“Perhaps not. But you’re not always in the middle of the village, are you?”
Her cheeks turned so hot, she thought they’d burst into flame. The reference to her midnight revels spiked her voice with resentment. “I haven’t been back to the pond.”
The smile that lit his face set her heart skipping, however much of a rogue he was. “I wish you would.”
“I thought you feared for my safety when I’m alone.”
Eyelids lowered over brilliant eyes. His smile developed a wicked edge. An edge that shifted her pulses from headlong charge to wayward tarantella. “Who says you’d be alone?”
His silky tone seeped through her skin. It was as if he put his arms around her the way he had beside the pond. Inconvenient heat swirled in her belly. “Stop flirting,” she said in a hard voice, while her innards melted to warm syrup.
His smile deepened and with it, her liquid response. “I can’t help it. I tell myself I’ll be strong, then you frown at me as if unsure whether to kick me or kiss me, and I’m snared again. You should take pity.”
Her lips firmed against the impulse to smile. “I pity any woman who listens to your nonsense.”
He collapsed against the stone wall behind him and closed his eyes with theatrical agony. “You never think I’m sincere.”
She edged toward the street, partly because the impulse to jump on him and beg him to kiss her was so overwhelming. “You never are.”
“Sometimes I am.” He rose, sending the basket tumbling to the ground. In the enclosed space, she was unbearably aware of his height. His voice lowered and despite her accusation of insincerity, something in her opened to that persuasive baritone. “Genevieve, I mean it—take care. I’d hate anything to happen to you.”
She told herself that his seduction was a means to an end. Obtaining the jewel. And if he got to tumble her too, well, that was a bonus. Her mind recognized the truth. Her body wanted to press against his tall frame like a hot iron flattened linen to the kitchen table.
She turned to go, but faster than a striking adder, he caught her hand.
Struggling to bolster fading resistance, she tried to escape. “Don’t call me Genevieve.”
“I can’t address a woman I’ve kissed as Miss Barrett. It’s against the laws of nature.”
She summoned a scowl. “I prefer the laws of society, sir.”
He laughed softly. “No, you don’t, you little hypocrite. You’re perfectly happy to bend the rules when it suits you.”
She glanced around frantically, hardly listening. “Please. If anyone sees us, my reputation will be in shreds. I know you think I’m past the age of scandal, but this is a small village and people will say that something’s going on between us.”
“Something is going on between us, or do you intend to deny that too?”
“Blast you, Mr. Evans, let me go.”
“Christopher.”
She ceased wriggling and stared at him aghast. “I can’t call you Christopher.”
He still smiled. “Of course you can. Three syllables. Nice English name. ‘Chris-to-pher.’ Say it after me.”
Her brief charity with the bumptious Mr. Evans evaporated. How she wished she’d shot him when she had the chance. “I don’t want to call you Christopher. I don’t want to call you anything but someone who has left the neighborhood.”
He winced dramatically. “Cruel.”
She lowered her voice and injected all her outrage into her tone. “If you don’t let me go, I’ll sneak into your room when you’re asleep and smother you with a pillow.”
Sensuality weighted his expression. He looked like he wanted to kiss her. What on earth would she do if he did? “If you come into my room, we’ll do something much jollier than murder.”
“Right now, murdering you offers enjoyment beyond my wildest dreams.”
His laugh held a hint of admiration. “Ghoulish wench.”
It was all too much. “Stop it,” she said in a shaking voice. “For pity’s sake, just stop.”