She sighed and shook her head. "I don't know," she said slowly.
His hands fell from her shoulders. He growled his disgust, "Stop it. Don't lie to me, Cecilia."
She glared at him. "You're the one who said you could tell when I was lying. Then you should know that I'm not lying now. I don't know what he was doing there. The last time I talked to him was when you were here, before the Oastley house party. He was merely going to look into Randolph's financial affairs."
He ran a hand distractedly through his immaculate hair. "Which he did. And he learned something from all those bankers and lawyers that led his investigation on to a different line of questioning."
"What do you mean?" she asked, her anger and frustration giving way to curiosity.
"He began frequenting low resorts and asking questions about missing women."
“Missing women,” she repeated, then frowned. "Prostitutes?"
Branstoke glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "Yes."
"It doesn't make any sense. Maybe they're not related. No—they have to be," she murmured. She compressed her lips and began pacing again, her eyes darting about. What could be the connection with Randolph? Or with Mr. Waddley, for that matter? If Thornbridge did investigate Randolph as—
She stopped pacing and slowly turned toface Branstoke. "Wait a moment. How do you know Mr. Thornbridge visited bankers and lawyers? And how do you know he was asking about prostitutes? You had him followed, didn't you?" she declared with rising anger. "Of course you did. That's why luck had nothing to do with your Mr. Hewitt being available. How dare you? How dare you have the audacity to meddle in my affairs? What gave you the right?" she demanded wrathfully, her voice low-pitched but throbbing with the force of her anger.
"Concern," he said simply in a deceptively bland tone. The rich gold-brown of his eyes was well-hooded, yet he watched her keenly with a cat's studied disinterest.
"Concern? Ha! More like arrogant curiosity stemming from boredom. No wonder you look out at the world like you're half asleep! You are! For some reason, I managed to pique your interest and wake you up. A novelty, I'm sure. So with the arrogance of your breed, you casually decide to meddle in my affairs for entertainment. Have you had your share of laughs at my expense? Has the entertainment value been worth your time and effort? So what would you have me do for the second act? Prostrate myself before you in supplication? Vow undying gratitude for your interest in my affairs? Ha! I promise you, Sir James Branstoke, it will be a cold day in hell."
Branstoke's eyes narrowed, and his jaw went rigid during her tirade. "Are you quite finished? For if you are not, please feel free to continue. I shall wait upon you."
"See? See what I mean? That attitude is a demonstration of precisely what I've been saying. You are an arrogant, self-interested bastard!"
"I shall take that to mean you are finished. I have just one question to ask."
"What?" she said ungraciously, her chest heaving. She glared up at his impassive visage.
"Would you rather Mr. Thornbridge had been murdered?"
The hand seemed to rise of its own volition, but the slap across his face had the strength of her entire body behind it. The crack resounded in the quiet room.
Cecilia stared, horror stricken, at the glowing red hand imprint on his cheek. She covered her mouth with a trembling hand and backed away a step. "I'm so sorry, Sir James. That was uncalled for. Please forgive me. I do know you meant well, really I do. And I am grateful Mr. Thornbridge is alive. I don't know what got into me. That was a foolish thing to do," she babbled.
His eyes glittered behind their heavy lids and through the veil of his dark lashes. His hands clenched, the knuckles white, then relaxed. Carefully he straightened out each finger, easing the tension. "Come here, Cecilia," he said, his voice frighteningly void of expression.
"No—" she said, backing farther away.
"I said, come here," he commanded, his eyes locked with hers. “Please,” he added.
She inched forward a step, fighting the command yet knowing herself to be at fault. He was well within rights to extract some punishment. She was thankful someone watched out for Mr. Thornbridge. If she had ever imagined the danger his inquiries
would lead him to, she would never have asked for his help.
She'd been a fool, and Branstoke had saved her from a lifetime of guilt. In actuality, she held no anger toward Branstoke for having someone follow Mr. Thornbridge or even being interested in what she was doing. The annoying truth eating at her was the attraction she felt toward the man, an attraction she wanted to deny and swore she didn't want. His proximity in a room set her pulse racing. That's why she slapped him. It was an abortive attempt to deny those insidious feelings within her. And she knew it.
"Come here, Cecilia," he repeated for the third time. He would not repeat it, would not give her another chance to come forward on her own.
She came closer, her hand coming up tentatively to gently trace the pattern it had recently left. A twitch in his cheek muscle revealed his wariness.
A single tear trailed out the corner of her eye. She ignored it. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her heart in her throat.
He settled his hands around her back, drawing her closer. With what seemed an exaggerated slowness, his head bent closer to hers, telegraphing his actions. Cecilia emitted a soft cry of part fear, part desire, and infinitesimally raised her head to meet his kiss.
His lips came down on hers hard and demanding, full of checked anger and passion. Commandingly he drank her soul from her lips until she weakened, sure her knees would give way beneath her. Then the kiss changed, deepened, softened, and seemed to return more than it had ever taken. Filled with an intense longing to melt into him, to be one with him, she clung weakly to his shoulders and let the sensations ripple through her.
