“Again? Do you remember drinking often?”
“Of course I do. It was just two days ago. Before I came here.”
She smiled. “Of course,” she pretended to agree. “Do you remember your home, Michael?”
“Yes.” They reached the stairs and began the ascent. “In New York.” His gaze darted to hers from beneath his lush, black lashes. “Brittany,” he corrected.
They were both lies. And why would he call York,NewYork? Who was Jimmy? “What are you doing here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s my second chance. I don’t have a bullet.”
She smiled. “Do you want one?”
He didn’t answer right away but then nodded.
She had no idea why a bullet would be his second chance, but it seemed as if he needed one. She pulled up her skirts and reached for the pistol tied to her thigh. She felt his eyes on her. Heavy, hooded eyes, watching her every move, staring at her thigh. Once she had the pistol in her hand, she emptied the contents and handed him a bullet.
“Thanks,” he said in a thick, husky voice.
She led him to his room, opened his door, and stepped aside to let him enter.
Why was she here tending to him instead of tending to Preston? This was wrong. This man would see her or Preston hang.
“Goodnight,” she said and shut the door. She certainly wouldn’t go inside the room and tuck him in. She had to change into her riding clothes and hurry out, before the guests began leaving.
Of course she should be with the man she’d adored practically her entire life. If Amanda was there, Charlotte would fight for him. She was familiar with every feminine wile known to women…and men. Amanda had no chance against her.
She kept that thought planted firmly in her head as she hurried to her room, shut the door, and began to change.
Someone knocked. Old John? She pulled open the door in her chemise to find—it wasn’t John.
Chapter Eleven
“Ican’t sleep.”
She blinked up at Michael, stripped of his justaucorps and jacket. He couldn’t be here now, looking so appealing in his half-tucked in chemise, his black hair falling over his dreamy, bloodshot eyes.
“I just left you! How long did you try to sleep?”
He shrugged his wide shoulders, stretching his chemise across his chest.
His gaze fell over her from head to foot in her bed clothes. His jaw tightened.
“I was getting ready for bed,” she let him know, hoping he didn’t spot her muddy riding boots close by.
“Oh.” His gaze fluttered to her bed. “Okay. Goodnight then. I’ll be outside the door if you need me.”
What? “No, Michael, go to bed in your room please,” she insisted. “I will not be watched yet again. If I wanted to leave today, I could have gone.”
He shook his head. “You know I would have caught you. I catch everyone I hunt. It’s what a detective does.”
“I do not like the thought of being hunted,” she told him, covering herself up with her hands and arms. “You may find me, but I would never consider you anything but a most hated enemy. If that is what you want, then fine.”
She shut the door in his face and turned for her bed. It was useless. She was not getting away from him tonight to see Preston, and she was afraid of him growing too curious of Preston if he followed her and perhaps found out more than he should.
Just how good of a detective was he?
She climbed into bed and sat up to stare at the door. Was he outside of it? Why did he take his duty so seriously? These days, no one else did. She should be furious—and she was. But another part of her didn’t mind so much. She liked the idea that he fancied her and that he might be so diligent because he wanted to be near her. But even Old John had agreed that Detective Pendridge was unlike other men. He wasn’t swayed by her wiles. They didn’t affect him. Or did they? She just wasn’t sure about him. About anything about him!
