“Right there?” she asked. “But you must show it to me.” Then she leaned close and his body twinged with desire, thinking she was about to kiss him on the street. “You don’t know this, Monsieur Branley,” she said quietly, “but your cheek is bleeding a little. I will come with you and tend it if you’ll let me.”
Not about to kiss him at all, she only felt sorry for him!
His pride and his ire were raised along with his manhood. The delicious floral scent of her made him long to run his fingers through her copper tresses.
“That won’t be necessary, Mademoiselle Renault.” His tone was clipped. “Good night.”
Releasing himself from her hold, he stalked across the street toward the small door leading to his apartment. Unusual for Paris, there was no concierge’s hut, no central courtyard, and hardly any tenants. Merely a street door and three flights of stairs up to a comfortable bed in a clean room. It was all he’d requested from Randall, and all he’d received.
But he stopped at the door. Even though Serena dismissed the attack and his noble rescue, and despite her grandparents’ apartment being quite close, Malcolm couldn’t leave her alone in the street.
Turning, they nearly collided. He hadn’t heard her footfalls crossing the street behind him. The noise in his own head, both persistent rumblings of desire and his blood pumping loudly in his ears, had allowed her to sneak upon him. He was dumbfounded.
“Let me clean off the blood, at least,” she said, lifting her arm as if she meant to touch his cheek with a handkerchief suddenly held in her gloved hand
Impossible woman!In the street, even at night, she shouldn’t be doing any such thing. Moreover, if he was bleeding, it might soil her pale green glove.
She was such an unpredictable female Malcolm couldn’t imagine what she was thinking or would do next. But he’d hoped for a sign she was enthusiastic to be alone with him, to do more than kiss, and he couldn’t have asked for a better one.
As long as she didn’t laugh at his heroic abilities any more, neither on the street, nor in bed.
Unlocking his door, he realized how shabby the place might appear through her eyes, compared to the small but luxurious apartment belonging to the Renaults. Reminding himself this wasn’t his real life, Malcolm brought to mind his comfortably luxurious house in London’s Piccadilly neighborhood and the family home in the country that he would one day inherit. If he saw the smallest ounce of pity in her green eyes, he would tell her about them, too.
And wouldn’t it be nice to show her both.
Standing by his door after she entered, he hesitated about closing it behind them.
“It’s adorable,” Mademoiselle Renault proclaimed. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d have a garret like this. You seem the type of man who would have a two-story apartment.”
That made him grin. “Iamthat type of man,” he agreed. “And I would have it if I’d wanted. This suits my purposes. It’s quiet and discreet.”
As soon as he’d said the last word, her glance flew to his.Had she just realized the impropriety of her actions?She’d allowed him to bring her into a private place, a room with nothing but a bed, armoire, and washstand. In fact, she’d insisted. He couldn’t believe her to be so naïve, thus she must want him to dip his biscuit, or as the French so elegantly put it,tremper son biscuit.
She cleared her throat, then looked around. Seeing the bowl of that morning’s cool water, a little sudsy still, she asked, “Do you have a clean rag?”
With those words, she stripped off her gloves, shooting heat straight to his loins.
Wrenching his gaze from her perfect, rosy lips, he reminded himself she might not have come up there for a tumble. But his bed was as rumpled and unmade as he’d left it, and it would be ridiculously easy to tug her down upon it.
If she was willing.
Dropping his own hat and gloves onto the small writing desk, he crossed the small space and drew out a clean handkerchief from a drawer in his armoire. With their gazes locked, he drew close to Serena again and handed her the square of linen.
As their bare fingers touched, he heard her sharp intake of breath, a sound that made his shaft straighten like a ship’s mast. He’d best let her minister to him — to his cheek, at least — and then send her on her way quickly.
Or get to the business of some heated rantum scantum.
Again, only if she was willing.
