A Persistant Attraction

by Silvia Violet

  Farrington absently swirled brandy in a snifter. His head was tipped back, his eyes closed. He looked the picture of the relaxed English gentleman except he was still dressed in evening clothes, and they were severely wrinkled.

  If Farrington had called before seeking his bed, then the matter must be serious indeed. Rhys braced himself against the onslaught that was sure to come. Farrington would have a whole list of reasons why Rhys needed to complete just one more mission.

  “Enjoying my private stores?”

  The man opened his eyes and looked down at his glass. “You always did have impeccable taste in liquor, my friend.”

  “I told you not to bother me again.”

  “Perhaps you did, though I don’t quite remember it being phrased so politely.”

  “Any chance of getting rid of you quickly?”

  Farrington smiled, looking like the weasel he was. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Then just tell me what you’ve come for. I’m not in the mood to spar with you.”

  “Rough night?” Farrington asked, his gaze skimming over Rhys.

  Rhys lifted a brow. “No rougher than yours, I’d say, based on your appearance.”

  “I’ve been working.”

  Rhys snorted. “I’m sure you have, but then you’ve never quite drawn the line between work and pleasure, have you?”

  Farrington scowled and sat up straight. “Let’s not start that argument again.”

  “Then start talking.”

  “Les Centimes is on the move again.”

  Rhys heart pounded, and his nausea returned. “Why tell me this?”

  “You wanted to know why I’m here. That’s why.”

  “I thought Valois was dead.”

  “He is. We took care of him as I assured you we would. However, some of his underlings have reformed the club. Reports are circulating in Paris that Les Centimes is planning a strike against the Bourbon family.”

  “I am distressed by this news, but I am no longer part of your organization.”

  “You are an Englishman who loves his country.”

  “I don’t love England enough to sink to the level you require of your agents.”

  “You know how sorry I am about what happened to Therese and Aaron.”

  “Valois tortured and killed Aaron, and you let everyone believe he’d died a traitor.” Farrington’s jaw tightened. “That was all straightened out later.”

  “Not to my satisfaction.”

  “How many times do you want me to apologize?”

  “Apologies are useless. Bring Aaron and Therese back from the dead, then we’ll talk.”

  “Rhys, we need you. You have access to circles here that none of my other men have. Circles which, according to my information, are harboring Centimes members who plan to stir unrest here as well as in France.

  Rhys thought of the numerous illicit parties he used to attend. After seeing what some of the men in his former social circle were capable of when he helped Mark and Cassandra put an end to the selling of young girls, his former escapades had lost their allure. “Some events transpired a few months ago which encouraged me to break with the circles you refer to. I am no longer involved with that set.”

  “But you could return if you chose. Do you think Aaron would want you to let Les Centimes rise to power again?”

  Flames of anger burned in Rhys’s chest. “That was low. Even for you, Farrington.” Farrington ran his hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “I’m desperate.

  What can I do to make you understand how vital your help would be?” Rhys knew better than to let Farrington’s words affect him. The man would say anything to get his way. But loath as he was to admit it, Farrington was right. They could not let Les Centimes rise to power again. “You’re no more desperate than you’ve ever been. You know you always get your way, and you’ll get it again tonight. Because despite all appearances, despite everything my family and most of London think of me, I was born with an overabundance of honor.”

  Farrington smiled and rose from his seat. “Excellent. I’ll be in contact tomorrow with specific instructions.”

  “I hope you understand that this time, we play by my rules.”

  “We’ll play to win as always. Rules are useless in our line of work.” Rhys cursed himself as he watched Farrington close the library door behind him.

  Why couldn’t he ever say no to that son of a bitch?

  The decanter of brandy which Meadows had brought for Farrington caught Rhys’s eye. Damn the man for never listening to Rhys’s instructions. The brandy sparkled in the beams of sun coming in the window. Rhys’s head still throbbed from the previous night’s overindulgence, but nevertheless the soothing liquid beckoned to him.

  He summoned the will to refuse. He’d been drinking far too much in the last weeks.

  The last months. Ever since a tempting violet-eyed wench had stirred passion in the heart

  he thought was dead forever. He couldn’t resort to drinking now. He had to go visit that very wench and apologize for behaving like an ass.

  *

  For the second time in as many days, Amanda donned breeches and a man’s shirt and escaped the house after everyone had retired. She stuck her knife in a sheath she had fashioned from a scrap of leather and tucked her gun into the pocket she’d sewn on her cloak. She was as prepared as possible to track a man who wanted her dead.

  For a moment, as she let her body drop silently to the ground, fear nearly stopped her. Was Rhys’s price really too high to pay to have someone help her? He was a crack shot and a skilled fighter, though how he’d gotten to be such she had no clue. From all other appearances, save that one day when they fought for their lives, he seemed a useless, overdressed rake whose main concerns were his appearance and his own pleasure.

