life in the fast lane—barely speaking—the pursuers are hot—a cunning plan—charlotte is changed—into the light—slow burn—charlotte’s heart does not stay cool—two houses, both alike in undignified behavior—disaster!
As the pirate’s house flew toward Clacton-on-Sea, Alex and Charlotte had no conversation together. No intercourse (alas, in all definitions of the word) but what the commonest civility required.
“Would you like a seat?” he asked.
“Yes, please,” she replied.
The armchair was restored to its normal position and Charlotte perched upon it, trying to balance between rest and making as little contact as possible with the stained surface. An uncomfortable silence passed, during which Alex steered the house and Charlotte amused herself with worry about what her mother would say when she did not arrive home by evening. She was at the point of imagining Mrs. Pettifer in most satisfying hysterics when Alex removed his coat and folded up the sleeves of his shirt.
Charlotte found herself captivated by the sight, as she’d never before seen a man’s naked forearms and was surprised to discover themmore interesting than thoughts of her mother. Dark hair shadowed the tanned skin; sleek muscles shifted with easy masculine power as he moved the wheel. Charlotte remembered that arm around her waist and imagined it there once again, but unclothed now as it gripped her firmly, hauling her toward what was not a closet but a bed...
“Ahem! Ahem!” She cleared her throat with a vigor necessitated by—by—the effects of altitude, or—yes!—all the dust in the room. So terribly dusty!
“Would you like some tea?” Alex asked.
“Yes, please,” she replied.
Bixby was summoned, tea and biscuits were provided, and they flew on in a silence that burned all the way through uncomfortable into excruciating.
“Would you like me to kiss you when we get the chance?” Alex asked.
“Try and I’ll slap you,” she replied.
“Yes, please,” he said, and grinned sidelong at her.
She looked away, nibbling a biscuit contemptuously.
The silence began to steam. Charlotte, fanning herself with the tea saucer, realized Alex was watching her reflection in the window. “Stop looking at me like that,” she said.
“Like what?” He turned, looked at her directly, his gaze so deep, so intense, it made her feel naked.
“Like you want to eat me.”
His lithe, sultry smile leaped. Her blood leaped in response.
At that opportune moment, Bixby reappeared, tea towel and grenade in hand. “I beg your pardon, sir. There is a house following us.”
“Who is it?” Alex asked, still holding Charlotte in that unblinking gaze.
“Muriel Fairweather, judging from the yellow walls and pink curtains.”
“No doubt she’s taking a chance that following us will lead her to Armitage. Ugh, they don’t call that woman Fox Terrier for nothing.” He turned finally, glancing out the window, allowing Charlotte to breathe again.
“Actually, they call her Furious Fairweather,” Bixby said. “Also Foulweather, Frightfeather for some unknown reason, and Muriel the Mad. She has no canine nicknames.”
Alex frowned slightly. “Are you sure?”
Bixby’s silence was an eloquent response.
“Well, in any case, I’ll bring her to heel.” He began unfurling his sleeves, and Charlotte put half a biscuit into her mouth to quell her disappointment. “I’ll just jump over and toss a smoke grenade down her chimney, then we can get on with hot pursuit.”
“Here you are, sir,” Bixby said, and handed over the grenade as if this was something they did often. “But may I suggest a safer method of delivery?”
“Safer?” Alex laughed. “Are we pirates or w—” He stopped, glancing at Charlotte. “Er...”
“No, do go on,” she said, regarding him with calm interest. “I am keen to know what you intended to say. ‘Witches’ or ‘women’?”
To her delight, he flushed. “Never mind,” he said grumpily. “Bixby, take the wheel. I’m going upstairs. The last time we tried to lob a grenade from the house, we missed, and nearly blew up a flock of sheep grazing below.”
