The carriage shifted as the footman jumped off the back.
Colleen slapped at Max’s hands. “Button yourself back up. We’re here.” Grabbing the daffodils by the stems, she pulled at the bundle. Half the blooms remained under Max’s thigh where he’d sat on them. The rest of the bouquet was woefully crushed by her own knee. There was something symbolic in that, something she didn’t want to contemplate.
At least the odor of the crushed flowers filled the carriage interior, masking any other scents that might linger. She hoped.
Max pounded on the roof. “I’ll tell them to go around the block.”
“That isn’t a good idea.”
“Colleen.” Frown lines marred Max’s forehead, and he reached for her.
The door swung wide, and Colleen stumbled to the opening. She couldn’t look at the footman, didn’t want to see the knowledge of what she’d done, what he might have heard. She hurried down the steps and turned at the bottom.
Max filled the carriage doorway.
“I have to get back to work. The workers’ luncheon won’t serve itself.” Patting her pocket to make sure her watch still lay inside, she spun on her heel and marched for the club’s entrance.
She could feel the heat of his gaze between her shoulder blades. He had a right to be angry, but his ire didn’t signify. Of all her sins, leaving a man wanting wasn’t one of the top hundred.
In fact, turning the tables on a powerful man was a bit thrilling. Usually it was the man who had all the fun, with the woman left to fake a smile. She’d seen that well enough in her marriage and in The Black Rose. If the baron wasn’t going to give her the money he owed, it seemed but the smallest of recompense to put her pleasure first.
She marched into The Black Rose, head held high. Revenge tasted sweeter than she’d ever imagined.
Chapter Seven
Max and Dunkeld sat in a carriage parked across from Garraway’s coffee house. His friend rested his head back against the seat rest, his eyes closed. They’d barely said two words to each other since starting their surveillance. Pinkerton was meeting one of Zed’s men at the coffee house, and they were hoping he’d have more information about his employer than the American did.
Dunkeld puffed out a small breath, the most sound out of the Scotsman Max had heard in twenty minutes. Not that Max was any better. Of their group of five friends, Dunkeld and Max had the most in common. Perhaps it was their size. It was easier for a large man to be taken seriously with his fists rather than his words.
Keeping his gaze fixed out the window, Max shifted. His left arse cheek was growing numb. He hated waiting.
“Something on your mind?” Dunkeld kept his eyes closed but he couldn’t hide the tension in his body. The Scotsman was always ready for action.
Max merely grunted. There was nothing he needed to get off his mind; he just needed to get off. He still couldn’t believe the little minx had left him there, cock weeping, with nary a thank you, or an invitation to follow her back to her rooms. He’d tried to corner her all through the frustrating luncheon, but she’d been slippery as an eel.
She’d enjoyed herself. Her sheath had gripped his finger so damn tight he’d almost gone off in his pants imagining her squeezing his cock in that wet heat. But for the most part, she was a proper little widow, and women like her didn’t fornicate in the back of a carriage. She’d let her hair down once, and he could only pray she’d do so again.
Dunkeld peeled one eyelid open and examined him. Max ignored the scrutiny. When would Pinkerton show his face? The man had told them he had a meet set up at four in the afternoon, and it was nigh on that hour now. As Max saw it, if a person wasn’t early, he was late.
“I should have chosen the position inside Garraway’s,” Max grumbled. “Their meat pies are damn good.”
“And I wanted to follow Pinkerton on horseback instead of Rothchild.” Dunkeld settled back against the cushions. “Looks like neither of us got what we wanted.”
“With that massive beast you ride, you’re too obvious.” Leaning forward, Max eyed the hackney that rolled up. Someone other than Pinkerton climbed out, and he cursed under his breath. “You stick out like a vicar in a whore-house.” Rather like his Colleen in The Black Rose.
The Scotsman jutted his chin towards Max’s crotch. “So do you.”
Confound it, he’d been semi-hard all afternoon, thanks to his disappearing manager. He had hoped his friends wouldn’t take note. Or would be polite enough not to discuss it. He glared at his friend. “Spend a lot of time looking at my Thomas, do you?”
“Only when the wee bit seems eager to greet me.” Dunkeld yawned.
“It’s not you it wants to greet.”
Dunkeld opened that one damn eye again. “Do tell. Has one of the lady-birds at your new investment caught your fancy? That doesn’t seem like you.”
Max frowned but let that one slip past. “No lady-bird has drawn my interest.”
His friend crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “The widow, then. That makes more sense.”
