Ye god, surely it couldn’t be . . .
“Forgive me if I have frightened you, madam.” He didn’t look the least contrite. Indeed, there seemed to be a momentary flash of amusement as he flicked an emerald-sharp glance at the knife in her hand. “I am looking for A. J. Quill.”
“You have come to the wrong place,” replied Charlotte, dismayed to hear her voice had come out as a mouse-like squeak.
“I think not.” He came closer. “The two little imps who deliver Quill’s drawings were followed back to this house.”
“Stay where you are!” she warned, trying to regain some semblance of control. “Another step and I’ll scream.”
“By all means go ahead and shriek to the high heavens. Though I imagine it will be a prodigious waste of breath.” He placed a fist on his hip. “I doubt there are many Good Samaritans in this part of Town.”
She thinned her lips, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of being right. “How dare you invade my home! Whoever you are, I demand you leave at once.”
“How ungentlemanly of me. You’re right—I neglected to introduce myself.” A mocking bow. “I am Wrexford. I daresay you’re familiar with my name.”
Charlotte maintained a stony face. “No, I’m not. Now please leave, or . . . or . . .”
“Or you’ll cut out my liver with that dainty little penknife?” He made a tsk-tsk sound. “Yes, well, A. J. Quill is quite skilled in skewering my person. Let him fight his own battles.” Wrexford looked around the room. “Where is he?”
“I tell you, sir, you are mistaken—”
For a big man, he moved with feral quickness. A blur of wolf black, leaving the sensation of predatory muscle and primitive power pricking against her skin.
“Stop!” she began, the protest dying quickly as Wrexford leaned over her desk. And began to laugh.
“Your husband has captured Prinny’s self-indulgent squint to perfection.” He looked up. “That is, I assume he is your husband.”
Charlotte didn’t answer. Like a helpless mouse, she seemed frozen by her fate, waiting for the paw to flash out and deliver the inevitable coup de grace.
“Or perhaps it is a more casual arrangement?” His lidded gaze lingered for a moment on her face.
Think! Think! But all that came to mind was the overwhelming urge to stick the knife into one of his eyes.
“Ah, I see you’re in no mood for pleasantries.” Wrexford hooked one of the stools with his boot and pulled it over. “No matter. I’ll wait.”
Panic seized her. Charlotte felt as if its unseen hands were crushing her ribs, squeezing the breath out of her.
“You cannot!” she rasped. The knife slipped from her grasp and fell to the floor. Her hard-won existence shattering into a thousand tiny shards . . .
Suddenly fury crested over fear. She flew at him, fists flailing. Be damned with the consequences. Her life was already over.
Wrexford caught her wrists, not before she landed a nasty blow to his cheek. “Tut, tut, there is no need for violence, madam. Your husband and I can—” He stopped abruptly, those infernal eyes now focused on the fingers of her right hand. One by one, he pried them open.
She tried to pull away.
“Bloody hell,” he breathed, studying the smudges of ink. “Let me guess—it’s not your husband. It’s you who are A. J. Quill.”
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Smoke & Lies Page 32