Rising abruptly, Elizabeth gasped in frustration, staring wide-eyed at the closed door. How dare Jo leave her alone, with her heller of a brother! She turned slowly to glare at Cutter, her expression wrathful. “I needed to talk to her, Mr. McKenzie!” Her eyes narrowed upon him accusingly. “I assume it is McKenzie?” she asked.
Cutter lifted the bottle before him, turned it appraisingly, then poured a small portion of amber fire into her glass. “That’s right,” he drawled. His dark, hawk-like eyes bored into hers as he slid the glass toward her. “Drink up. Might help.” The curve of his lips seemed to challenge her.
Settling back down on the edge of the chair, Elizabeth slid the glass back toward him, straightening her shoulders. “No, thank you, Mr. McKenzie. I do not partake of spirits.” Her eyes narrowed. “Not ever!”
Shrugging indifferently, Cutter proceeded to pour himself two fingers. As he placed the bottle back upon the desk it “accidentally” clinked against Elizabeth’s glass, nudging it back into her immediate reach. “Suit yourself,” he said, adjusting his stool. He leaned upon the desk, stretching his long legs lazily before him.
Beneath the desk, the toe of one boot managed to find its way just under the hem of Elizabeth’s skirt, brushing her ankle. She jerked away with a gasp. Though not quickly enough, because she experienced a flutter deep down at the unexpected caress. It sent her pulses racing and her senses reeling. Surely he’d not done so on purpose? Or had he? She had to wonder.
Inclining his head slightly, Cutter lifted his own glass in mock salute. “Don’t mind if I do,” he said, smiling.
Too flustered to speak, Elizabeth simply shook her head in answer, thinking that she really ought to get up and leave. Yet she didn’t. Something kept her rooted to the chair, and she couldn’t even force her gaze away.
Did he know how much his presence disturbed her? Was he making fun of her? Somehow that possibility thoroughly distressed her. “I really wish you wouldn’t smile so much.”
Cutter studied the expression on her face over the rim of his whiskey glass. He was making her nervous, he could tell. But he couldn’t help himself. He itched to remove her specs, to reach out and run his finger across those long sable lashes, see if they were as soft as they looked.
He kept his hand occupied with his rotgut whiskey instead, a pulse quickening in his temple even as he thought of touching her. Swallowing, he slammed the tumbler down. “Why is that?” he asked.
“Just because!”
He contemplated how those delicate lashes would feel against his lips. “Why?” he persisted, his tone huskier than before.
“Be—Because it annoys me!” she said sharply.
His smile deepened.
Again, her eyes narrowed. “All right, Mr. McKenzie, since I truly do not understand what it is you find so blessed amusing, perhaps you’d care to enlighten me?”
He crossed his arms. “Don’t think I would.”
She surged from her seat, shoulder squared proudly. “Well, then… if you will please excuse me! I have no time for this cockamamie nonsense!”
She started for the door, only to find her skirt firmly snagged by a jagged corner of the desk. Halting abruptly at the sound of rending material, she stood stock-still, momentarily paralyzed by the thought of turning to face Cutter’s smug expression.
She stared at the door, only two feet away, thinking that surely Cutter was snickering at her behind those insolent black eyes of his.
The biggest part of her wanted to simply jerk her skirt free, reach for the knob, snatch the door open, and run for her life. But that would accomplish nothing, she knew.
Nor did she want Cutter to think she was afraid of him. Suddenly it was very important that she stand up to him, show herself confident and unaffected. She closed her eyes briefly, took a deep breath, and spun to face him, her chin lifting a notch.
She started to find he’d already risen and was standing, one brow lifted slightly.
How did he do that, she wondered irately—move so quickly without making a sound?
One hand swept across his lips, as though to wipe the smile from them, then fell away as he stooped to pop her dress from its snare. But he didn’t rise straightaway. Stooping at her feet, he glanced up from her ankles, his eyes gleaming as he lifted the dangling end for her. “You’ll be needin’ this, I reckon.” Amusement danced in his eyes.
Exasperated, Elizabeth snatched the torn hem out of his hands, grateful to find that it was only the flounce she’d added to lengthen her skirt. His fingers closed about hers, not really detaining them—though she didn’t realize that fact until she removed them quite easily a few stunned seconds later.
The shock of that discovery left her dumbstruck.
She was ready to bolt.
Cutter could tell by the look in her eyes, so he stood cautiously, retreating a bit. He sat back upon the desk, arms linked lazily across his chest, as he scrutinized her. He wasn’t ready for her to leave, but knew better than to ask her not to go. The ready defiance in her expression told him that she would do so just to spite him.
“Think Brady’s gone yet?” he asked conversationally, knowing full well that it would both divert her attention and deter her from leaving the room until he could manage to smooth her ruffled feathers.
Surprise touched her features first, then consternation as she recalled the reason Jo had dragged her into the office to begin with. With a dainty finger, she pushed her spectacles firmly up the bridge of her nose, seeming to consider his question carefully.
