She could explain later.
Through the dim light from the crack between the doors, she watched his face. It was impossible to read. She put her finger to her lips, but he just looked evenly at her, making her wonder if she’d imagined the friendship between them. He was so adroit with the to-and-fro of conversation, it had been easy to warm to him. But, she now acknowledged, there was a chance he didn’t even like her.
Was she the fool after all?
She pulled away from him, but the shelves jutted into her back. If there was anything she couldn’t bear, it was being the fool.
Then he half whispered, half mouthed, ‘What are you doing here?’
She smiled, trying to make light of it. ‘Extra research.’ He watchedher mouth as it moved, lipreading, and she felt the blood rush to her face.
Meanwhile, the men took their seats as one of them rambled on about Queen Mary’s illness, whether she’d live to see the coronation.
Then one of them said, ‘Where’s Sinclair with those plans? I knew it was a mistake to have a meeting after lunch. Too much claret and brandy.’
Miranda glanced at Sinclair, and he raised an eyebrow. In the half-light, it was hard to see his expression.
‘Well, let’s start without him. We can’t wait all day. Chambers, what progress do we have with the archbishop?’
A nasal, monotone voice began, ‘I met with him yesterday, and he assures me that...’
As the man droned on, Miranda’s racing heart began to slow. Provided they kept quiet, no one needed to know a thing.
The main problem was Sinclair. Although she was happy to stay there all afternoon, for him, well, why should he miss this important meeting that he was supposed to attend?
She wondered if he was annoyed. He was leaning against the shelves on the opposite side, not a foot away from her, listening.
And that’s when she became aware of the closeness of him, just inches away, the warmth of his body so near to hers.
Between the buttons of his crisp white shirt, she could just about see his chest, again that fading suntan from postings abroad. For a brief moment, she imagined him in Italy, wearing an open shirt as he stood by a field of vines, a hand above his eyes to shield them from the sun.
She looked up to his face to find him watching her, his face so close she could feel his breath. She shuffled uncomfortably. Had he read her mind?
But through the dim light, she found her eyes travelling back to his, and she smiled as she met his questioning gaze.
‘Sorry,’ she mouthed, and again his eyes lingered on her lips, and before she knew it, she was wondering what it would be like to kiss him.
Obviously, it was the wrong thing to think, as she now couldn’t getthe idea out of her mind. It was intoxicating being so close, the temptation to reach forward tantalizing.
After a few minutes, she moved her face toward his, pausing as her mouth lingered close to his, unsure whether to stop herself, to pull back, to be careful.
A feeling welled up inside her, a sensation she hadn’t felt for years reawakening, reminding her of Jack, that buzz she’d felt inside. How could she have pushed that so far back inside her mind? How could she have ignored it for all these years?
How had Sinclair, of all people, been the one to remind her?
As his face drew closer to hers, her lips parted with a despicable longing. She knew she shouldn’t kiss him. It would be complicated, difficult, messy. It would cause chaos with her investigations.
And yet it seemed unavoidable.
Her heart pulsated, and she felt her control slip away. She couldn’t hold herself back.
Slowly, she reached her face up to kiss him.
But then came a commotion from the meeting room.
‘I don’t know where Sinclair’s got to, but someone has to fetch those security plans,’ a man was saying. ‘I’m sure they’re not hard to find.’
Sinclair jumped back, glaring at her as footsteps came towards the closet.
