She was to find a man named Juan Miguel, but she felt in her heart that whoever held her father would want her or her father to translate the directions to the city and possibly lead the way.
So she must send the viscount in the opposite direction.
Using the same idea as the wording on the bracelet, she drew in a deep breath and began to write.
Look to the heart, to the great city.In her shadow lies the doorway.In the bosom of Tagus, you will find what you seek.
She handed the translation to Ridge, and waited his reaction. It was swift.
“Madrid! It must refer to Madrid.”
She nodded and exhaled slowly.
Suddenly she found herself pulled up and staring into Ridge’s eyes. Excitement gleamed there. But something else lurked within. Admiration. Respect.
She nearly cringed.
“Brilliant, India. Just brilliant. I cannot thank you enough for agreeing to help me.”
He continued to stare into her eyes, his gaze probing her, as if trying to uncover her secrets. His breath stuttered, catching slightly as he breathed out. He moved his head forward, his eyes never leaving hers, as if seeking permission.
She jumped slightly when his hand cupped her cheek. His thumb smoothed over her skin then over her lips.
“You have beautiful lips,” he murmured.
He was only inches away. Then softly, gently, his lips found hers. A soft sigh escaped her only to be swallowed up as his tongue made a slow entrance to her mouth.
She trembled, tiny waves of pleasure quaking over her body. To her surprise, her knees buckled and he caught her against him when she would have fallen.
Warmth enveloped her, seeping from his body to hers. He smelled of books, chimney smoke and something else she couldn’t quite identify. It was a scent unique to him. It screamed maleness, confidence, strength. Of earth and wood.
He awakened sensations in her, dangerous sensations. He made her forget what was most important to her.
She wedged her hands between them and pushed herself away. Her lips left his and she gasped for breath, her body a mass of jumbled nerves.
She looked away, desperately trying to collect herself. When she looked back at him, he was staring at her, his eyes aglow with desire. Warm, liquid need.
A shiver crept up her spine. Not from the coolness of the air, but from the raw need she saw expressed in his face. She didn’t want to be needed.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I forgot myself.”
Her chest tightened at his words. She drew in a steadying breath, but expelled it in a shaky, jerky whoosh. There was no use pretending indifference. Any fool could see she was rattled.
“I quite forgot myself as well,” she finally said, grateful that she at least sounded somewhat controlled.
She raised a quivering hand to push her hair from her face. He caught her fingers and pulled them away. Then he brushed his hand across her forehead, smoothing the tendrils of hair, tucking them behind her ears.
“Why is your hair so short?” he asked.
She blinked in surprise, still distracted by his seeking fingers. They tangled in her hair, moving in circular motion, feeling, touching the short curls.
Ashamed, she looked down, remembering all too well how her hair had been shorn. It had been done to humiliate her, to humble her.
Ridge placed two fingers under her chin and forced her to look up at him. “What demons are you fighting?” he murmured.
“My hair was cut by a group of rebel fighters that captured me in India,” she said baldly.
His eyes flared in surprise. “So the stories were true?”