  He’d attempted to call on her that morning, but she’d refused to see him. She feared her traitorous body wouldn’t be able to resist if she got near him, and an acceptance of his ridiculous proposal would tumble out of her mouth. If he wasn’t going to help her, she was better off not seeing him again.

  When Amanda passed the spot where Rhys hid in the shadows, he followed her.

  He’d been watching her aunt’s house himself that night, scared to death she would do something foolish. Apparently, he was not to be disappointed. He lifted his hand to signal the men who were positioned across the street. He was confident they would follow at a discreet distance.

  He’d seethed with anger since Amanda’s refusal to see him earlier that day. He’d decided she didn’t deserve an apology, nor did he have any reason to pretend to be a gentleman with her. But now, watching her leap from her balcony, wearing the same ridiculous costume she’d visited him in and showing no regard whatsoever for her injuries, all he felt was fear.

  The possibility of her being killed made cold sweat run down his back. He didn’t want to admit it, didn’t want to think about the implications, but he cared deeply for her.

  He cared in a way that had nothing to do with lust. He tried to pretend he simply wanted to protect her. She was his friend’s sister-in-law after all, but a fierce deep emotion stirred inside him when she was near. He was terribly afraid it was love.

  He had no clue who was after her or how many men he might have to contend with when they arrived at Amanda’s destination. He prayed that the would-be murderer had underestimated Amanda. Most men apparently did. And she was quite capable of taking care of herself in a wide range of dangerous situations, but this time, she was in over her head. Thank God he’d had the sense to keep an eye on her.

  If they lived through this night, he would force her to sit down and listen to his apology. Then he would give her a severe scolding and… His mind was suddenly filled with images of him stripping off her revealing clothes and showing her just how much pleasure they could share.

  But that dream could not come to fruition. Protect her, scold her, lock her up until she was safe, these were all things any man in his position sho
uld do. Bedding her was not.

  She turned a corner, heading into a decidedly unfavorable part of town. He debated catching up to her and dragging her back home. Even if anyone was foolish enough to buy the pretense that she was a young lad, she was still in great danger. There were things some of the men in this part of town would do with a beautiful young boy that Amanda had probably never imagined.

  He fought his instincts and let her continue to play her game. The only way he would get her home otherwise was by rendering her unconscious or carrying her off kicking and screaming. The screams would draw too much attention, and he didn’t think he could bring himself to knock her out, even for her own good.

  When she reached the Black Eagle, the tavern that had been mentioned in the letter she’d shown him, she paused. Instead of going inside, she tucked herself into the alley running along the side of the building.

  So she didn’t intend to go head to head with this mystery man after all. She was probably hoping to identify him and sneak away. Rhys had to admire her plan, but even if she got away tonight, the man would continue to seek her out. He probably wouldn’t give her a warning the next time he caught her.

  An old cart stood in the yard of the rickety house next to the Black Eagle. Rhys crept behind it. After making sure he could see both Amanda’s hiding place and the tavern’s front entrance, he signaled for his assistants to join him. One at a time, they came to crouch beside him. Neither said a word. He’d worked with them several times during his days of spying for Farrington. He trusted them to know exactly what to do if Amanda was attacked.

  He adjusted his mask. He hated wearing it. It was damned uncomfortable, and it made him feel like the star of a cheaply produced melodrama. But it helped him blend with the night. What was the point of dressing in black if he let the pale skin of his face give him away?

  Rhys watched as Amanda leaned slowly around the corner to get a better look at the front of the tavern. Then a flash of movement behind her caught his eye. A hand closed over her mouth, and she fell backwards against her assailant.

  Rhys and his men ran toward her. His heart pounded. Why hadn’t he stopped her before now?

  Amanda tried to bite the hand covering her mouth, but the man’s smelly leather glove protected his skin from her teeth.

  “Thought you’d trick us, did you missy?”

  She kicked, but caught only air.

  “You’d best have brought the money early, or we’re going to make you real sorry.” We’re? Were there more of them?

  Before she could think any further, three men charged toward her. She assumed they were the accomplices her captor had alluded to. But all hell broke loose as they began to assault the man holding her and three others who appeared from the shadows.

  The tallest of the three men, the one who seemed to be their leader, managed to free her. He pulled her to safety against the side of the tavern before rejoining the fray.

  She pressed herself against the building’s rough wooden wall and panted for breath.

  Grunts and groans filled the air as the men fought. One of them went down and did not rise again. Was he dead or just unconscious? The fallen man was on the far side of the mass of fighters, and she couldn’t be sure if he was an enemy or a friend.

  The only man she could identify was the tall one who’d scooped her up and taken her to safety. He moved gracefully, as if all his moves were choreographed.

  The man he was fighting went down, and the tall man squatted beside him, grabbing hold of his shirt and pulling him into a sitting position. Amanda thought she heard him speaking but she couldn’t make out the words. Then he swore loudly and shoved the man back onto the ground.

