The Gold Coin (Colby's Coin 1)

Damen raised his head, his eyes smoky as he gazed down at her. His knuckles brushed her cheeks—first one, then the other—before gliding down to skim the side of her neck. Then, he framed her face between his palms and bent to take her mouth again.

This time his lips settled more fully on hers, moving back and forth in a purposeful dance of discovery, and Anastasia leaned closer, instinctively seeking a closer contact.

His mouth was warm, firm, as intense and insistent as he, and equally as restrained. There was fire burning beneath the surface, fire she could sense, but he kept it carefully in check, smoldering beneath the surface.

When finally they eased apart, it was gradual, their lips brushing softly—once, twice—before relinquishing contact altogether. Anastasia's lashes lifted as the night air fluttered across her damp mouth, gently prodding her back to reality.

Damen was watching her, his stare intense, his steel-gray eyes alive with sparks. Still cupping her face, he murmured, "If I apologize for doing that, will you stay out here a while longer?"

"No. But I'll stay out here a while longer if you don't apologize."

He chuckled, lifted a few loose strands of burnished hair off her face. "Fair enough. Also far more honest. The truth is, I'm not sorry. I've been wanting to do that all night." He took a reluctant step backward, dropped his arms to his sides. "But I won't press my luck. If we stay out here, it's to talk."

"About our bank?"

"About whatever it is you'd like to talk about."

Anastasia nodded, still somewhat off-balance, besieged by too many emotions to ponder. "Tonight is certainly a night of surprises," she managed.

Damen's stare was deep, contemplative. "Is it?" he asked huskily. "Odd, it doesn't feel that way to me."

* * *

Inside the ballroom, George greeted the last of his arriving guests, then moved briefly into the hallway, standing alone to ponder the evening's accomplishments.

All in all, things were moving along nicely. Breanna was dutifully stationed at Sheldrake's side, Lyman and his curiosity had been deferred to a more appropriate place and time, and his own business discussion—handled earlier as planned—had yielded

the necessary results.

Silently, George congratulated himself on the excellent argument he'd presented. The necessary party now understood what needed to be done in order to ensure the highest profits were reaped and maintained. Not only understood the situation, but intended to act upon it.

Yes, the response had been gratifying, and as a result, more attention would now be paid to the details. With that extra supervision, the quality of their next shipment would be better, the quantity greater. And the profits, higher. Hopefully, much higher.

Now, if Sheldrake would only propose to Breanna, and he himself could somehow gain access to Anastasia's inheritance…

"Medford." Lyman joined him outside the doorway, glancing about to ensure that no one could hear them. "I've been looking for you. You were swallowed up by the crowd before we could finish talking."

"We were finished talking," George replied tersely. "As for where I was, I was greeting my guests—and solidifying our future success. That was part of my reason for holding this ball. From now on, we can expect our shipments to be more substantial, and our merchandise of finer quality."

"Ah. Excellent. And imperative." Lyman took a step closer, and George could see the beads of perspiration on his brow. Clearly, the man was even more rattled than he'd realized. But why?

"Imperative?" he repeated carefully. "That sounds rather ominous."

Lyman's tongue wet his lips. "It is. That's what I was trying to tell you earlier. I'm glad you've corrected your business reverses, and equally glad our shipments will be improved. Because our costs have just gone up. Significantly. Fifty percent, to be exact. Effective immediately."

George's brows drew together in a scowl. "Where did this information come from?"

"From Meade. He's flatly refused to work another day without getting paid—in full. He won't accept your credit any longer, not for past shipments and definitely not for future ones. There have been too many late payments. He insists on your debt to him being satisfied immediately—in pound notes. As for upcoming deals, he wants his money up front and with a fifty percent increase. He says the risks are just too great, and your ability to pay too uncertain. I tried everything to convince him to reconsider, to bend a bit, but to no avail." Lyman whipped out a handkerchief, dabbed at his face. "So I'm glad we can meet his demands. Otherwise…"

Anger surged through George's veins. "Are you telling me Meade is blackmailing us?"

"I'm telling you he wants his money. He's not going to be deterred, not this time."

"Oh, yes he is." George drew himself up, his mind already racing over possible solutions, and settling on a logical one. "I'm tired of Meade and his threats. It's time I eliminated them."

"You're going to confront him?"

"In effect. Nothing too uncivilized." George's jaw set. "Let's just say I'm going to see that the wind is knocked out of his sails." His hand sketched a dismissive wave, as Lyman began asking another question. "It's no longer your problem. I'll attend to it."