"I am a friend of Lady Draven's," Kent said in calm tones that sent a thrill of warning up Marianne's spine. "I rather think she is expecting me."
Amelie swung to look at Marianne. "You know this person?"
Marianne licked her suddenly dry lips. "How did you find me here?"
"I'm an investigator, remember?" he said. "Now unless you'd like to air our laundry in front of all and sundry, I suggest you askmadameto give us a few moments."
"Merde.I certainly willnotleave my client—"
"'Tis alright, Amelie. If it is not an inconvenience, I'd like to speak to Mr. Kent." Though her knees were wobbly, Marianne drew up her shoulders. "In private."
Sudden comprehension flashed in Amelie's dark eyes. "Of course, my lady. Er, take your time. Bernadette," she said briskly to her assistant, "allons-y."
The door closed once more. As the tension in the room thickened, Marianne became aware of several things at once. She wore only her chemise, and from the flaring hunger in Kent's eyes, the fact had not escaped his notice. Yet he was angry, his rigid frame quivering like that of a bull about to charge. The box of French letters burned in her hand; as casually as she could, she walked over to the work table and set it down, using those moments to collect herself.
Swiveling, she leaned against the table and crossed her arms, her stance one of cool indifference. "We have a few things to settle between us, don't we?" she said.
19
Ambrose gritted his teeth.The woman was bloody impossible, the response she provoked in him savage and bewildering. He didn't know whether he wanted to throttle her or toss her onto the table and have his way with her. He did neither. Instead, he yanked her letter from his pocket. He tossed it—and the five hundred pounds she'd enclosed—onto the table.
"What is the meaning of that?" he bit out.
"Was it not clear?" Her eyes widened in the shoddiest mimicry of innocence he'd ever seen. With a nonchalance that belied the fact that she was almost naked—despite himself, his mouth pooled at the hint of her cheery nipples beneath the shift—she picked up the note and read it aloud. "Thank you for services rendered.Hmm. Which part left you confused, I wonder?"
"I am not confused, my lady. I am angry," he said, his jaw ticking.
"Angry? Whatever for?"
"I am not a bloody gigolo. Money has no place in what happened between us, and well you know it." His eyes narrowed as her lips gave a suspicious twitch. "Youdoknow it. Devil take it, you sent the note to deliberately goad me, didn't you? Why?"
"We need to talk," she said.
He braced his hands on his hips. "Why didn't you simply invite me over to tea, you infuriating woman?"
"Conventionality has never been my way." She tipped her head to the side. "Although, come to think of it, there would be something deliciously ironic about discussing what happened over a civilized ritual like tea.Will you take cream and sugar, Mr. Kent?" she said in a light, mocking voice. "And, by the by, what a daring rooftop escape we made from Mr. Leach's."
"Leach is dead," he said, waiting for her reaction.
Her thick lashes veiled her gaze for an instant. "Indeed."
"Did you kill him?" he said tersely.
Her brilliant emerald gaze locked with his. "Do you think I did?"
"Enough games," he growled. "For once, I want the truth from your lips. Did you kill Reginald Leach?"
Silence pulled between them. Her will was a palpable force, churning the tides of tension. His resolve was no less, a steadfast buttress against her squall.
"No." Her chin lifted. "I did not kill him."
Ambrose fought the wave of relief. Although his gut told him this was the truth—and he could see it in her eyes—he deserved an explanation. She'd been running roughshod over him since the day they'd met. No more.
"Tell me what happened," he demanded.
"Leach was dead when we arrived. Lugo found him in the sitting room," she said in cool, flat tones. "I do not expect you to believe me, and before you waste your breath, no, I have no proof."
"I believe you," Ambrose snapped.
