Taming the Beast

“I believe I’ve already stated my objection to that accusation.”

“Don’t try to run me around with semantics, Mr. Toft. You won’t succeed.”

“Oh, of course not. My apologies. I forgot just that quickly what manner of beasts you work for.”

“You have a problem with the practice of law?”

“I have a problem with being forced to cooperate in ordeals that have nothing to do with me.”

“I see.” She closed her eyes and leaned her head a bit to the side, then rubbed her neck as if she’d caught a cramp. “Well, then. You’ve certainly stated your objection clearly enough. I won’t bother you again.”

“And you’ll tell no one you saw me?”

“If that’s what you want? Fine.”

“I don’t believe you.”

She forced out a breath and straightened up

, rubbing her neck some more. She opened her eyes, but only to slits. “What difference does it make if anyone knows I saw you?”

“Don’t concern yourself with that.”

“If you tell me not to do something, then obviously you’re instigating a concern. I need to know why I shouldn’t do something. Otherwise, I won’t be so compelled to make the effort.”

“Does honor mean nothing to you?”

“You are going way off-course with this conversation.” She closed her eyes again and tipped her head back.

He ached to run a hand down the elegant column of her neck, to drag his fingertips down into her creamy, beckoning cleavage. There wasn’t a single mar or freckle to be found there. He wondered if her skin would be smooth and soft, or if the mounds would be firm to his touch.

“Ogling is impolite,” she said.

Apparently, he’d been staring. He jerked himself onto his feet and paced again in front of the heater. He hadn’t brought her into his pathetic, dusty lair to stare at her. He just wanted the nosiness to stop.

But how?

He hadn’t thought the plan through particularly well…or at all. Now that she was there, he couldn’t just let her leave. She’d go to the police, and he knew with unusual certainty that if the police intervened, someone would die, and that someone would be him because he wouldn’t be able to keep the beast at bay if threatened. Perhaps Andreas wouldn’t even be lucid when the execution occurred, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a sad one.

He looked at his watch, and then the woman.

Eleven. Barely lunchtime. She was likely expected back at work, but he couldn’t let her return. Not until he had her guaranteed silence.

He lurched across the small space between them, startling her upright, and pressed his hands to the sofa at either side of her hips.

Up so close, he could see the streaks of green in her blue irises, and the faint freckles beneath her makeup. He could see that her eyelashes were naturally dark, and he could smell the lingering aroma of vanilla in her hair or on her skin. She looked and smelled edible. When she dragged her tongue across her pink lips, he pondered if she’d taste good enough to eat, too.

“You smell like you’re meant to be eaten,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed to slits yet again.

“You smell sweet and ripe,” he said. Are you?”

“Your statements are rude.”

He drew in a long whiff of her and moaned his pleasure. There was something fruity, too, beneath the vanilla. Banana, perhaps. He’d disliked bananas up until that moment. They’d always reminded him of his first private school’s cafeteria. He’d hated that place and all the people there. Cliquish little brats. His mother, saint that she was, moved him elsewhere at his request with hardly a question.

“Not rude,” he whispered, turning his thoughts back to the present. “Simply truthful. I would have thought a woman such as yourself would appreciate my candor.”