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He yearned to crush that sex red mouth to his. To comb his hands through the feather fineness of those inky tresses. To cup the small, upthrust breasts, rubbing them to pebble hardness. Another side effect of the diary’s archaic language? A result of a sexual itch left too long unscratched? Or something else? Something he wouldn’t even name for fear of giving it life. There was no future there. This was only Cat. He’d do better to save his pining for a female who could bring him wealth, not simply steal it. Someone like the incomparable Miss Osborne.
So why did he want to taste those lips to discover if they were as berry sweet as they looked, or whether that lithe body would fit as perfectly against his as he imagined?
A hitch came in her breathing, her cheeks flushing to a beautiful rose pink before her eyes darkened to storm cloud black. “I said, how many fingers am I holding up?”
He blinked, focusing on the fingers wiggling under his nose. “Three,” he answered.
She nodded. Backed away.
But instead of letting her go—what his head told him he should do—he followed her retreat. Stepped into the space between them.
The shimmer of golden light surrounding her flared bright. A heady warmth washed over him, sizzling along his nerves. Frying away the last hesitations. He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Trace the line of her scar with a touch as light as breath.
She swayed toward him as he brushed her lips with his before dragging in a harsh breath. “No.” She broke away, eyes dilated and hazy with desire, yet betrayal lurking there also. And the shadow of another embrace. Another kiss. One whose memories brought fear and anger and shame. “I can’t. Not again.” Shudders wracked her thin body, the muscles in her neck working as she fought tears. “Don’t ask it of me. Please.”
His clenched hands dropped to his side, shame freezing him into shocked immobility. Bloody fucking brilliant, Aidan. You fucking randy dumbass. You’ve cocked it up now.
The auras had lessened to a blue-white outline, but Cat still remained damned tempting, those knowing eyes in that oval face, the sheen of her hair. He shifted in painful frustration. He’d hired her to translate, not to satisfy his body’s mounting demands, but did she have to be so . . . desirable and so . . . available?
“Go to bed, Cat,” he said through clenched teeth.
She dropped the diary onto the chair. Backe
d away as if he might jump her should she turn her back on him. Only when she reached the door did she hesitate and turn back.
He waved her out, knowing nothing she said would make him feel less a fool and anything he said now would only confirm his stupidity in her eyes.
Alone, he lit a cheroot to steady his shaking hands. Took a restorative drag. Tossed it onto the fire. Cat. His father. Street thugs bent on murder. And now a mysterious M.
Bloody fucking brilliant didn’t even begin to cover it.
Blake had been sent to bed, leaving Aidan to complete his undress in privacy. Solitude in which to sort through the mess he’d almost made with Cat. To firmly attribute it to exhaustion and the insidious mage energy given off by the diary’s wards. It had nothing to do with her spirited self-reliance or her quick humor. The courage in her lightning gaze. Definitely not the way she moved with the grace of a dancer or that smoky purr of a voice. No. Mage energy completely. Had to be.
A halfhearted rap on the door and Jack slouched into his dressing room, wineglass in one hand, bottle in the other. “You awake, coz?”
Aidan paused in shrugging out of his shirt. Opened his hands in a what-does-it-look-like gesture. “Thought you’d be out carousing. Weren’t you expected at Daly’s tonight?”
Jack flopped into a chair. Downed his drink. “Decided to attend a musicale at the Campbells’ instead. Went for the food, but spent the evening listening to a recitation of your charms by the lovely Miss Osborne. Don’t know what she sees in you, Aido. You’re grouchy, overbearing, and far too dull. You’ll bore the poor woman to death within a month of your marriage.”
“If there’s a marriage. Miss Osborne’s gotten wind of Cat as well as a story about a mother come down with plague.” He arched a cynical brow. “Ring any bells?”
Jack flushed scarlet. “I can explain.”
“I’m all ears.”
“She cornered me over the canapés a few nights ago. Said there were rumors circulating about a young woman residing with us here. I panicked.” He offered a roguish smile. “But then, the Aidan I remember had women stashed all over the city. Hell, two cities if you count your years in London.”
Aidan rubbed a tired hand across the back of his neck. “Yes, but the Aidan you remember wasn’t concerned over outstanding loans, interest payments, estate maintenance, advances on purchases of seed, machinery, and stock—”
“Enough. Sounds horrid.”
“So now you know why I don’t need Barbara Osborne thinking me a libertine, pursuing her while blatantly enjoying a mistress.”
“So, you mean to court her in earnest? I began to wonder if it was all one-sided on her part.”
“Once these bruises heal. She can hardly want me at her side looking like this.”
“You’d better heal fast. They’re queuing up at her door. The figure. The dowry. Perfect hips for bearing sons,” Jack cajoled.
