A quiet thud and muttered oath interrupted her musing. Her eyes widened at the sight of the lock pick that had fallen on the carpet just inches away from her hiding spot. Her heart lurched into her ribs as the thief bent to pick it up.
Dear God, please don’t let him look under the desk.
The man turned his head. Framed by a black demi-mask, his gaze met hers. She saw his quicksilver surprise, which vanished the next instant.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle,”he said calmly. “May I offer some assistance?”
His accent was French. Was he a recentémigré? Whatever he was, he seemed civilized for a man of his trade. Her training kicking in, she assessed the situation: was it best to finesse, fight, or flee? She decided upon the first option, which was her forte. Her success as a debutante rested in no small part on her ability to brazen her way through anything.
“Why, thank ye, sir.” She adopted a cockney accent and a trollop’s easy manner. Taking his hand, she rose as gracefully as one could from beneath a desk. “What a gentleman ye are.”
He had the look of one, anyway. While the mask and dimness obscured his features, he wore his fine evening wear as if he’d been born to do so, the stark lines immaculately fitted to his virile frame. A thick blond wave swept over his brow. As he swept a gaze of an indeterminable hue over her, she felt an odd shiver.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” he queried.
Dash it all. Does he know my true purpose?
She flashed a smile meant to disarm. “Wot do ye mean, ’andsome?”
“Beneath the desk. That is, I presume, what you were doing there.”
Right.Relieved, she improvised. “Silly me, I dropped my earbob, and it fell under the desk. Now that I’ve retrieved it”—she tapped the gold, boat-shaped earring dangling from her left ear—“I’d best be on me way.”
She turned to go; the thief closed a hand around her wrist. His touch was firm yet not forceful. If he had manhandled her or acted brutishly, she would have employed defensive maneuvers. Yet the aim of his hold seemed less to detain her and more to take her measure.
The quivery sensation in her belly grew. She reminded herself to play her role.
She batted her soot-coated lashes at him. “Be ye wanting somefing, sir?”
He swept another glance over her, and she had the alarming thought that he could somehow see through her disguise. Yet that was impossible. Her celebrated flame-red hair was tucked beneath the coarse black wig, her face obscured by her gold mask and layers of paint. In the dimness, no one would look at the scantily clad tart and see Miss Fiona Garrity, virginal heiress.
The thief pulled her closer to him. So close that only a sliver of space separated them. The tiny gap felt charged, like the sky before a storm. An invisible feather teased the curve of her throat, the throbbing tips of her breasts, and lower still. She squeezed her thighs together against a startling pulse of excitement. No man had ever affected her in this way before.
Nonetheless, she kept her head tilted back, maintaining eye contact. Her role was that of a seasoned hussy. She would not be the first to look away.
“What I want to know is this,mademoiselle.” He bent his head, his words brushing her lips as tenderly as a kiss. “Are you good at keeping secrets?”
As an Angel, she kept plenty of secrets. Including from her own family. Leading a double life was, in truth, the biggest challenge of being an agent.
“Keeping secrets is me job,” she said honestly.
“Bien,”he murmured after a pause. “A woman after my own heart.”
Her own organ thumped with a wild and reckless recognition. Her gaze darted to his mouth, the stern yet somehow sensual curve. Was he going to kiss her?
Heavens, do I want him to?
She had a feeling that this stranger’s kiss would be nothing like the chaste pecks she’d experienced. Her intuition told her that this man would make love the way he made his living. In a wicked and masterful fashion.
To her surprise, and ever so slight disappointment, he released her.
“You are free to go,” he said.
She wetted her lips; her limbs refused to move. What was wrong with her? She felt as giddy as if she’d been imbibing champagne and whirling around the dance floor for hours.
“Unless,chérie, you would prefer to stay?”
The dark invitation in his voice snapped her back to her senses.
