Jacquie D’Alessandro - Touch Me

Genevieve raised her gaze back to his and cleared her throat. “We weren’t married very long before he passed. And you Mr. Cooper-are you married?”

“No. I travel a good bit with my work for Mr. Jonas-Smythe, so I’m not in one place long enough to form deep attachments.” A slow grin that could only be described as devilish curved his lips. “So far no woman will have me.”

Genevieve barely suppressed the incredulous “Ha!” that rose in her throat. She didn’t doubt that as many women as he wanted had had him-in any way he chose to be had. He’d most likely left a trail of broken hearts in his wake. The unmarried ladies of Little Longstone would buzz around Mr. Cooper like bees to a hive. Which of them might lose their heart to this devastatingly attractive man? She didn’t know. But she would not be one of them.

RELIEF washed through Genevieve when Baxter entered the room bearing a tray holding the silver tea service, and a platter filled with scones, clotted cream and her favorite raspberry jam. Mr. Cooper had unnerved her in a way that both intrigued and confused her, and she welcomed the respite of Baxter’s presence.

After setting everything on the table in front of her, Baxter then proceeded to pour the tea, his huge hands handling the delicate china far more efficiently than she could. When he finished, he rose to his full height and cracked his knuckles.

“Will ye be needin’ anything else?” he asked Genevieve, shooting Mr. Cooper a glowering scowl. Mr. Cooper smiled in return, which only darkened Baxter’s expression further.

“No, thank you, Baxter.”

Baxter headed toward the door, his heavy footfalls rattling the porcelain on the mantel. “Holler if ye need me. I’ll be close by.” With that he quit the room.

“Clearly if I’m foolish enough to give you any reason to ‘holler,’ I shall find my innards in Baxter’s large hands,” Mr. Cooper said in a very serious tone.

“Your innards would indeed become out ards,” Genevieve agreed, indicating he should help himself to sugar or cream for his tea.

“As you stated, he’s very protective,” Mr. Cooper said, his gaze not wavering from hers as he dropped a sugar lump into his steaming tea. “But then, he should be. He has a great deal to protect.”

Another wave of heat suffused Genevieve, this one annoying her. At two and thirty, she was far past the age for her head to be turned by a man’s flattery. It’s been a long time since a man has flattered you, her inner voice whispered.

Yes, obviously that was the problem. She suddenly realized that other than Baxter, she hadn’t been alone with a man since Richard had tossed her aside like yesterday’s trash. And there was no denying Mr. Cooper was extremely attractive. No wonder she felt so uncomfortably warm. And uncharacteristically tongue-tied.

She watched him add four more lumps of sugar to his tea-so many that the liquid nearly spilled over the top, and her lips twitched. “You like a bit of tea with your sugar, Mr. Cooper?” she asked, lifting her cup to her lips to hide her smile.

He lifted his cup and regarded her steadily over the rim. “I confess I’ve a weakness for sweets. Do you?”

“I suppose, although my preference is for Baxter’s raspberry jam. You must try it.”

She watched him spread the clotted cream and jam on a scone. His hands were browned by the sun, large and capable-looking, his fingers long and strong. The faint remnants of an ink stain marred his index finger, no surprise given his profession. He obviously spent many hours filling in columns of numbers to keep his employer’s accounts.

An image flashed in her mind…of those masculine hands sifting through her hair, scattering pins, holding her head immobile as he leaned forward to brush those lovely firm lips over hers. Then his hands drifting lower-

“Don’t you agree, Mrs. Ralston?”

The question, asked in his deep voice, popped the sensual picture like a soap bubble. Good heavens, what on earth was wrong with her? Her thoughts never wandered like that. He was gazing at her with an expectant expression. Clearly he’d asked her something…something he wondered if she agreed with. To her chagrin she had no earthly idea what that something was.

“Agree?” she murmured, her outwardly cool demeanor at complete odds with the heat racing through her.

“That we should indulge our weaknesses.”

She watched, transfixed, as he took a bite from his scone and slowly chewed. Recalling herself, she opened her mouth to speak, but her words evaporated in what felt like a puff of steam when he swallowed then licked a bit of jam from his lips. That tiny flick of tongue reverberated through her as if he’d licked her lips rather than his own and to her consternation, she found herself involuntarily mirroring his action. His gaze dropped to her mouth and fire flared in his eyes.

“I…I suppose that depends on what one’s weaknesses are,” she murmured. Dear God, was that breathless sound her voice? “And if they are within one’s means.”

His gaze returned to hers. “Meaning?”

“If one harbors a weakness for diamonds but not the means to purchase them, well, then that is a weakness that should not be indulged.”

“Lest one finds oneself deeply in debt.”

“Or in Newgate for stealing.”

“Are diamonds a weakness of yours, Mrs. Ralston?”

She thought of the stunning necklace and matching earbobs Richard had given her, trinkets she’d sold soon after he’d left her. “No. In fact, I don’t really care for them. I find them cold and lifeless. I much prefer sapphires, although I wouldn’t call them a weakness.”

“What would you call a weakness?”

She considered fobbing off the question with a light laugh then changing the subject. But if she did, she wouldn’t be able to ask him what his weaknesses were. And she very much wanted to know.

“Flowers,” she answered. “Especially roses.”

“Any particular color?”

“Pink is my favorite.”

He smiled into her eyes and her breath hitched. Dear God, he was beautiful when he was serious, but when he smiled… oh, my. “I’m delighted that I brought you not only your favorite flower, but in your favorite color. What else?”

It took her several seconds to recall what they were discussing. Then she cleared her throat. “Cats. Books. Artwork.”

He nodded and glanced around the room. “You’ve some lovely pieces.” He tilted his chin toward the painting hanging over the mantel. “That piece, in particular, is remarkable. It’s so vivid I can almost feel the sea spray hitting my face.”

Genevieve glanced at the painting she’d created, at the swirling waves crashing against the rocks, and recalled the first time she’d touched a paintbrush to canvas as a young girl, so filled with hope, her hands free of the arthritis that would strike her years later as an adult, stunting her talent and leading to heartbreak.

Her gaze strayed to the woman standing at the top of the cliffs amidst a profusion of swaying wildflowers. She faced the tumultuous waters, her features indistinguishable, yet Genevieve knew who she was. Or at least who she was supposed to be.

“Thank you. It’s a particular favorite of mine.”

He rose and moved to the mantel, leaning forward to more closely examine the painting. “The pattern of brushstrokes is very unusual,” he said.

Genevieve’s brows rose. He showed unexpected knowledge for a steward. “You are a student of art?”

He hesitated for several seconds, then turned to smile at her over his shoulder. “In so far as Mr. Jonas-Smythe enjoys adding to his collection, I therefore need to know something of the subject.” He returned to his seat. “The painting isn’t signed.”