Why did he persist in believing in her innocence when the evidence suggested otherwise? He prided himself on his logical mind, yet around her his judgment took a backseat to other instincts. Ones he found, to his great frustration, that he could not override.
"You owe me an explanation, Lady Draven," he ground out.
"I should think we're past formalities at this point." Her wry voice floated from behind him. "You have permission to use my given name."
"Fine.Marianne,then," he said, his jaw clenched, "what the devil were you up to in that solicitor's office?"
A hush fell, broken only by the soft swish of fabric. The tension pulled at his nerves, and, despite knowing better, he turned back toward the screen. His mouth went dry, his manhood rising in an immediate salute. Behind the screen, Marianne's silhouette revealed her flawless figure in what had to be the skimpiest of undergarments. His blood pounded as her hands smoothed upward along the slim curve of her hips, the sharp indentation of her waist. When she reached her breasts—for an instant cupping those beauties—he bit back a groan.
But he couldn't hold back the animal sound that left him when she stepped from behind the dressing partition. Sweat glazed his brow.
Devil and damn. Bloody hell. This cannot be happening.
Like a figment from some feverish erotic fantasy, Lady Marianne Draven stood before him, wearing nothing but a sheer petticoat and corset. He'd never imagined—let alone seen—garments so scandalous. Thin lacy straps held up a bodice with a plunging neckline; the short corset pushed up her breasts so that the smooth, rounded tops nearly burst from the bodice. Below the corset, the sheer skirt of the petticoat revealed her shapely calves and ankles. Lace frothed at the hem, brushing against her pretty bare toes.
"Do you think to distract me with your seductive wiles?" he said hoarsely.
Her lips quirked, her gaze roaming over him. "I'm not certain. Can it be done?"
Bloody hell, yes.
"No," he said firmly and dragged his gaze to her face. Told himself to keep it there.
"What did you witness tonight at Leach's office?" she asked.
"I know you were searching for something." Ambrose swallowed as she walked past him, her hair a rippling platinum river to her waist. "What were you after?" he persisted. "Are you in some kind of trouble? Because if you are, I will find a way to help—"
Her husky laugh sizzled down his spine. Heat flooded his groin, his stones throbbing with pressure close to pain. "You wish to help me, Ambrose?"
God, even his sturdy name sounded like a siren's song from her lips.
"First you must trust me with the truth." His brain raced through the theories he'd been contemplating. Explanations other than her being involved with a band of anti-establishment lunatics. "This Leach—does he have some information that you're after? Or mayhap this is about extortion. Is he trying to blackmail you?"
Something flickered in her eyes; he knew he'd hit a nerve.The solicitor knows something: either she wants that knowledge or he's holding it against her. What secret is she hiding?
His frustration mounted when, instead of replying, Marianne selected a plump strawberry and slipped the fruit between even riper lips. "Are you always this persistent when it comes to matters that do not concern you?"
"It concerns me when you put yourself in jeopardy. It concerns me when I have to save your bloody neck time and again." He raked his hands through his hair. "Goddamnit, woman, I am a policeman, and yet tonight I helped you evade the law. And I will have an explanation of your actions or so help me God—"
"Or you'll what? Report me to the magistrate?" She came toward him, her eyes wild as a summer storm. "Does that make you different from any other man who has tried to manipulate me?"
"I'm not trying to manipulate you, you little fool," he bit out, "I'm trying to protect you."
"I don't want your protection." Her chin angled upward, and her gaze was hard and glittering. "If you're wise, you'll stay out of my way from now on. Or you will regret it."
"Are youthreateningme?" he said incredulously.
"Not a threat. A promise." As if it wasn't enough that she slapped him with his own words, she said, "And let us not forget the differences between us. Let's face it, Kent,"—her brows rose—"you haven't got what it takes to stop me."
The reins of self-discipline snapped. His vision darkened. He hardly recognized the voice that growled, "Haven't got what it takes?" Before he knew what he intended, his hands hauled her against him, his lips descending to show the maddening wench how wrong she was.
16
Marianne knewher ploy to seduce Kent was a risky one. She'd gone about it in the most expedient manner possible: by pushing him past his limits. At the instant of contact between his lips and her own, the sparking attraction between them exploded into flames. As she'd known it would. She'd banked on the fact because she needed to throw him off the scent. Obviously, Kent did not yet know that Leach was dead. The last thing she needed was for him to start asking questions and pin her as the culprit.
Her gambit to distract Kent, however, now raged into a conflagration that threatened her own self-control. His male heat melted her resolve, turned her insides molten. Hunger unfurled as his tongue thrust against hers. She gave in a little, winding her arms around his neck to get closer to his virile length. So strong. Solid. Even as pleasure buzzed through her blood, she told herself that this was just all part of her stratagem...
Don't be a fool. You've never lied to yourself, so why start now? You want Kent—you've wanted him since that first time he saved you.
