Jacquie D’Alessandro - Touch Me

Clearly Mrs. Ralston had indulged in a dip in the hot springs. It was well documented that taking the waters was good for the body, and she absolutely was testament to that.

She moistened her lips and his gaze was drawn to her mouth. He squinted through the shadows. Were her lips naturally so plush or were they kiss-swollen? Had someone joined her at the hot springs? Did Mrs. Ralston have a lover? Perhaps the artist from the neighboring cottage? Or an accomplice who’d helped her murder Ridgemoor? Surely a woman who looked like her wouldn’t lack for male companionship. An unexpected mental image flickered through his mind…Mrs. Ralston, standing in the gently bubbling water…and himself, joining her-

“Meow.”

The sound cut off Simon’s unsettling fantasy and his gaze jerked downward. Sophia slid into the shadows and once again twined herself around his boots. Bloody hell. Clearly the cat possessed the same unfortunate habit as her owner-turning up in places she wasn’t wanted. And wasn’t that just like a female? Give one the smallest amount of attention then they kept pestering you for more.

He looked up and stifled a groan. With her cloak folded over her arm, Mrs. Ralston moved toward him. His breath halted-partly due to the great risk of discovery and partly because the sight of her rendered his lungs incapable of functioning. He’d seen many alluring sights in his life, but he’d be hard-pressed to name any that could compare to the sight of a wet, nearly naked Genevieve Ralston.

And speaking of hard…his gaze flicked down to the erection straining against his snug breeches. How bloody delightful. It was humiliating enough that he might very well be discovered. To be found in such a condition was completely unacceptable. He tried to will away his arousal, but with his gaze locked on her luscious form once again, he utterly failed. By God, Ridgemoor must have been jaded indeed to have tired of this woman. Had she sought revenge by murdering him?

Or perhaps he hadn’t tired of her as rumors had suggested-perhaps she’d betrayed him and that had precipitated Ridgemoor’s swift ending of their relationship. As Simon well knew, women could be perfidious creatures. And he had no doubt there was more to this particular woman than her simple existence as a former mistress who’d retired to the country. At the minimum, she possessed a box that contained information vital to Simon and many other people-or at least, it had contained that information, until the box had come into her possession. What possible reason other than guilt of some sort could have driven her to remove the letter?

She laid her cloak over the back of a wing chair near the fireplace and he held his breath. For several tension-filled seconds, she stood so close to him he had but to reach out his hand to touch her arm.

“What are you doing in the corner, Sophia?” she murmured. “I hope you haven’t found a mouse.”

No, not a mouse.

Sophia unwrapped herself from Simon’s boots and trotted toward her mistress. After giving the cat an affectionate pat, Mrs. Ralston crossed to her dresser and removed a clean chemise from the drawer, while Sophia jumped onto the bed and settled herself in the center of the counterpane. Simon pulled in a slow, deep breath of relief, noting Mrs. Ralston had left behind a hint of her scent-the same soft rose fragrance that filled the crystal bottle on her dresser.

Standing with her back to him, she peeled the wet chemise down her body, giving a slow wriggle that had him clenching his hands. A fine layer of sweat misted his forehead and, although he continued to fight to control his body’s reaction to her, it was a battle well and truly lost when she bent over to pick up the garment, a move that hiked her shapely bottom in the air and afforded him an unimpeded view of her feminine charms-a heart-stopping, concentration-destroying vision that drove every thought from his mind, including the fact that the verdict of hanged by the neck until dead could figure prominently in his near future.

As he gritted his teeth and bit back a groan, she pulled the fresh chemise over her head, then walked to the wardrobe and, thank God, pulled out a satin robe which she donned. The soft material clung to her curves like a second skin, but at least they were covered. He hoped now she’d go to bed.

Instead, she returned to the dresser and massaged cream from one of the pots into her hands, wincing several times as if in pain. Then she donned a pair of gloves from the top drawer. The ritual struck him as odd. Did all women wear gloves to bed? Any time he’d spent the night with a woman, he kept her too busy and too sated to think about anything as mundane as hand cream and gloves.

His hope that Mrs. Ralston would now retire was dashed when she reached up and pulled the pins from her hair, releasing a curtain of shimmering blond curls that fell to her hips. He immediately imagined running his hands through those spiral tresses, wrapping them around his fist. Pulling her closer-

He briefly squeezed his eyes shut to dispel the unexpected, unwanted image. What the hell was wrong with him? Bad enough he should be entertaining fantasies while on a mission, but it was completely unacceptable that he do so when the subject of those fantasies was a woman who well might be implicated in a deadly plot.

She emitted a low groan and his eyes snapped open to find her tying off the end of the braid she’d made with a pale blue ribbon while he’d been lustfully daydreaming. Before he could decide why she’d made such a sound, she again walked toward him. His every muscle tensed. Had she detected his presence? Sensed she was being watched? Bloody hell, it seemed as if she were staring directly at him. If she discovered him, he’d have no choice but to subdue her. A mental picture instantly formed in his mind…yet the vision wasn’t of him subduing her , but rather of her tying him …with pale-blue ribbons. To her bed.

Damn it. That bloody Ladies’Guide had utterly corrupted his mind.

To his relief she settled herself on the dainty chair before her escritoire, but his ease quickly evaporated when she lit the single candle on the desk. Light flared and he shrank as far into the shadow cast by the marble statue as possible. What the bloody hell was she doing?

She silently answered his question when she withdrew a sheet of vellum from the drawer and reached for the quill pen. In spite of his wish that she’d retire so he could escape, Simon’s interest quickened. She was going to write a letter. One that might provide him with vital information? It seemed an odd time to compose a missive-unless one was being secretive.

Simon watched her write smoothly for several minutes, but then her movements began to slow. Her brow furrowed and her lips pressed tightly together. She bent over the vellum with what he first assumed was concentration on her task, but then his gaze dropped to her hand that held the quill. She now gripped the instrument in an awkward manner. After writing several more words, she stopped then slowly flexed her gloved fingers as if she were in pain. Given her pinched expression, it was obvious something was amiss. Had she suffered some sort of accident that had damaged her hands?

She wrote with that same pained expression for another minute or two, then set the pen back in the holder and sanded the vellum. After slipping the paper into the drawer, she blew out the candle, rose and walked to her bed. He watched her remove her robe then extinguish the oil lamp. Bathed in a swathe of silver moonlight, she pulled back the counterpane and settled herself between the sheets. Sophia raised her head for several seconds, then resumed her curled-up position. Mrs. Ralston closed her eyes. She looked like an innocent angel-but Simon knew better than to accept outward appearances.