He eyed the collar of her robe distastefully. He'd have to buy her some new gowns of course. The brown sacks she wore would never do for the opera. Blues would suit her, and greens. Pink would definitely not do. And the less frills, the better.
Finch was tiny, no doubt stunted by what must have been a sickly childhood, barely reaching his collarbone, with a lithe, girlish figure and a graceful way of moving that reminded him of the bird whose name she bore. Frills would make her look like a missish debutante. No, a simple blue gown would do, one that complimented her slender little figure and didn't overwhelm her with bows and lace.
A gown, he amended, with a hemline high enough to avoid getting caught on her slippers.
He wondered how such a small, graceful-seeming creature could be the clumsiest of his acquaintance. He was always setting her back on her feet, retrieving her erstwhile spectacles, rubbing ink off her cheek. But what harm could come to her in an opera box?
She would be sitting, and there wouldn't be an inkwell for miles.
She finished her work and stepped back to survey the results.
"No," she said at last.
"Hmm?" he asked, imagining Finch in a sky blue satin gown.
"I said no to your last absurd bribe." When he didn't respond and continued instead to sniff about her hair, she began to look uncertain. "What is the matter with you?" she demanded.
Her sharp words snapped him out of his trance, and they stared at each other, at a mutual loss.
Indeed, he had no idea what was happening to him, but something had changed as they argued, and she felt it just as strongly as he did. Like him, she didn't understand it at all. Her cheeks turned as red as her nose, and her hand went up to the top of her robe, pulling the collar tighter.
"I ... I think it's time for you to leave…" she began.
Oh, no, he wouldn’t, not when he sensed her resolve weakening at last, despite whatever strange path they had wandered down. He cut her off by drawing closer rather than retreating, so that she was pressed up against her desk.
"I can hardly think how you shall occupy yourself without me," he teased.
She blushed even more fiercely. "Contrary to what you might think, the world – my world – does not revolve around you."
"Ha!" he grunted derisively.
"I have a life, you know. I have plans."
"Ha!"
Her eyes flashed. "If you must know, I am getting married."
He felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. The air went out of him. He wondered if his perfect heart had finally failed him, because he couldn't breathe for several heartbeats. This was the last thing he’d expected her to say.
"You're what?" he choked.
"I'm getting married," she enunciated, as if he were half-deaf.
He scowled and clenched his hands into fists. Now he was breathing rather too hard. "To whom?" And how had he not known, with all of his spies, that she even had a suitor?
"That is not your affair, but suffice to say he is a gentleman I have known for years. A nice, undemanding gentleman. He has been the soul of patience and forbearance during my employment to you. I have decided to accept his proposal."
He guffawed, shocked not only by her information but his reaction to it. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he breathe properly?
And why in hell was he still imagining her in blue satin?
She was looking quite pleased by his discomfiture. Well, he’d wipe that smug look off her face. "So Colonel Standish exists after all," he muttered.
The blood drained from her face. "What did you say?" she whispered.
Victory surged through his veins at the sight of her wide eyes. Finch deserved to be as unsettled as he was feeling at the moment.
Though in the part of his brain that was still rational, he knew he had lost any chance he had of a reconciliation.
"Colonel Standish. Miss Allison Wren's milksop suitor."
She stiffened, her bafflement turning to fury in the pace of a second. "Milksop!" she breathed. "The Captain is not a milksop. He is a noble, generous war hero."
"Who lets his woman run roughshod around the world with a scoundrel."
"He encourages her independence and trusts her implicitly. He is an enlightened, civilized gentleman who is willing to allow her to live her own life."
"He is a milksop. And his romantic drivel is nauseatingly insincere. I usually skip those parts."
She put her hands on her hips and ignored her slipping spectacles. "I assure you, the Captain's words are very sincere. He is deeply in love with Miss Wren."
"If that were so, he would have proposed to her three series back. After that vampire business in the Carpathians. No, he can't care very much for her. Doubtless, he has a doxy in every port he visits."
"He doesn't," she cried.
"Well, I suppose you know best," he shot back, pleased by her ire. He pushed even farther. "Or perhaps he's merely a coward. He's too afraid of Dr. Augustus to pursue Miss Wren like a real man."
Her mouth worked, but no sound came out. She sat down abruptly at her desk chair, shaking her head and sniffling. "How do you even know about the Chronicles?"
He gave her a devilish smile. "I know everything, Finch. Just like your Dr. Augustus. I wonder why that is so."
"You read the Chronicles?"
"Avidly."
