He rose to his feet. “Either I stay at your shop, or you stay with us.”
“How is that any different?” One man, two men, three, she’d still be alone with them. Him. The most dangerous place was not a tavern full of men, but wherever Drake chose to cast his gaze. She needed a moment to breathe, and quite frankly, this man, he made breathing rather... airless.
“It most likely won’t be any different, since I can’t promise my brothers won’t pile into the shop after me.”
And shock Angelica if she failed to boot them out early enough in the morning? No, thank you.
“Fine, tavern it is.”
Just don’t reveal anything else to arouse suspicion, Violet.
*
How many timeshad Drake cursed tonight? It must be some kind of record. If blasphemy were coin, he could have bought a fleet by now and sailed far from this wretched evening that had not gone to plan. While everything had gone wrong, she’d surprised him at each turn. He had contingencies for enemies, for betrayal, for violence. He had no contingency for Violet Sharpe. And with her staring at him like that, all he wanted to do was drag her back to that cot and kiss her senseless.
“Well,” she demanded. “Are you just going to stand there and stare at me the whole night?”
If he weren’t uncertain whether he’d collapse again, he’d have no trouble doing just that. He choked on an unexpected laugh. She was so damn bold with a wit to match. It was a pity he had no time with his brothers waiting above. He could imagine no finer indulgence than the sinful luxury of her mouth. She wasso... damnably beautiful. Was it any wonder his trousers were wet at the moment?
Drake grimaced at the reminder and forced his mind elsewhere, far away from the memory of them finding pleasure in each other’s arms, at the sounds she made, at the ease with which she had undone him on the cot right beside him. He swallowed back a groan. “I thought you’d fight against our protection.”
“Would I win against your stubbornness?” she asked.
One corner of his mouth ticked upward. “That would depend on your definition of victory.”
She scoffed. “As I thought.” She smiled as though she knew precisely what thoughts she’d provoked and did not care in the slightest.
Bloody hell.
He couldn’t understand how her mind worked at times.
“Besides, by tomorrow, I imagine everything will have returned to its proper order. Correct?”
Drake set the cognac on the table, sensing the question carried multiple meanings. “We can only bloody hope.”
She stepped up to him, her neck craning slightly, giving him a view of the column of her neck. His body stirred.
Damnation.
“That’s not good enough, Drake. I believe I’ve shown more than enough fealty to stifle any suspicion, have I not?”
He inclined his head. “For now.”
“Then shall we return to your lair? I trust you’ll provide me a room.” She regarded him coolly. “And not in a dungeon.”
He hesitated, suddenly questioning his judgment. Should he just send her back to her shop and have Saint and Knight as guards?
She poked his chest, snapping him out of his misgivings.
“You are the one imposing your presence on me, Drake.” She cocked her head. “Why do I get the sense you are hesitating now? Are you perhaps scared? Want to send me home?”
“Presumptuous, love.” He was not afraid. Not of her. Could that be said about what she drew out of him? His gaze flicked to the cot and back to her. If she had any notion how deeply she pierced his discipline, the little flame wouldn’t provoke him.
Just get through the night.
He had survived worse nights than this. On the other hand, protection had always been simple. You placed men where danger might come. You drew lines and dared the world to cross them. You knew the shape of the threat and you answered it accordingly.
This was different. He knew the shape of this threat intimately. Had felt it on the cot not an hour ago. He could not place guards between himself and that. Could not draw a line his own nature would respect.
