by Riley Cole
She wormed her other arm beneath her as well and clutched the book with both hands. “Blackborough will have the gas back on momentarily. You had better get off me if you wish to live.”
“This would be a great deal easier if you’d hand me that book.” Crane traced a finger down her cheek. “You don’t want to take on a man like Blackborough.”
He smelled of licorice. Licorice and limes and…. Meena shook her head, trying to wipe away his spell.
He sighed. “I thought not.” His weight lifted slightly. “Sorry to be so vulgar, but—”
Strong hands circled her waist, roving over her bodice, grabbing the bottom edge of the book.
Meena gritted her teeth. She yanked the book upwards, toward her chin, trying to keep it out of his reach, trying to distract herself from those strong, talented fingers.
One more heartbeat and he’d be cupping her breasts. Desire, hot as liquid fire, doused her. It dulled her brain, wracked her with memories, made her ache with wanting.
A soft, insistent hiss surrounded them, growing quickly in volume.
“The gas.” Meena squirmed under him. “It’s back on. Close the valves.”
Crane rolled off of her and jumped to his feet.
Meena sprang up after him and ran for the safe. The sharp tang of raw gas bit at the back of her throat.
Just as she moved to toss the journal into the open safe, Crane reached past her and slammed it shut. “Oh no, you don’t.” A quick spin of the dial reset the tumblers.
The journal clutched to her chest, Meena kicked him in the shin.
“Ouch! You little—”
When he reared back, she ducked under his arm and ran for the door.
But he beat her to it.
With one hand pressed tightly against the door, he used the other to turn off the gas to the wall sconce by his head.
The dreadful hissing stopped, but the thick, noxious air was making her dizzy. Feet ran to and fro in the hallway outside the door. Between the noise and the dizziness, her brain was moving too slowly.
She couldn’t think.
Light filtered in from under the door behind Crane. No time to reopen the safe. She glared at him in the weak light. “Damn you!”
“Most assuredly so.” Crane stalked her.
Book clutched to her chest, she retreated until the edge of the desk stopped her progress.
It was his expression, an odd mix of determination and maybe—she hoped—a small spark of regret, that signaled just how deadly serious he was about relieving her of her prize.
She shoved the small book down the front of her dress.
A wicked grin pinned her to the spot. “This is going to be fun.”
“You wouldn’t dare.” She folded her arms across her chest.
Crane threw her a pitying look.
Meena swallowed, hard. Much to her everlasting shame, a tiny part of her wanted him to reach into her bodice and take it.
Out in the hall, footsteps pounded toward the study. Crane put a finger to his lips. The running stopped just outside the door. Deep breathing, and then the telltale snick of the lock opening.
He grabbed her, dragging her toward the drapes. “Hide.”
Meena pulled back. “No time.”
One option remained.
It would cost her dearly. She had no doubt of that.
As the door swung open behind them, she pulled his head down toward her and kissed him for all she was worth.
It had been years—four, and some months, if he was honest with himself—since Spencer had been kissed like that.
He shouldn’t have missed her.
He didn’t miss the other women he’d bedded, didn’t miss their special scents, didn’t miss the way they felt in his arms. Meena was the only one who’d ever left him wanting.
Left him wishing he were a better man.
Curved where he was taut, and delightfully rounded exactly where he wanted to place his hands, she fit perfectly against him. Spencer wrapped his arms around her, splaying his hands across her lower back. He pulled her closer, tight enough to feel the hard edges of the journal between them.
He tilted his head and slanted his mouth more fully over hers, deepening the kiss, enjoying the sweet, clean scent of her. She still tasted of strawberries. Sweet, with an intriguing bite. After all that time.
Astounding.
Spencer slid a hand to the back of her neck. His thumb grazed the soft hair at the base of her hairline. It could have been his imagination, but he would have sworn the smallest sigh escaped her lips as she nestled more firmly against him.
Real or not, the tiny sound smacked him straight in the heart.