  Amanda heard jeers behind her. She turned to see a small crowd of men gathered by the tavern’s door, watching the brawl. Fortunately none of them seemed to have noticed her.

  When Amanda focused on the fighting again, she counted only her rescuer and two others still standing. She realized they must be his friends when he joined them and gave them orders. They began checking the bodies on the ground as her rescuer walked toward her. As she watched his graceful walk, her breath caught.

  She couldn’t tell much about his appearance between the darkness and the mask he wore. His hair was so dark it blended into the night so she had to assume it was black or very dark brown. The lines of his body looked firm and strong.

  When he reached her, he grabbed her arm and pulled her away from the building.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, but he didn’t answer. He just kept tugging her toward the street.

  “I’m very appreciative of the rescue, but I need to return home now.” He nodded but still said nothing.

  She tried to free herself from his grip, but she could not. Surely he wouldn’t have rescued her if he was intending to harm her, would he? Of course, he might only want her

  for himself. She had no way of knowing that he wasn’t another criminal. What would a respectable man be doing in such a place anyway?

  “Who are you?”

  He stopped walking and turned to her. His hand came up and caressed her cheek. Her breath caught as heat raced through her belly.

  Then reality flooded back. What the hell was wrong with her? Why was she letting this man touch her? She stepped away. He dropped his hand and shook his head back and forth.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked when he took hold of her arm again.

  “Home.” His voice was low and rough. It sounded unnatural and strained.

  “How do you know where I live?”

  Again he said nothing, but he continued walking in the right direction.

  “Did you follow me?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then how do you know where I live?”

  No response. By the time they reached the gate of her aunt’s house, Amanda couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

  “Why did you rescue me?”

  She turned to look at him and saw him smile beneath the edge of his mask.

  “I have a right to know who you are.”

  He shook his head.

  “I do. I want to know why you helped me.”

  He turned his body into her, and she leaned against the gate.

  “To get this,” he muttered as he leaned forward and took her mouth. There was no other way to describe it. It wasn’t so much a kiss as a possession.

  Her whole body seemed to turn to steam and dissipate, yet she could still feel her lips, her mouth, her tongue as he forced her mouth open and deepened the kiss.

  There was nothing gentle about his approach, but she made no attempt to protest.

  She simply abandoned herself to the sensation.

  Her hands slid up the stranger’s back and locked behind his neck, pulling him even more firmly against her. He groaned and pressed the entire length of his body into her.

  His movement pushed her against the gate’s metal bars, but she barely registered the cold sensation. Her thoughts were focused on the muscles of his thighs and the firm ridge of his arousal.

  She couldn’t stop herself from rubbing her body against him, reveling in the feel of his maleness.

  He jerked back, panting.

  They stared at each other.

  “Forgive me,” he said in a strangled whisper. Then he fled.

  Amanda tried to take a step and wondered if her legs would hold her, or if she would melt into the ground.

  If she didn’t know better, she would say the man had put a spell on her. But she’d been a willing participant. She’d worked for years to harden herself against men’s attempts at seduction, but this stranger had melted her defenses in seconds.

  Only one other man had come close to evoking such a response. Rhys Stanton, the man who saved her life last year. With the exception of the regrettable kiss they’d shared at Cassandra’s wedding, she’d kept her distance from him. Now she’d practically thrown herself on a stranger. What was wrong with her?

  Chapter Four


  After a long, cold bath, Rhys went to bed achingly sober. The icy water had done little to cool the ardor Amanda had stirred, but he was determined he wouldn’t turn back to the bottle. He’d sent the men who’d accompanied him to watch her house. He would do what was required to keep her safe, but in order to watch her and play Farrington’s games, he needed all his faculties functioning.

  He knew what measures to take to protect Amanda, but what the hell was he going to do about what had happened outside her house? He couldn’t tell her he’d been the one to rescue her, and yet how could he not? She was too intelligent not to eventually put two and two together. When she did, he could expect nothing short of fireworks. In fact, he was shocked she hadn’t identified him when they kissed. Perhaps she’d simply not studied his body as thoroughly as he’d studied hers.

  How could he have known she would respond so ardently? She’d been an active party in the kiss they’d shared at Mark’s wedding, but she responded to it like an innocent young woman whose passion had hardly awakened. Her response last night had been more like that of a courtesan, one men would go into debt to spend a single night with.

  He did not doubt her innocence, but her reaction—God, the way she’d rubbed her body against his at just the right angle to make him throb painfully—had taken his breath.

  If that was her instinctive response to a “real” kiss, what would she be like after a few nights in his bed?

  He dropped his head into his hands. Now he needed another cold bath. In fact, a dunk into a frozen lake would be best.

  He had to find a way to get some sleep and then…what? The right thing was to attempt once again to call on her, apologize for his previous behavior. But he couldn’t

  very well apologize and then confess to being her rescuer, not after the liberties he’d taken. It would make his apology seem hollow at best. Perhaps he shouldn’t see her at all.