chip of ice. “You walked off, alone, with a man whom you knew I did not trust.”

Astonishment briefly paralyzed her. And then she shot up on a laugh of disbelief. “You think this was all my fault?” Of all the things they had to talk about—“I thought to have information from him. To ask a few questions—”

“To have information?” He pushed himself straight, and if anything, he looked angrier. “I told you that I would do the goddamned investigating!”

“Only—only to see his private rooms,” she said quickly. “To map out the house. And had you not been skulking about, I would have been safely in bed right now, having told you where to find his study! You see?”

He stared at her.

And in fact, she wasn’t quite right. Barrington had clearly known of Alex’s identity. “Well, he knew who you were,” she said weakly. “We didn’t realize that. So something was bound to happen. But, still—it wasn’t my fault.”

“Bound to happen. Yes. Bound to happen to me.” He took a hard breath. “And tell me, what do you think would have happened to you? Had I not so fortuitously been ‘skulking about,’ do you think he would have let you leave?”

“Yes! He’s a—” All right, clearly he wasn’t a gentleman. “He didn’t know that I was part of the deception,” she said.

He didn’t seem to have heard her. “But perhaps I have it wrong,” he said. He spoke now with terrible pleasantness. “Was it a seduction you planned? Having given up on me, you turned your sights on him—”

“Don’t be an idiot,” she said sharply. “I will tell you what would have happened. I would never have kissed him had I not seen you hiding there. And if he had kissed me, I would have refused him!”

He laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. It raised the hairs on her nape. “Refused him.”

“Yes!”

“Simply walked away.”

“Yes, that’s what I mean!”

“Could you, then?” He took her hand and pulled her up to him. “Demonstrate for me,” he hissed in her ear. He snapped her around so expertly that despite her unpreparedness, or perhaps because of it, the result was like a move in a dance: she pivoted fluidly and gracefully, her back coming up against the full length of his body.

He had positioned them before the small mirror over the washstand. In the reflection, he looked—different, somehow. And so did she, her cheeks flushed and her chest rising so rapidly. Like photographs of themselves, clichéd types: the rogue with the black reputation; the heiress ripe for plunder.

She straightened her spine; she did not require his support. He pulled her right back against his chest.

“Walk away, then.” His voice was low and rough. “Go ahead, Gwen. Try to break free.”

She shoved at his arm. It was immovable. “I would have kicked him,” she said.

“So try it.”

“I have no desire to kick you!”

“Do you imagine that you could?” Abruptly his regard in the mirror seemed neutral and detached—studying her with the idle curiosity of a stranger. “Have you never heard of my little hobby? I was sure my sisters would have mentioned that I go about kicking men for fun. Smash their jaws, on occasion. Men much larger and stronger than you have learned it firsthand.” His face darkened. His words took on a smooth, venomous lilt. “It’s a very economical way to fight. Barrington would have learned so tonight had you not felt the need to interfere.”

She swallowed. Alex had dispatched Barrington with the speed and ease of a lion taking down some aged, limping gazelle. She might have been terrified by it had anyone else performed that cool dispatch. But Alex had done it. And she knew him.