“Crane. And Miss Sweet. How perfect.”
Spencer froze, his mouth atop hers. Sweetness turned to vinegar.
Not that voice. Not now.
He pulled away from her and glared at the figure in the doorway. “Damn it to hell.”
For an instant, she stared up at him, eyes soft, mouth parted, welcoming, willing, wanting. He hoped he’d be able to remember that look, to savor it for a while.
He wasn’t likely to see it again.
Blinded by the bright light now pouring in from the hallway, Spencer blinked. Unfortunately, the underfed figure in the doorway didn’t disappear. “Ramsay.”
“Indeed.” The other man slipped into the room and shut the door behind him.
An instant later, the sconce was lit. Ramsay had a pistol aimed at his chest.
He wanted to hit something. Ramsay. Here. With a gun. Not a turn of events he had anticipated. Spencer dropped his arms from around Meena’s waist and shoved her behind him.
“Jamison Ramsay?” Meena peeked around him. “I thought you were dead.”
“Why does everyone think that?” Ramsay waggled the pistol ever so slightly, clearly impatient. He held out his free hand, palm up. “The journal?”
“We couldn’t open the safe.” Meena responded before Spencer could finish calculating how to handle the situation. He was quick, but she’d always been quicker.
“Really?” Ramsay shook his head as if deeply saddened by her ploy. “Crane could do it one handed, and you’re far better than he is.”
Spencer stared at the gun. “Give him the journal, Meena.” If Ramsay’s attention wavered for even an instant, he’d spring.
Ramsay stepped closer, his free hand out, fingers grasping. “We have an agreement. Hasn’t he told you?”
Meena sagged against his back. Her shock, her disappointment, stabbed him between the ribs.
“No reason to believe this lying pig,” he said over his shoulder. As if there was any way in the world she’d believe him, either.
A deep voice bellowed out in the hallway. “Collect the kitchen staff. Mr. Blackborough wants to know what happened to the gas. Check below stairs. Now.”
“Time to go.” Ramsay shoved the pistol closer to Spencer’s chest. “Give it here and we’re square. Just like we said.”
It killed him to do it, but Spencer turned his back on Ramsay and his pistol and took Meena by the shoulders. “Give it up. If it’s that important, I’ll get it back for you.” He stared down into her angry face, willing her —for once in her damned life— to give in.
It took less than a heartbeat for her expression to move from confusion to anger to outright fury. “Fine.” She yanked the little book out of her bodice and threw it over Spencer’s shoulder at the other man.
Ramsay caught it easily and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat. “You always were a sensible girl.”
If the scowl on Meena’s face was any indication, his compliment had less than impressed.
Ramsay reached in the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a length of rope. “Tie her up.” He pointed at the leather chair facing Blackborough’s massive desk.
Spencer laughed. “Not likely.”
Ramsay aimed the pistol at Meena’s heart and pulled back on the hammer. “Tie her up.”
Anger pulsed thr
ough Spencer’s chest, spreading like liquid fire with each beat of his heart. He ached to launch himself across the room and squeeze the man’s absurdly thin neck until it broke.
Outside, voices rose in fear and confusion. “We need a doctor. Quickly. The maid’s fainted.”
“Heaven help us!”
“What’s going on?”
Meena dropped down in the chair and laid her forearms along the arms. “Do as he says,” she ordered Spencer. “Hurry.”
The rope hanging slack in his hands, Spencer studied her face, hoping for a hint at what she was thinking, but she refused to meet his eyes. Nothing for it then but to do the lady’s bidding. He wrapped one end of the rope around her wrist, binding it to the arm of the chair.
“I can’t believe you made me give it to him,” she murmured as he bent over her to secure the other arm.
“Not a lot of choices at the moment.”
Spencer felt her muscles tighten beneath the ropes. The frozen glare in her eyes made it clear who she blamed for that. “We’ll discuss this later,” she warned.
