by Rebecca King
“Now what?” she moaned as she mentally kicked herself for having left in such a hurry. Being in an unlit room, she was now in a worse position than before. She now had no way out unless she returned to the lit room and the Count.
All I need now is for the Count to turn up, she thought with a sigh.
If there was one thing worse than being stuck in a room with a lecherous Count, it was being stuck in a darkened room with a lecherous Count.
After a brief moment of hesitation, Marguerite pushed against the door in case the Russian Englishman decided to come after her, and patted the smooth wood with her free hand in search of a lock to bar his entrance.
“Drat,” she whispered when she found nothing but the smooth brass of the door knob. “Now what?”
Rather than wait around for the foreigner to join her in the darkness, she attempted to cross the room only to slam into an immovable object that was large, warm, and incredibly strong, just a few feet away from the door.
Her instinctive squeal of alarm was swiftly smothered by a large hand clamped ruthlessly over her mouth. Her eyes widened but she could see nothing of the man who now held her suspended off the ground. She could feel every inch of him, though. He was rock hard and heavily muscled and if the empty air beneath her feet was any indication, incredibly tall.
He also smells wonderful. She thought when he moved, and she was assaulted with the delicate scent of honey and something citrusy. The smell reminded her of meadows in springtime and was as confusing as it was alarming.
What are you doing? It doesn’t matter how he smells, he is stopping you from leaving, a small voice screamed at her.
Snapping out of her daze, she began to wriggle and squirm in an attempt to get her feet on the ground. To her consternation, it was considerably harder to do than she had first thought. After several minutes of desperate struggling, she was left panting for breath, frustrated, angry, out of energy, and nowhere near regaining her freedom.
“Put me down,” she gasped through clenched teeth.
In spite of her desperate attempts to break free, she kept her voice low in case the Count overheard her and came to investigate.
Rightly or wrongly, she sensed that the man holding her was considerably less of a threat than the Russian, but had no idea where that impression came from. She wanted to speak, but couldn’t quite manage to when her lungs refused to work properly. While she tried to tell herself it was because of the tight hold he had on her, her deeper feminine instincts knew it was because of something else, something that called to an inner part of her that had, until now, remained dormant. Like a flower blossoming in the springtime, it began to flourish deep within and left an expanding warmth that was really rather pleasant.
She wished she could see his face, that there would be a light within the room or something so she could take a good look at him, but there wasn’t. In spite of their unusual situation, she began to ponder over his features, and in doing so stopped struggling.
“Stand still,” Joe growled as he slowly lowered her onto her feet. “I won’t hurt you.”
He struggled to contain his groan when the sensual slide of her feminine curves against him made his body regrettably harden. He forced himself to ignore it not least because he had to remind himself of who she was connected to. Rather than release her, he held her firmly against him. While he didn’t want to hurt her, he wasn’t going to allow her to get free either. Not yet. Not until he had the answers he was after. Then, as far as he was concerned, she and that vampire of hers in the other room could languish the rest of their days behind bars where they belonged.
“Let me go,” she protested as she pushed at his arms.
“No.”
In this bloody darkness I won’t ever find her again if I was stupid enough to do that, Joe thought wryly.
Whilst not having a light on had helped him to avoid detection, it also left him unable see anything of the room he was in or its occupants.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said to her in the calmest voice he could manage while wrestling with a recalcitrant female. “Just stand still.”
When she didn’t do as she was told, Joe wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the floor again.
Marguerite shivered and, while she continued to push against the rock hard width of his chest, she ceased trying to break free. It was futile to try to fight someone like this man-whoever he was. He was far too big for her to fight alone, and she just didn’t have the strength anymore. He wasn’t like the Count, only how she knew that she wasn’t sure. Some instinct she had never known she possessed was telling her that this man wouldn’t harm her, and she had no cause to doubt it.
Alright, so she was alone in the dark with him, but this man didn’t carry the same air of callousness the Count did. This man had a more refined, quiet strength about him that was far more capable and, she suspected, far more deadly. For some reason, though, she suspected this man wouldn’t hurt her. His hold, while tight, was gentle. His head, while close to hers, was not too close. His voice, while tense, was also soft and gentle. There was calmness in those deep, baritone notes that soothed her and banished the worst of her panic. In spite of herself, she began to relax in his arms.
“Who are you?” she whispered. “What do you want with me?”
“Stand still,” the man growled rather than answer her.
“This is highly inappropriate,” she replied as her hands slid down to his biceps. He shifted beneath her fingers but didn’t move away. Neither did he draw near. “I demand you release me this instant.”
“Can’t do that, I am afraid,” Joe bit out.
He mentally swore at that slow sensual glide of her hands on him. Was she trying to seduce him?
God have mercy, he mused wryly. He was as shocked as he was bemused. This is typical behaviour from someone belonging to Sayers’ group. Once they realised they wouldn’t get what they wanted by foul means they would try seduction.
But he had already seen her in Sayers’ grasp. He wasn’t going to fall for her coquettish games no matter how hard she tried.
