A Rake's Midnight Kiss (Sons of Sin 2)
“I’d rather not refer to last night.”
A faint smile flirted with his lips. He glanced down to where his long fingers played with her silver letter opener. Sliding it left and right. Up and down. “So I imagine.”
“Then it never happened,” she said stiffly.
Still he smiled. Still he moved the shining knife in casual patterns across the blotter. “It’s not that simple, Miss Barrett.”
The formal address mocked. Her hands fisted at her sides. How she longed to hit him. “Of course it is. A gentleman would—”
“You say I’m no gentleman.”
“Nor you are.”
He surveyed her beneath heavy eyelids, dark blue eyes brilliant with humor. And desire. Her pulses had rushed when he’d saved her from Lord Neville. They hadn’t settled since and that glittering gaze didn’t help.
“Harsh.” His voice deepened as he balanced the paper knife on its handle. The action was inexplicably suggestive. “You left me burning, Miss Barrett. I caught nary a wink of sleep.”
Nervously she checked the door. If Lord Neville overheard, he’d have something else to blackmail her with. “I slept like a log.”
His eyes narrowed with amusement. “Liar.”
“My father wants to see me.” She cursed the quiver in her voice.
“Still running away?”
She refused to admit it. “Good day, Mr. Evans.”
He leaned forward and grabbed her hand in an uncompromising grip, letting the knife bounce on the blotter.
She squeaked with shock. “This isn’t private.”
“Does that mean we can arrange a private meeting?”
“No, it does not.” Angrily she tugged on her hand. How she longed to denounce him as a liar and a thief, but some shred of prudence reminded her that just now, he formed her best defense against Lord Neville.
“Pity.”
He didn’t sound particularly cast down. Of course he didn’t. This was a game to him. If she forgot that, she was in trouble.
Heat seeped up her arm from where he held her, reminding her that she was already in trouble. To think that not long ago she’d only worried about establishing an academic reputation separate from her father’s. Since then she’d dealt with burglars, kisses, and blackmailing, covetous noblemen. Not to mention a reluctant but immovable attraction for the rapscallion studying her as if he read every thought.
He probably did. She had a fair idea that Mr. Christopher Evans was no novice with the ladies. “Please, let me go. If anyone sees us—”
“Will you meet me later?”
“No.”
“Then I must kiss you now.”
“No, you mustn’t,” she said crossly. Then, horror of horrors, she heard footsteps on the stairs. Terror set pulses jumping. “For pity’s sake, let me go.”
“As you wish.” He raised her hand and kissed it. The contact was so fleeting, she should hardly remark it. Why, then, did her skin still sizzle after she snatched free?
“Are you there, Genevieve? Dr. Mitchell has written from Glasgow with a new lead on the princes.” Her father bustled in, brandishing a letter covered in spidery writing. “Ah, there you are, Mr. Evans. I was hoping I’d find you. You’ll be interested in this.”
His genuine pleasure at seeing his student weighted Genevieve’s heart with foreboding. He’d become fond of Mr. Evans. Hardly surprising. Mr. Evans set out to please. But what happened when their visitor’s falsehoods became known, as surely they would? However angry she was with her father, she was still his daughter. She hated to think of anyone hurting him. And right now her father was at risk from both Mr. Evans and Lord Neville.
“Excellent, Dr. Barrett.” Mr. Evans slouched with picturesque ease against the far wall. He’d shifted without haste before her father appeared.