“I’d like to retire,” she said.
His slow smile rewarded her boldness. Then she was swept off her feet, and they were headed up the stairwell.
Her arms circling his neck, she dimpled at him. “You don’t have to carry me, you know. I’m more than willing to get myself to your bedchamber.”
“Don’t deny me the pleasure of having you in my arms, sunshine,” he murmured.
Since he did seem to enjoy it, and sheknewshe did, she snuggled closer, resting her head in the crook of his neck. Arriving on the next floor, he strode down the corridor and through the double doors at the end. The suite, like everything she’d seen thus far, was tastefully appointed. They passed a sitting room decorated in shades of blue and maize and entered the bedchamber.
Crossing the threshold of his inner sanctum, she felt a secret thrill. A white marble hearth flickered along one wall, the firelight gleaming off the heavy masculine furnishings and the posters of a huge bed which lay in shadows just beyond.
Catching a movement in that bed, Primrose blinked.
Andrew’s muscles turned to rock around her.
An instant later, a female voice emerged from the dark. “Corby, love, what took you so long?”
What on earth?
Before Rosie could gather her wits, Andrew set her on her feet, pushing her none too gently behind him. “How the devil did you get in here?” he growled.
This question wasn’t directed at her but at the woman who’d emerged from the bed—from Andrew’s bed. Pressure built in Rosie’s chest as she took in the other’s voluptuous form, the ripe curves barely covered by a scanty negligee of flesh-colored satin. The woman’s auburn hair tumbled lushly around her classical features, framing eyes that were an arresting shade of grey. She was older than Rosie, somewhere in her forties, with fine-grained skin and handsome features that suited her aura of worldly sophistication.
“How did I get in?” The woman gave a husky laugh. “Why, with the key you gave me, lover.”
“Andrew, who is she?” Rosie’s voice trembled along with the rest of her.
“You don’t remember me?” The curve of the woman’s red lips stirred a sense of recognition, frost spreading over Rosie’s insides. “Ah, but I remember you. How my little flower has blossomed.”
“Don’t speak to her.” Menace dripped from Andrew’s voice. “Get out. Now.”
“Is that any way to treat an old friend?”
Smirking, the woman came even closer, ran a finger down Andrew’s lapel.
He caught her wrist, shoving her hand aside. “We’re not friends.”
The woman clucked her tongue. “In the two years since I lastsawyou,”—her emphasis on the verb implied that she and Andrew had done a lot more than look at each other—“it seems you’ve forgotten your pretty manners. The manners that I taught you. Clearly, you need your Kitty to take care of you.”
Primrose’s heart knocked against her ribs. “You… you’re Kitty Barnes?”
Kitty’s eyes gleamed. “Recognized me at last have you, Primrose?”
In her imaginings, Rosie had pictured Kitty as a witch of a woman. One whose exterior matched up with the dark and ugly emotions Rosie associated with her. Far from being a dried-up old hag, Kitty brimmed with vibrant sensuality.
In a flash, Andrew moved, his hand closing like a vise around the redhead’s arm. “I’m bloody tossing you out.”
“No need. I can see that I’m not wanted… at the moment.”
Already reeling, Rosie took in the knowing curve of Kitty’s full mouth, and her insides twisted into a knot so tight that she could scarcely breathe.
“I’ll come back when you’re not busy, lover,” Kitty drawled, “and we’ll pick up where we left off. Like we always do.”
“Shut up, you damned bitch—”
“Andrew, what does she mean?” Rosie’s shock faded, replaced by a suffocating awareness. “Are the two of you… still lovers?”
He swung to face her, his face ravaged. “Primrose, I can explain—”