Easing away from her, he threw her a glare but knew she couldn’t see it in the darkness. He wanted to issue her with a put down, but something made him hesitate. He opened his mouth to speak but was stopped when the door she had just walked through began to open.
Joe had only a few seconds to glance down at the woman in his arms before he realised he had to do something to explain why he was holding her in the dark. Judging from the way her hands had just slid over his arms, she wouldn’t be too averse if he pushed her back a little-would she? As far as he was aware there was only one way of knowing for certain.
Marguerite was only briefly aware of the room becoming lighter. She looked up into the eyes of her new captor and gasped.
“Oh, heavens,” she gulped. “Y-y-”
Whatever else she was about to say was immediately smothered when, for the second time that evening, a stranger kissed her.
CHAPTER THREE
This kiss, however, was different. Much, much, different. There was no harshness, no heavy grinding that made her lips ache, no manic rush, or forceful need to threaten. This man’s kiss was softer, considerably slower, and achingly gentle.
Drat the man, he held her tighter as his lips plundered. She could feel the steady thump, thump, thump, of his heartbeat. It lured her in and held her steady against him. Its mesmerising rhythm was as commanding as the gentle slide of his lips against hers. She was ensnared, captivated, held in wondrous suspense, as she savoured this rare and splendorous moment. Each breath she took nudged her closer to him, pushing them together in a tide of sensation neither could resist. Her hands came to rest on his shoulders, but not to push him away. They rested gently on those corded muscles and clung there. In a few startling moments, the need to be free of this man’s hold swiftly turned into a desire for him to not let go. In all of her girlish dreams, she had never considered even once that he might really exist. Her he
ro. The man who would, one day, sweep her off her feet. She had thought it all to be nothing more than a pipe dream. But he was there, right before her, just like she had always imagined he would be.
Well, almost. She mused. He is here, but he had never been standing in a darkened room, with a fake foreigner in the other room when I have dreamt of him before.
Whatever the circumstances surrounding his appearance in her life, he was there – her hero. She knew, from the brief glance she had just had of him, that he was every inch as handsome as the man who had occupied her dreams.
It was shocking, yet strangely thrilling when his hands slid down to her derriere and cupped her intimately, lifting her onto her toes so she was flush against his masculine hardness. Her cheeks flushed with warmth as a wild thrill of feminine delight swept through her. She could feel his need for her pressing against her thigh. She wanted to gasp but couldn’t. Her lips were occupied by the sensual exploration of his. She knew then that she would allow this man to take whatever liberties he wanted to take. It was scandalous because she was no harlot. She shouldn’t allow this man, or any man really, especially a stranger, to do these kinds of things to her, but she couldn’t push him away.
It took several long and very persuasive minutes before it dawned on her that this man must have a reason to be standing alone in a darkened room. Was he waiting for someone? Did he already have an illicit tryst planned with someone else? Why was he kissing her then? Had he mistaken her for someone else?
Shame and mortification made her cheeks flame. She hesitated. It was enough to make her slowly ease away from him. As she did she slowly became vaguely aware of the silent presence of a man standing several feet behind her. She didn’t bother to look at him, though. The man who had almost wrapped himself around her was doing ravishing things to her neck and needed her attention more.
Eventually, though, the first flames of passion began to wither and die. She slowly became aware of the deathly silence behind her. It was then that she realised exactly what she was allowing, and with a total stranger nonetheless.
Oh, dear. Who does he think I am? She had no idea but for a few seconds more she didn’t really care. She had never felt anything like it in her life, and could quite willingly have remained in his embrace for several more minutes while he explored some more. Unfortunately, a discreet cough by the door broke the sensual daze that had befallen her and made the man in her arms look up.
Marguerite then opened her eyes and took her first good look at the man who had held her spellbound for the last however long it was. In that instant, the world faded into nothingness. Her stunned gaze devoured his features. From the top of his thick head of light brown hair that was cropped neatly in a fashionable style that emphasised his high brows to the sharp blade of his chiselled jaw, her gaze roamed freely. When his eyes opened, she blinked and stared into the most mesmerising whisky coloured eyes she had ever seen on a man in her life. They were bracketed by a wave of thick lashes, longer than her own, which gave him an exotic appearance she had rarely seen on anyone. When accompanied with the gentle curve of full lips, and a slightly tanned complexion, he was truly the most remarkably handsome man she had ever met.
“What in the blazes is going on here?” the Count demanded in a voice that see-sawed between Russian and East End barrow-boy.
Thor, she mused, unable to tear her gaze away from the man before her. I shall call him Thor. Until I discover his real name that is. He looks like a Nordic god.
Strangely for Joe, he had to bite down on his impatience and tear his attention away from the woman in his arms. It was so unlike him that he was a little absent minded when he lifted his head and looked at the man standing in the doorway. It was only when his gaze fell on the Count that everything within him slammed to a halt seconds before the real reason he had been in the room in the first place hit him with renewed force.
Cursing himself for being a fool, Joe mentally swore. He was well aware that the Count was studying him closely, his eyes narrowed and piercing as they took stock of Joe’s clothing, and the way he held the woman in his arms.
