Page 61 of Secrets of the Heart

But then, with an almost forcible yank, she pulled herself back from that precipice. She would not be weak. For once, she reminded herself, she was going to be strong; she would take charge of her life. She would not be moved about at her father’s whim or Michael’s; she would not be dictated to or manipulated or tricked anymore. She, and she alone, would decide what her life would be.

With her resolve firmed, she distanced herself mentally from the physical pleasure coursing through her. Giving a little moan, she ran her hands down his front and back up, caressing him through the rough work shirt he wore in his Hobson role. She felt his flesh quiver beneath her touch, even through the shirt, and the sense of power over him was sweet.

Her fingers dug into his shirt, bunching it in her hands, and she pulled and tugged, sliding her hands around to his back beneath his jacket to pull his shirt out from his waistband. His breath grew hard and rasping as she worked at his shirt, and he shuddered, letting out a groan, when her fingers went to the top button and began to unfasten it.

His hands started toward the buttons down the back of her dress, but Rachel forestalled him by taking his hands and sliding them back to her breasts. He quickly lost interest in the fastenings of her dress as his fingers kneaded and caressed the soft orbs of her breasts, slipping beneath the low neckline to explore.

Rachel finished unbuttoning his shirt and moved her hand beneath it to the bare skin of his chest. She caressed his flesh, teasing his flat masculine nipples with her fingers until they were hard and eager. Then she swept her hands up to his shoulders and outward, pushing both his shirt and the jacket atop it down and off his shoulders. They fell in a heap on the floor at his feet, and she roamed his chest and back freely with her hands.

They kissed again and again, turning and moving, walking slowly backward. In small increments, she moved him in the direction of the door into the hallway, and as she did so, she reached down to his belt and unbuckled it, then started on the buttons of his trousers. He stopped and hastily stepped out of his shoes. Rachel hooked her thumbs inside the waistband of his breeches and pushed them down over his hips until they fell to the floor and he was naked against her.

He made a noise deep in his throat, and his hands dug into her buttocks, pressing her against him. She could hear the slamming of his heart against his chest, the harsh rasp of his breath in his throat.

Their kisses intensified as she backed slowly up until her back was against the door. Rachel reached behind herself and found the doorknob, turning it silently. Then she put her other hand at Michael’s waist, pushing him gently back and to the side, not breaking their kiss. Quietly she opened the door, maneuvering him until he was squarely in the middle of the open strip of doorway.

Quickly she slid her hands between them, bracing them on his chest, and pulled her head back. He opened his eyes and looked at her in confusion, his face heavy and blank with passion.

“Wha—” He seemed to sense something behind his back and started to turn his head around to look, but Rachel seized his face between her hands.

“Do you want me?” she asked, breathless from the kisses and the tension of the game she was playing.

“Yes.” His eyes darkened, and he bent kiss her.

Rachel moved forward, but instead of arching up to kiss him, she planted both hands firmly on his chest and shoved with all her might. Taken by surprise, he stumbled back into the hallway.

“What the—” he began.

“Well, I don’t want you!” she shot back, her controlled fury springing forth now in a blaze. “Michael!”

She stepped back and slammed the door shut, then turned the lock.

“Rachel!” he roared, and an instant later he began to thunder against the door with his fists. “What the devil do you mean! Let me in!”

Rachel hurried across the room and threw her mantle around her shoulders, then scooped up his clothes. Outside she heard a woman’s shriek while Michael cursed loudly and continued to bang on the door. Allowing herself a small, wicked smile, she opened the connecting door between the two rooms she had rented and strode over to that room’s outside door.

She opened the door and stepped out into the hall, looking back down the hallway to where Michael, as bare as the day he was born, was pounding on the door and shouting her name. Doors had opened up and down the hall, and heads had popped out. In the doorway across the hall from Michael a woman was standing, hands over her eyes, babbling in a high-pitched voice while beside her a man ranted at Michael.

“Oh, Michael!” Rachel raised her voice.

He swung around and started toward her. “I suggest you spend the night at your ‘sister’s,”’ she said, holding up his clothes and tossing them into the room behind her. Then she whirled and ran down the stairs.

Behind her, she heard Michael bellow and start to run, then stop. He would have to go into the room and dress before he could pursue her, which she had counted on.

Rachel flew out the front door and ran straight to one of the hansom cabs that waited there. She called out her address and jumped inside the carriage, leaving Michael behind.

Her anger propelled her up the stairs of the house to her room, where she tore off her dress and threw it into the fire. She pulled out a serviceable brown traveling dress and put it on, then dug out a soft-sided bag from the back of her dressing room and laid it open on her bed. She pulled open drawers and dug out undergarments and nightgowns, tossing them onto the bed.

And all the time, she was listening, waiting for the sound of Michael’s return. He would not come, she told herself. Now that he realized she knew about his masquerade, he would not bother pursuing her—or, at least, not once he calmed down. Why should he? There would be no more fun now to be had from fooling her.

She wadded up a nightgown and stuffed it into the bag, following it with a handful of stockings and garters. There was the sound of running footsteps in the hall outside, and Rachel whirled to face the door, her heart hammering in her chest. The door was flung open, crashing against the wall. Michael stood in the doorway.

He was not his usual sartorially neat self. He had no coat or hat, and he wore the rough trousers and shirt of James Hobson. His shirt was buttoned only halfway up and hung loose outside his trousers. A ridge of red flamed along his cheekbones, and his hair was tousled. He paused, his chest heaving.

Rachel looked at him coolly, then said, “I am surprised to see you here. I would have thought you would go to your lover to soothe your wounded pride.”

“Lover!” He gaped at her. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“Really, Michael, it’s a little late for that innocent air, isn’t it?”