The Gold Coin (Colby's Coin 1)

Their gazes met—and held.

"A few days, Damen," she said in a pleading whisper. "Just to ensure Brean

na's safety. Remember, I can challenge Uncle George's guardianship any time I please, request that Mr. Fenshaw find a more appropriate person to oversee my well-being. But Breanna doesn't have that option. She's completely at his mercy. Please—a few days is all I ask."

"A few days," Damen agreed. "No more. After that, I'll break into Colby and Sons myself if I have to, find the bloody evidence we need to put your uncle in prison. And once Breanna is safe, nothing is going to stop me from making you mine. Nothing, Anastasia."

Another knock.

Muttering a curse, Damen walked over and turned the key, flinging the door open to admit a startled Cunnings. "What can I do for you?"

One of Cunnings's dark brows arched. "Have I interrupted something?"

Damen pivoted, stalking over to his desk. "I'm trying to review some details with Lady Anastasia. Which I can't do if I'm interrupted." His head came up, and he met Cunnings's curious gaze. "I repeat, what can I do for you?"

Cunnings took a few tentative steps into the office. "I just wanted to see if Lord Crompton's portfolio was in here. He seems to have misplaced it."

"Here it is, Cunnings." Booth stood in the doorway, waving the portfolio in the air. "Evidently, Crompton left it in the waiting area. Graff retrieved it and brought it directly to your office."

"Ah. Good." Cunnings smiled, heading for the door and pausing only to shoot Damen an odd look. "I apologize for interrupting your meeting. Lady Anastasia…" He bowed. "Good day." His heels echoed down the corridor.

Booth hovered in the doorway for a minute, staring at Anastasia as if she were a priceless painting.

"Yes, Booth?" Damen prompted.

"H-m-m? Oh, nothing, sir. If you'll excuse me…" One last reverent glance, and he left, shutting the door behind him.

"That man makes me very uncomfortable," Anastasia declared. "He gapes at me as if I were a valuable jewel of some kind."

"You are." Damen's tone was fervent.

"Thank you." Anastasia smiled. "Coming from you, that's a lovely compliment. Mr. Booth, however, is another story entirely. He's not my suitor, Damen, he's your employee. And he ogles me every time I walk through those doors."

"It's not ogling, it's admiration. He does the same to Breanna." Damen shrugged carelessly. "Booth is a shy man who doesn't spend much time with women. My guess is he's lonely. But he's harmless, believe me."

"If you say so." She sounded dubious.

"I do." Damen walked over, brushed his knuckles across her cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow night."

A faint smile. "No, you'll see Breanna."

"Everyone else might see Breanna. I see you."

Anastasia leaned reflexively closer, half-wishing she could just fling herself into Damen's arms and let the rest of the world take care of itself.

"Two days," he reiterated quietly, as if reading her mind. "Two risky days in which I'll probably worry myself sick. After that, we're taking whatever steps are necessary to bring down your uncle and end this ridiculous charade."

* * *

Today had been a nightmare, George reflected bleakly. Hovering inside the dingy pub, he peered about through bloodshot eyes, trying to clear his muddled brain. The room swam around him, and he wobbled a bit, then glared at the buxom barmaid who shot him a curious look. Cast your wretched gaze in a different direction, his icy stare seemed to command.

That did the trick.

She hurried off, and George leaned against a pillar so as not to make the same mistake again. The last thing he needed was to call attention to himself. Or maybe it didn't matter. Maybe nothing mattered anymore.

Brushing droplets of rain off his coat, he blinked, trying to focus on the rear of the tavern where his contact doubtless awaited him. He was rankled that he'd been summoned in the first place—today of all days. After Lyman's devastating news and all the havoc it prophesied, he had enough to contend with without traveling to this filthy hovel for yet another meeting.

He'd spent the entire afternoon and evening closeted in his study, buried in his brandy as he desperately tried to conjure up a solution to his crumpling life. Rouge wouldn't be assuaged or bullied, not this time. No, this time all George could expect was fury, condemnation, and a complete severing of business ties between himself and his Paris buyer. And then what would he do? How would he find another interested party? He couldn't exactly advertise for one in the newspaper. Further, how would he recoup his staggering losses? He'd invested nearly every last pence in this final shipment—a shipment whose exceptional quality Rouge would never see, nor believe existed.