He lifted his gaze and pinned her to the spot as effectively as Neville had fastened dead butterflies he’d found to a small board for his collection when he was much younger. She’d always found the practice morbid, and whenever he went away to school for a few months, she’d free the colorful creatures and give them a proper burial.
At the moment, however, she feared she was in danger of expiring because it was a challenge to draw breath into her lungs with his dark, penetrating eyes focused so intently on her. Slowly he came to his feet, and she had the unsettling thought that she’d made a terrible mistake in coming here, in agreeing to be his partner. Certainly, she could find safer means for earning money—climbing on to rooftops and cleaning chimneys, for example.
“Are you ready to get to work?” he asked.
With those few words, he broke the spell and she could breathe again. She’d applied her signature to an agreement, which she would honor to the best of her ability. He needed her knowledge, what she knew in her head, not her body. If only he hadn’t kissed her the day before, if only he hadn’t reminded her of what he was capable of making her feel. She swallowed hard, inhaled deeply. “Yes, quite.”
She was rather pleased she managed to stroll to her desk without giving the impression her legs were somewhat weakened by his nearness. She sat in the comfy leather chair and began taking stock of the items on her desk: parchment, pen, inkwell, his backside.
He’d wandered over and taken up his position as though he were completely unaware of the inappropriateness of his putting that portion of his anatomy within easy reach, as though he were oblivious to the way the cloth of his trousers pulled taut against his backside, outlined his hard thigh. He’d removed his jacket so nothing shielded her eyes from the scandalous sight, and she remembered how lovely it had felt to dig her fingers into that firm flesh and muscle.
Leaning forward, he planted his forearm on that enticing thigh. “We have a cook.”
She feared he detected a hunger in her eyes and was misinterpreting it. “So we have kitchens?” Inane question. If they didn’t, why would they need a cook?
“Down below. So if you fancy a cup of tea or some lemonade or anything else for that matter, she can prepare it for you. We have”—he furrowed his brow—“they’re not exactly servants, but they see to the place, tidying it up, running errands, fetching things. We’ll get you a little bell, so you can call for them when you’re in need of something.”
“I don’t need them waiting on me.”
“There’s a time when you would have.”
“Yes, well, that time has passed. Truly, Finn, I’ve left that life behind. I enjoy seeing to my own needs.”
“All of them?” His voice was low, sensual, flavored with decadence.
She knew to what he was referring, the naughty scamp. The pleasuring of herself. Angling her chin haughtily, she strove to look down on him even though he towered over her. “The ones that need seeing to.”
“I’m always available if any require assistance.”
She sighed. “Finn, if you continue to persist in this unacceptable manner, our partnership is likely to become unpleasant for us both.”
He grinned. “You’re using some of my earlier argument against me.”
“We are business partners. We can be nothing more.”
“In spite of how things ended, it was good between us, Vivi.”
“We were young and foolish.”
“Now, we’re older and wiser. It should be even better.”
She was prepared to argue further, but he shoved himself off the desk, taking that lovely backside with him.
“Come along,” he said, grabbing his jacket from where it rested on the back of his chair and working his way into it. “Let’s introduce you to the staff we presently have on hand.”
There was the cook, who looked to be too thin to do much sampling of her own work, a man referred to as “The Boss,” who was charged with keeping order on the gaming floor, the dealers and croupiers, a barman, young lads who saw to the guests’ needs, bringing drinks when requested, two footmen who served the meals in the dining room, two girls who swept, mopped, dusted, and set the fires.
“Why can’t women serve as dealers?” she asked, once she was again seated behind her desk and he was behind his.
He scooted his chair back, and she feared he was going to bring that backside within reach. Instead he simply twisted around, placed his elbow on his desk and his chin in his palm, and studied her. “Because it’s a man’s job.”
“Why?”
He blinked, his brow furrowed.
“A woman can deal cards. I’ve often dealt when I played whist.”
“These aren’t afternoon pastimes. The games are designed to bring us money.”