Ramsay stayed on the far side of her, careful to remain just outside of Spencer’s reach. He chuckled. “That won’t be possible, love.” Cruel amusement crinkled the skin at the edges of his eyes. “Blackborough’ll be the one to find this particular gift.”
Spencer’s hands shook so hard with the effort not to pummel the other man that he couldn’t finish the delicate knot he was tying. He took a deep breath and tried again. He’d wrapped the ropes as loosely as he’d dared. If he could make the slipknot look sturdy, she might be able to slip free.
He eyed the pistol. Ramsay was probably planning to shoot him the minute they left the mansion. He wasn’t at all confident he’d be able to get away in one piece, let alone get back to her before Blackborough’s men found her.
“That’s good enough.” Ramsay waved him away with the barrel of the pistol. “Now you sit over there.” He pointed at Blackborough’s desk chair.
Spencer thought about simply tackling the useless liar to the ground, but he suspected he’d take a bullet before he could accomplish it. He couldn’t leave Meena defenseless. He sat.
Blackborough’s men could barge in any moment. Then the fat would really be in the fire. Better to take on one undersized convict than a handful of Blackborough’s well-fed thugs.
Ramsay pulled another coil of rope from his pocket and dangled it in front of Spencer’s face. The wooden arms of the massive chair creaked as Spencer crushed them with his fingers. How he wished it were Ramsay’s bones he was grinding together. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked.
“I am.” Ramsay smirked and continued around behind the chair. “Quite a good bit.”
A smile welled up from deep in Spencer’s chest. He fought to keep it off his face.
Ramsay should have tied him up first. That had been a grievous error. Spencer tensed, waiting for the moment when the man would be close enough that he could launch himself backwards and smash the back of his head into Ramsay’s nose.
He watched Meena’s face, trying to gauge the moment by her expression.
Silent and wary, her angry gaze promised a blazing dose of retaliation. Spencer wasn’t entirely sure her anger was meant strictly for Ramsay, but before he could decide, her eyes widened in fright.
“Don’t!” She screamed.
Spencer tensed, ready to jump backwards, but before he could move, pain exploded at the base of his skull.
3
Even as she struggled to wriggle out of her bonds, Meena couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss.
It had been truly spectacular.
Unfortunately.
Her exquisitely plotted plan lay in ruins at her feet, smashed beyond all repair beneath Crane’s limp form, yet what set her heart racing was the memory of his mouth tempting, teasing, claiming.
That frightened her far more than any threat the crime lord in the other room could make.
Out in the hallway, feet stomped and voices rose in panic as guests, servants, and Blackborough’s toughs, hurried to and fro outside the study, many coughing on the thick sheets of raw gas still wafting down the hallway. None spared a glance for the woman bound to the chair.
To say nothing of the well-dressed body at her feet.
The excited chatter of guests, unsettled by the blackout, rang out from the ballroom. The noise rolled and swelled like a storm-tossed sea, drowning out the anemic orchestra.
She glared down at Crane’s unconscious form as she wiggled her shoulders wildly, forcing the coils of rope to inch their way up toward her neck.
What was she to do with him now?
She wished she could leave him crumpled on the Aubusson carpet like a soiled shirt. Blackborough would likely kill him. He deserved it of course, but Meena wasn’t entirely certain she could live with that.
She studied his still form, wishing she could ignore the way his broad shoulders tapered to a taut waist, the way his dark hair curled every so slightly back around the edge of his ear. Mostly, she wished to forget how the feel of his mouth, claiming hers, had made her burn.
She wasted a glare on him. “You always were far more trouble than you were worth.”
He’d joined forces with that smarmy pig, Jameson Ramsay. And then he’d let her do all the work, simply hiding there in the shadows of Blackborough’s study, ready to snatch the journal away.
For that alone he deserved a great whack on the head.
The twine sawed back and forth across the bare skin of her décolletage as she squirmed, chafing until her skin burned. The burning sensation stoked her anger like tinder building sparks into a fire. The list of things Crane needed to answer for was growing with astonishing speed.
