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She undid the buttons at the back of her neck, grateful that she was wearing a dress which buttoned down the back rather than the front. And this wouldn’t require her to strip to the waist to show Vale her shoulders. That might be taking things a bit too fast.
But she was still utterly conscious of his presence, lying on the bed behind her in the quiet, dimly lit room, and of his eyes on her. When she’d been younger, she’d idolized great detectives and dreamed her own dreams. It had been part of the reason that she’d chosen her name. She knew – she accepted – that the man behind her was his own person and not some sort of fake-Holmes. But that didn’t stop her caring for him, for who he was. If she had to take him to the Library, then she would. She was already in enough trouble. What was one more breach of regulations?
And if it did all go wrong and she was ordered away from this world, then what?
She slipped the dress down from her shoulders, holding it modestly against her breasts, exposing her shoulders and back. She was aware that the straps of her brassiere partly obscured the markings across her back, but most of it should be visible. ‘Can you see it?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ Vale sat up behind her. Irene didn’t look round, but she could hear the creaking of the bed and the rustle of the pushed-aside bedspread. ‘It does look like a relatively normal tattoo, composed of scrollwork or Chinese characters . . . Why can’t I understand it? I thought Strongrock said that everything in the Language would look like a man’s native language, if he tried to read it.’
‘Library marks are an exception to the rule,’ Irene said. She tried to relax and keep her breathing even, and not think about how close behind her he must be, how easy it would be to turn round and kiss him.
‘Is it hazardous to the touch?’
‘I don’t think so. Nobody’s ever died of it.’ She realized that might cast a dubious light on her behaviour and quickly added, ‘That I know of.’
‘If I may . . .’
Her throat tightened. ‘Of course,’ she said.
She felt the faint brush of his fingers against her skin, gliding along the lines of her tattoo. His fingers were feverishly hot – or was that just her? – and as he leaned in closer, she could hear his breathing come faster. ‘It feels like normal skin and scarring,’ he said. It was the blandest of possible remarks. It didn’t match the way his fingers trailed across her back. Maybe Kai had actually had a point when he suggested she should approach Vale. She’d always thought that any attraction on her side had been one-sided. She might have been wrong about that. Which meant . . .
Irene took a deep breath. Now or never. She swivelled round, her left hand holding her dress up in place. Vale was only a few inches behind her, his hand still raised. His cheeks were flushed, and no, she wasn’t imagining it – there was the heat of desire in his eyes, in the way his lips were parted to speak.
She didn’t give him the chance to ask her to turn back round. She slid her free arm around his neck, pulling him to her, and flung herself into a kiss. Part of her tried to compare this to Zayanna’s earlier tactics, but she shot that thought down before it could get in the way. She was semi-undressed in Vale’s bedroom. In this place and time, it was not an innocent situation, and both of them knew it.
And Vale responded. His lips parted against hers, and his arms came round to hold her as firmly as she was holding him. He made a small sound deep in his throat, sliding deeper into the kiss with the assurance of a man who has had his share of experience, as hungry for her as she was for him, as tired, as desperate . . .
Slowly the kiss eased. His hands shifted to cup her face. ‘Winters,’ he said. ‘Irene, I—’
‘Don’t say anything,’ Irene urged. ‘Please. I want this, too.’
‘You can’t know what you’re saying.’ Was it just the reaction of a man who would always think that women were less competent, less able to know their own desires? Irene had thought better of him. ‘I shouldn’t have . . .’
‘I kissed you.’ She tried to put genuine feeling into her voice, rather than retreating to her usual calm surface of sarcasm and distance. ‘Vale – should I call you Peregrine?’
‘Dear God, no!’ he said. ‘Irene, I can’t let you make this decision like this. Your pity for me shouldn’t sway you into degrading yourself—’
‘I would not be degrading myself,’ Irene said through gritted teeth. The heat of that kiss was wearing off under this sudden bath of cold indecision and self-loathing. ‘I have respected and admired you for months. I find you a very handsome man. If I choose to pursue you, then by all means tell me no, but please don’t imply that I am somehow donating myself to you out of charity. It is nothing like that.’
‘You are far too attractive and deserving a woman to throw herself away on a man like myself.’ Vale was starting to sound terse. Perhaps it signalled a growing annoyance that she wouldn’t simply withdraw and leave him to his self-indulgent bitterness.
‘I’m an unprincipled adventuress working as a book thief,’ Irene snapped back.
‘You’re barely twenty-five.’
‘I’m in my late thirties.’
Vale dropped his hands to her shoulders, seizing her as if he would like to shake her. ‘Have you no sense, Irene? I’m going insane. I’m no fit bedmate for any woman.’
‘And I have just said I do not intend to let that happen!’ Irene hissed, keeping her voice down, so as not to bring Kai in on them both. Though it would have been a pleasure to shout. ‘If you consider my judgement to be worth so little, then by all means throw me out of your bedroom, but allow me to point out that I would very much have liked to stay! What do I have to do, to convince you that I’m an adult and I know my own mind?’
Vale took a deep, shuddering breath and then pushed her away from him, releasing her shoulders. ‘Get out of here, Winters. I don’t blame you. I couldn’t possibly blame you. This is my own fault for playing the fool, for leading you on . . .’
Irene didn’t quite trust herself to speak at once. She pulled away and turned her back to him, doing her dress up again in quick, angry movements. ‘I am certainly not going to try to force you,’ she said. ‘We are both mature adults, after all. And if you want to wallow in your self-pity, far be it from me to stop you.’
Vale didn’t answer. The bed creaked as he lay back down on it.
Irene rose to her feet. ‘Get some sleep,’ she said coldly. She still wanted him. Even losing her temper didn’t stop that. And for that moment, she knew that Vale had wanted her, too. Her eyes pricked with furious tears. The stupid, irritating, self-pitying, overly noble idiot . . . ‘We can talk later. When you aren’t so tired.’
