“True.” He skated his lips down the long line of her throat, heard her breath catch as she arched her head, allowing him better access. “But once we start winnowing our suspects, the real murderer will emerge.” Raising his head, he turned her, met her shadowed eyes. “And once we have him, Justin will be safe. In every way.”
She looked into his eyes; he could sense the frown in hers. “You make it sound so…straightforward. That it will simply happen, step by step, like that.”
“Because it will.” He drew her closer. “Because we’ll make it happen”—he bent his head—“just…like…that.”
He covered her lips and kissed her—deliberately kissed her to distract her.
To give her something else to think about, to fill her mind with…
Him. Them.
And what might be.
He needed to reawaken her dreams again, to convince her to trust that they could come to be. To convince her to put her hand in his again, to be his again.
In his heart he knew it wouldn’t be as easy as he’d like, yet when he held her in his arms, when she stepped into him and sank her fingers in his hair and kissed him back with all the pent-up longing in her dramatic soul, he felt like heaven was within his reach.
So close, as he angled his head and deepened the kiss, he could taste it.
She no longer even pretended that she thought he might—or should—leave her each night, that he should go home and allow her to retire alone. Just as well. The single night he’d stayed apart from her had seemed to drag on forever.
Yet as they tussled for direction, wrestled for supremacy, as clothes dropped like so much litter to the floor, as hands grasped and mouths and lips caressed—until he spun her about, bent
her forward over a round table and entered her from behind—and she gasped, caught her breath, then sighed, shifted, and took him yet deeper—even then he wasn’t sure, couldn’t tell whether she was as caught in the moment as he was.
As deeply ensnared by the emotional net that for him, at least, in moments such as this, held him.
All he could do was show her how he felt—let her see, and feel, how possessive of her, with her, he wished—needed—to be.
And hope she understood.
In the end, after they’d both touched glory and he’d carried her, all but staggering, to collapse on her bed, as she curled against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, the fingers of one hand lazily riffling the hair on his chest, all he could do was hope that she would once again grant him what she’d so freely gifted him with all those years ago.
Hope that with every night, with every day that passed, she would see his unswerving devotion for what it was.
Hope that on this unsettling and unfamiliar battleground, he was advancing his cause, and drawing ever closer to recapturing her heart.
Chapter 13
The following morning, Christian left Letitia sprawled boneless in her bed; returning to Allardyce House, he breakfasted in solitary state, then went to call on Montague. That expert in money matters received him in his office—with a frown.
“I’m having a great deal of difficulty following the trail of Randall’s money back in time—which I shouldn’t have. It’s as if he, as a financial entity, simply came into being, fully funded, twelve years ago.” Montague reached across his desk, picked up a sheet and peered at it. “Interestingly, that was the same time—twelve years ago—that the Orient Trading Company first surfaced.”
Lowering the sheet, Montague looked over his pince-nez at Christian, seated before the desk. “It’s quite remarkable that I can find no trace of any accounts for Randall prior to his establishing the accounts he died with, all of which are with London banks.”
“Twelve years ago, Randall was twenty-two years old.”
“Indeed. And I can tell you there are few twenty-two-year-olds who could claim the level of capital he had. I’ve even considered the question of an alias, but there’s no sign of that. Much as it shocks me, I’m tending to the theory that when Randall set up his currently held accounts twelve years ago, he deposited the funds in cash. It was a significant amount, yet there’s no trace of that money coming from anywhere—meaning any other account or instrument or fund.” Montague shook his head. “It had to have been moved in cash.”
Christian nodded. Given Randall’s background, that was perhaps not surprising. Chances were, he hadn’t had much to do with banks before coming to London.
“One thing I have made headway with is the estimation of Randall’s final estate. I’ve yet to hear back regarding the estimated worth of the third share in the Orient Trading Company, but even leaving that aside, the figure is quite startling.” Montague glanced at a sheet of paper, then handed it across the desk.
Christian took it, read the figure, and raised his brows.
“Indeed.” Montague sat back, removing his pince-nez. “While I’m sure it’s not what you want to hear, I would have to say that Randall’s estate provides an excellent motive for murder, even if the one inheriting is one’s sister.”
Christian pulled a face. He handed the sheet back. “And the company?”