A few precious seconds of twisting and sliding around in her seat, and she had her upper body free. As to why he and Ramsay wanted her client’s journal, that would require further investigation.
The kiss would require no further thought.
Seduction was simply Spencer Crane’s weapon of choice. She mustn’t forget that.
Again.
Biting and tugging, she used her teeth to untie the knot around one wrist. Blackborough’s men would find them any second. Ramsay had clearly thought so. After smashing Spencer on the head with the butt of his pistol, he’d run out of the room so fast, he might as well have been on fire. A pity he’d left the door wide open.
Free from the ropes, Meena jumped up.
“I was looking forward to helping you with that.” Crane was sitting up. A playful grin teased up the corners of his lips.
Meena stilled.
How utterly unfair for a cad like him to own a smile that could melt glass. And how she wished she were immune to that honey-sweet voice. She knew —knew to the depths of her being— how Crane doled out his charms to best effect. And still, that smile, that playful tone in his voice, made her shiver in the most delicious sort of way.
Ignoring his charms was going to be far more difficult than she’d expected.
Her gaze hovered over his left shoulder. Anywhere but on his handsome face. “I cannot for one moment imagine a day when I would require your assistance.”
Crane gathered his legs under him and rose. “Angry I see.”
“Of course I’m angry!” Meena scooped up the ropes. “You conspired with that pig Ramsay to steal my journal—”
“Your journal?”
“I was going to return it to its rightful owner, until you helped that horse’s ass take it.”
“Of course you were.”
Meena threw the rope behind Blackborough’s desk so it would be out of view from the hallway. “You may think you know me, Crane, but it’s been a long, long time. You would be sadly mistaken to believe you still do.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. There are plenty of other baubles here for the taking. I don’t care what kind of deal you made. You should have changed plans when you saw that I was after it. I was here first.”
&nbs
p; Crane’s eyebrows rose up into his hairline. “This isn’t primary school. You—”
“What the hell is he doing here?” Edison skidded to a stop in the doorway.
“Annoying the life out of me.” Meena stalked toward her cousin. “Is Briar in place?”
“Should be.” Edison glanced over his shoulder at the crowded hallway and pulled the heavy tool belt circling his hips up a few inches higher. Rather than evening wear, he wore a simple shirt, the fabric thinned with age and wear, and sturdy pants with scuffed boots. Strategic smears of dirt and grease completed his disguise.
Crane was eyeing her cousin’s dusty boots and rumpled, sweat-stained shirt. “The gas?”
Edison spared him a glare. “Closed the valve to the house,” he explained as he waved Meena out into the hallway.
Meena gave her skirts a quick shake, rolled her shoulders back and sailed out of the study.
Edison threw a burly arm across the doorway, stopping Crane. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Might be best if we stuck together until we’re clear of here. It’d be an easy thing for Blackborough to force any of us to talk, if he had a mind.”
Meena clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. “We don’t need your help.”
Edison scowled. “No. He’s right.” He eyed Crane as if he were a spoiled piece of roast. “Unfortunately.”
Crane acknowledged his logic with a tiny bow and moved to follow them out into the hallway. He swayed like a drunkard. It was then she noticed the small trickle of blood running down the back of his neck.
“Stop.” She put a hand to his chest. “You’re bleeding.”
“Worried?”
“Only about you attracting undue attention.” She whipped a lacy handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at the blood trickling slowly down his neck.
He jerked away. “Damn it, woman. That hurts.”
“Good.” Meena wadded up the red-stained handkerchief and stuffed it back into her handbag. “We’ll keep to the plan. Find our way out through the gardens.”
It was slow going through the hallway and back toward the overflowing ballroom. Even with the gaslights burning again, the guests continued to mill about like a hive of angry bees. Great knots of bustled silks, tailored evening jackets, and confused serving staff collided, then dispersed, re-forming into new globs of humanity that required constant changes in navigation.