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I draw in a breath and lean forward, my nose almost touching hers. “Do I only have to show up to disrupt your life?” I murmur. “That’s an unhealthy amount of power to give anyone, Cora.”
Her breaths are coming shallow through her parted lips. I want to kiss her. I want to claim her lips and plunder her mouth. I want to regain the knowledge of what she tastes like. She’d probably scratch the skin off my face, but it would be worth it.
So worth it.
“Are you sure this is the tour you want?” she whispers back, her eyes challenging me. Her lips curve with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “We have a temporary exhibition of medieval torture devices. I’m sure you’ll find that immensely satisfying.”
“I believe torture is more your style,” I reply flatly.
And manipulation.
And betrayal.
She looks like she would argue, then she thinks better of it and spins around, her hair swinging in a mesmerizing wave that grazes my face, enveloping me in that maddeningly tempting lavender scent. She moves briskly toward another painting, and I follow, itching to thread my fingers in her hair, to grip, to hold her in place, force her to look into my eyes and tell me why she tore my heart out of my chest and broke it into pieces.
A familiar beep sounds in my ear.
“Your meeting is in five minutes,” Mia reminds me.
I don’t reply.
Cora stops, looks at her watch, and then faces me without meeting my eyes. “I’m sure Deirdre is on her way to find you by now.”
She sounds like she’s been counting the minutes, eager for whoever-the-fuck-Deirdre-is to show up. I study her face, the familiar features I used to love. “You seem very eager to get rid of me.”
Her eyes widen in faux regret, and she gives me the sweetest smile. “Why on earth would you think that Mr. Kane?”
Tristan.
It’s Tristan.
To her, I should always be Tristan.
Unable to stop myself, I go to her again, leaving less than an inch of space between our bodies. “Cora,” I say softly, watching her eyelids flutter. I used to love saying her name. I loved the sound on my lips, and the way she would react whenever she heard it, like it was a key I held to her heart, her emotions.
All a lie.
I reach out one hand, letting my fingers graze her cheek as I smooth a stray strand of hair and tuck it behind her ear. My fingertips burn where they touch her. My heart thuds at the unplanned, impulsive contact.
Cora. Cora. Cora.
Her eyes close and her skin flushes. Her lips part as she draws in a quick breath.
Hunger and lust spread like a raging inferno in my blood. I want more, and God help me, I’m going to take it.
Her eyes open, and in their depths, there’s an expression of such deep loathing, it confirms everything I know she feels about me. “Don’t touch me,” she hisses.
“Why not?” My face is a mask, hiding raging desires and barely controllable needs. “Does my touch make you want things you shouldn’t?”
She looks like she would scream at me if she could, but whatever she plans to say, she swallows it when an attractive woman in a black, army-style jacket and striking red lips walks up to join us.
The newcomer gives me an obsequious smile, obviously impressed to be around me, unlike Cora. “Mr. Kane, I’m Deirdre Perkins, Peter Markham’s assistant. I’m here to escort you to your meeting.”
I take the hand she holds out to me. “Delighted,” I reply with a smile.
The smile works the wonders it always does. Deirdre swallows quickly, her cheeks coloring. “I’m ready when you are, Mr. Kane.”
I spare Cora a glance, noting that she still looks like she just wants a chance to murder me. “Thanks for the tour, Cora.”