Joe, in turn, studied the Count. To be this close to the man who had caused so much misery and chaos to the people of London, and the Star Elite, and not be able to shoot him where he stood, didn’t sit too well with Joe. It was only the presence of the woman between them that stopped him from charging across the room and taking the man down in a flying tackle that would be the man’s last.
You have to keep your mind on why you are here. You need information. It isn’t the right time to arrest him yet.
The urge to arrest him anyway was so strong that Joe physically shook with the effort it took to keep still. It galled him to have to nod coldly at the fraudster, but he did. Willing, for now at least, to go along with the ruse he needed to adopt, he looked somewhat apologetically at the fake Russian; the man he knew was really called Terrence Sayers.
Russian, my arse, Joe mused in disgust.
“Apologies,” he muttered instead, his expression bland. “It appears you have caught us red-handed.”
He watched the Count throw the woman a contemptuous look that was so full of venom, Joe wondered if he had misread the situation earlier. Nobody who gave a damn about someone, especially a lover, would look at them like that, but the Count had appeared almost evilly angry at the woman.
He frowned when he became aware that she had gone still in his arms. There was something that was almost like fear in her eyes when she looked over her shoulder at the Count, or rather, Sayers.
“I didn’t realise you already had a lover, Martha,” the Count murmured spitefully, his thin lips curved into a sneer of disgust.
“Marguerite.” She threw him a filthy glare.
Joe smothered a smirk upon hearing that impatient sigh she made no attempt to mask. It was clear that there was no love lost between these two, but was that because they had just had an argument?
“Oh, we are not just lovers,” Joe murmured, determined to push to see just how possessive Sayers was over the woman. While his demeanour could only be described as cold, he had yet to take his eyes of Marguerite.
It’s a nice name, Joe mused as he looked at the woman in his arms with renewed interest. If he had to take a guess at a name, he would have called her a Maria or a Catherine. He wouldn’t have said she looked like a Marguerite, but then what would he know? It had taken him, and his colleagues, nearly six months to realise the Count was really called Sayers.
Joe turned his attention back to Sayers and the woman and watched them both glare at each other. They reminded him of two cats squaring off before a fight.
Before they could launch into a venomous clash, Joe decided to test Marguerite, just to see if she was as indifferent to the Count as he believed her to be. Tightening his hold, he studied her closely, looking for any kind of objection, or hesitation in her demeanour. But there was none. Instead, she leaned against him as though silently seeking his reassurance.
He frowned a little and looked at the Count, who now looked thunderous.
“That’s right,” Marguerite added, relieved that the man had given her a perfect excuse to thwart the Count’s mulish behaviour once and for all. “There is more between us.”
“More between you?” the Count challenged. His gaze raked insultingly over them. “Yes, I can see that.”
Marguerite ignored him and smiled at the man beside her.
“Yes, we are going to be married,” she announced proudly. “This is my fiancé, and the reason why I cannot accept your proposal.”
Marguerite was aware of the man going stiff in her arms, but he didn’t push her away. She daren’t look at him, just in case she saw an objection in his eyes. Mentally praying he wouldn’t contradict her, she tipped her chin up and glared at the Count.
“Does your father know about this?” the Count demanded arrogantly.
“I don’t see-” Marguerite began only to fall silent when the man’s hand on her waist gave h
er a nudge.
“Not yet. I only asked her to marry me last night. We agreed to meet up this evening so we could tell him together,” Joe replied in her stead.
“Marguerite, you surprise me. I didn’t realise you would be this accommodating before marriage,” the Count mused. He looked her up and down as though she were a horse at a horse market.
“I didn’t realise you were acquainted with my fiancé,” Joe said. He stepped forward and bowed. “Jeremiah Johnson at your service.”
“We are not acquainted,” Marguerite protested, throwing the Count a contemptuous glare. “We only met this evening.”
Joe’s brow arched. He looked at her but saw only pure honesty in her eyes.
What had that kiss earlier been all about then? He mused with a slight frown.
The Count studied him as one might look at a feral rat, but whatever he felt was quickly masked. He nodded politely, but his eyes were glacial. He made no attempt to bow in return and returned to his Russian persona instead.
“Are you going to introduce us, darling?” Joe murmured.
Joe gave her his best smile.Aware of her startled look, he prayed that she wouldn’t let her guard slip and ruin the pretence. He was amazed that she was willing to go along with it in the first place, but it helped him so was happy to play along with it himself for now.
Marguerite’s stomach flipped. For a few seconds, all she could do was stare at him before she gave herself a mental shake and slowly, reluctantly, turned to face the Count.
“Er, this is the Count everyone is talking about. Count Valentine,” she muttered, deliberately mispronouncing the man’s name.
The Count’s face turned florid. From the glittering rage burning in his eyes, it was evident that he was furious. It was only the presence of the stranger that stopped him from issuing her with some sort of insult in retaliation.
Well, it serves him right. Maybe next time before he forces his attention on someone he will find out what their name is first, she thought with a scornful sniff.