“Do I?” He grinned, like the devil he was.
She had no doubt he had read every word she had written. Every shocking thing she had drafted thus far after seizing upon her plan to live her life and experience true passion the way everyone else around her was. Her sister was blissfully married. Her dearest friend was happily wed and wildly in love.
And yet, Jo had never been kissed.
“Yes,” she hissed. “You do.”
“I am afraid my memory is dreadfully faulty. Remind me, my lady.” His voice was low. Teasing. Taunting.
Daring.
He did not think she had the audacity to say it, she realized.
Jo kept her gaze trained unwaveringly upon him. “Ways…”
She faltered.
“Ways,” he prompted, his stare dipping to her lips.
“Ways to be wicked,” she blurted.
“Oh, yes.Thatlist. Now I recall.” The grin he gave her was sin in its purest, most tempting form.
Curse him.
And curse the curious flutter that started in her belly and slid lower, pooling between her thighs.
Jo was doomed.
“Thatlist,” she agreed. “You sent me a note saying you have it. I would like it returned to me, if you please.”
There.If he were a gentleman, he would spare her additional humiliation and surrender the list without another word.
“What do you plan to do with this list of yours?” he asked, offering further evidence he was no gentleman as he strolled closer.
“That is hardly your concern.” She told herself she would not budge an inch. No step in retreat. But he was near enough to touch now.
Near enough his scent wafted over her, a cologne unlike any she had ever smelled before, musky and rich with a hint of bay. Near enough that she detected striations of gray and green lingering in the bright-blue depths of his eyes.
He reached for her, and she found herself swaying toward him. Anticipating a kiss. An embrace. The heat smoldering within her—part embarrassment, part longing—burst into a flame.
He plucked her hat from her head, still grinning that roguish grin. “I am afraid you made it my concern when you entrusted your list to me,bijou.”
Bijou? Was that what he called all his fallen women?
Jo reached for her hat, irritated with herself for thinking he would kiss her. Worse, for wanting it, even if for the span of a few seconds. What was wrong with her?
“Do not call me that, and give me my hat, you scoundrel!” She lunged for it, but Mr. Decker was too quick.
He held it in the air, high above Jo’s head, using his massive height to his advantage. It was hardly the first time in her life she had been dismayed by her petite stature, but the humiliation of the moment rendered this particular scene worse.
“I will return your hat if you answer my question.” He raised a dark brow. “I could not see your eyes with this blasted contraption on your head.”
“My hat is the height of fashion.” Jo lost her composure and jumped, trying to rescue it from his grasp.
But her attempt failed.
And Mr. Deckerlaughedat her efforts, blast him.
