Jacquie D’Alessandro - Touch Me

Bloody hell, he felt as if his heart shifted in his chest. “Thank you for telling me. I know it cannot have been easy to share something so deeply personal.”

“You’re welcome.” Her gaze searched his, and once again he could see the vulnerability in her eyes. “And now that you know the truth…is today still the sort of day you’d like very much to repeat?”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “You?”

“Yes.”

Her smile damn near undid him, and he cursed the fact that for today, at least, their time was nearly over. She glanced down and he followed her gaze, noting that Beauty had fallen asleep with her head resting on his boot.

“We’ve bored the dog to sleep,” she said.

“Good. Otherwise she’d be wanting to gallop down the path and I wouldn’t be able to do this.” He drew her into his arms and brushed his lips over hers. She immediately opened for him, and with a groan he sank into the kiss, his tongue exploring the silky heat of her mouth. And he prayed they would have the opportunity to enjoy another day like this before his mission and his life in London separated them.

SIMON STOOD in Genevieve’s sitting room and stared at the painting hung over the mantel, the painting she had created. He lifted the single candle he held, noting again the vibrant colors that seemed to jump off the canvas even in the dim light. The intriguing brush strokes. The vividness of the sea waves that were so lifelike he could almost hear them smashing against the cliffs. Was the blond woman gazing out over the water Genevieve? He found himself reaching out to touch the lone figure. In addition to her intelligence, wit, kindness, charm, beauty and sensuality, she was immensely talented. Or had been, until the problem with her hands had stolen her confidence.

With a sigh, he forced his attention back to the matter at hand and moved about the room, searching for hidden recesses in the paneling, loose bricks in the fireplace, false bottoms in the desk drawers, loose floorboards-anything that might provide a hiding place for the letter he sought, all the while fighting his frustration over the fact that he was no closer to knowing who had killed Ridgemoor than when he’d arrived in Little Longstone. Simon considered sending Waverly a message, asking if he or Miller or Albury had discovered anything that could clear his name, but he quickly discarded the idea. A message could be intercepted, and Simon wasn’t ready for his whereabouts to be known. He was certain a political foe of Ridgemoor’s had killed him, but which one? There were dozens. And Simon was running out of time. Damn it, he needed that letter.

He moved methodically through each room, concentrating on his task, but when he searched Genevieve’s bedchamber, his gaze kept straying to her bed, his imagination filled with flashing images of the two of them, limbs entwined, hands and lips exploring, bodies arching. He squeezed his eyes shut to banish the erotic mental pictures, but that only rendered them more intense. Muttering an obscenity, he purposefully shifted to face away from the bed and turned his attention to the escritoire.

After a thorough examination of the small desk failed to yield the letter, he once again opened the top drawer. His hands lingered over the handwritten pages of what he didn’t doubt was a sequel to the Ladies’ Guide. His fingers traced the tight, painstaking script, his heart squeezing in sympathy at how painful it was for her to write. It was fortunate she’d found this place, Little Longstone, where she had access to the hot spring that brought her relief. It was where she belonged. While his life was in London. Where he belonged.

His gaze dropped to a woven basket next to the desk and he bent down to retrieve a crumpled piece of paper from within. He flattened the square sheet and peered at the words, written in Genevieve’s hand.

Today’s Modern Woman must always keep her head about her when in the company of a charming, attractive gentleman. The more charming and attractive the man, the more difficult this is to accomplish, therefore concentrating on something unrelated to him, such as mentally reciting Hamlet’s soliloquy, or something tedious such as counting to one hundred can prove very useful.

A small smile tugged at his lip at the advice. She was a remarkably insightful woman. The last line was badly smudged, no doubt the reason she’d tossed the sheet away. For reasons he couldn’t explain, other than to know he couldn’t throw that bit of her back into the trash, he folded the paper and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket, then continued his search.

Several hours later, just before the first streaks of dawn leaked through the darkness to paint the sky, he finished the last room and heaved a heavy sigh. He’d found nothing-except his suddenly active conscience, which had balked incessantly at invading Genevieve’s privacy.

Damn it, he should have just asked her what had become of the letter. He should have confided in her, as she had him. Confessed who he was. Why he was in Little Longstone. Of course, then he’d have had to confess he’d spied on her. Searched her home. And he didn’t doubt for a minute that she’d believe the only reason he’d sought her out, had flirted with her had been to gain her confidence.

And she would be correct.

But what had started out as nothing more than a calculated scheme to relieve her of the letter had turned into much more. By the time he’d seduced her, his mission had all but been forgotten. He’d believed himself capable of bedding her simply for his mission, but in the end, the mission hadn’t played any part in his making love to her. But would she believe that? Bloody hell, he didn’t know. But regardless, he was going to have to ask her for the letter, since he couldn’t find it on his own. Then, he’d have to pray she’d give it to him…and that she’d forgive him his lies.

A frown crossed his face. Once he left Little Longstone he’d never see her again, so it didn’t really matter if she forgave him or not.

Did it?

It matters, his inner voice whispered. And he realized with a jolt that it did. It mattered a whole bloody lot. Which was a whole bloody lot more than it should have mattered.

With a sigh, he blew out his candle and headed for the foyer. Might as well walk around the outside of the house, see if anything was afoot. Maybe the brisk air would clear his head. He entered the foyer and reached for the doorknob.

“Don’t move, or I’ll shoot a hole through you” came a deep voice from the shadows behind him.

Simon froze and inwardly cursed for allowing himself to be caught unawares. The voice came from nearby, close enough for Simon to know he’d never survive the gunshot wound if the intruder’s aim was even partially accurate, yet far enough away that he didn’t like his chances of rushing the stranger with the hopes of disarming him. His best alternative was to do as he was told. For now.

“I’m not moving,” Simon assured him.

“Put your hands behind your head, nice and slow. A quick move will earn you a lead ball in the back.”

Everything in Simon froze as recognition hit him. That voice…bloody hell, he knew that voice. He wished its familiarity filled him with relief, but instead a cold stone of dread landed in his stomach. “You have the wrong person,” he said, slowly raising his hands, stalling for time, hoping that the horrible realization forming in his mind wasn’t true. Yet he knew in his gut that it was. And that behind him stood not only Ridgemoor’s murderer but the man who’d betrayed Simon, and far worse, his country.

“You’re the right person, Kilburn. Sadly for you, you’re in the wrong place.”

In a tone that belied the fury and sickening betrayal racing through him, Simon said, “Not the warmest greeting for an old friend, Waverly.”