“And you know that I...”
He nodded.
She swallowed. "When did you discover this?" she demanded.
"About three minutes ago, after your reaction to the Captain's name. Though I've had my suspicions for three years."
She gasped, looking too furious to speak. She looked down at her desk, picked up a glass paperweight, hesitated, and set it back down. He realized she’d considered chucking it at him and guffawed at her audacity. Instead, she threw one of the half-dozen dirty handkerchiefs littering her desk at him, then another and another.
He dodged several, but the rest hit him in the chest. "That's disgusting, Finch."
"No less than you deserve for tormenting me! For ... for laughing at me! It is mortifying that you should know!"
He held up a finger. "That you should know I know, you mean."
She clutched her head in her hands and groaned. "Please stop! You're making me dizzy. Just go away!"
"Not yet. First you mutiny, then you tell me you're getting married. I demand to know what this Standish fellow is about!"
"His name is Charles Netherfield," she moaned.
Oh, this was too good. "Neverfeel?"
"Netherfield," she corrected. "He's not a soldier. He's an archaeologist."
"A bone-hunter?" he scoffed.
"An archaeologist," she insisted. She uncovered her face and glanced up at him, her jaw setting at a stubborn angle. "He lectures at the same university as you, in fact, not that you would know because you're never there. He's quite well-respected in his field."
He tapped his finger to his chin several times in thought. "Neverfeel, Neverfeel. I think I've heard of him. He's an Egyptian specialist."
"Yes."
"How ... tedious. And dusty. How old is this bone hunter? Sixty? Seventy?"
Her eyes widened in offense, and she shot to her feet. "Why would you think he was old? Do you think me so ... so ... unattractive that only an old man would be willing to marry me?" By the end of her words, she was trembling with rage and humiliation.
Sasha was thunderstruck. He'd not meant for his quip to be interpreted in such a way, or for her to be so wounded. He'd not intended to insult her person. He had not even been thinking about her person, but rather some old fart of an historian sneezing over ancient tomes in the University library.
Of course, his picture of Neverfeel did imply he had certain assumptions about the kind of man Finch would choose for herself. And he was quite sure that Finch had chosen this Neverfeel, not the other way around. Finch loved to manage people, and she was practical to a fault. If she wanted something, she was the type to go out and
get it without any nonsensical female falderal. He just assumed that was the case with husband hunting, too. She was not the type to be swayed by superficial nonsense like looks or charm, either.
She was not swayed by him, after all.
No, Finch would look for a man of intelligence, integrity, and egalitarianism. A boring old Englishman, who would devote himself to some field of esoteric study and keep out of her way. He thought it an honest enough assumption, all told, to suspect the man to be of advanced years.
The only elements to Finch that didn't quite fit into the formula he had devised for her were her gambling addiction and her moonlight occupation as a writer of romantic serials. And her passionate refusal never to work for him again, of course. He didn't know what to make of these aspects of Finch's personality.
Nor did he know what to make of her current pique at being thought unattractive. How very ... female of her. How very...
And in that moment, Sasha looked at Finch as if seeing her for the first time. He'd looked at her as a human, as his indomitable secretary, as a prized pet he liked to tease, even as a friend. He'd even looked at her dispassionately as a female, a very interesting, unusual example of her species. But he'd never looked at her as a woman.
He'd not let himself.
But he looked at her now. And looked at her some more. And he could not speak for a very long time. He could hardly manage a decent breath.
Despite the sacks she wore, despite the unfortunate pink robe, despite her red nose and watering eyes, Finch was rather pretty. Not beautiful, not sultry like he usually preferred in the fairer sex. She was like a pretty English tea rose, milky-skinned, with a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
And when she was vexed, as she was now, she was spectacular.
Those chocolate eyes of hers sparkled like the garnets she'd bought for Luciana, and her full lips quivered with emotion. Quivered and quivered as if they would not stop unless he kissed them.
He staggered back a step at his insane line of thought and the even more insane tightening of his loins.
Kiss Finch! Kiss Finch?
Ugh!
He didn't know how long he'd been staring at her like a bloody gape-mouthed fool. But it was long enough that she leaned against the desk uncertainly, uncomfortably. At last, she shoved away and shot to his right with a huff that was supposed to be haughty but came off sounding rather miserable.
"Of course you do," she said wryly, though the anguish underlying her voice was plain to his ears.
He had forgotten she'd asked him a question before until she'd spoken again. He had no idea what his expression must have conveyed to her, but it couldn't have been good. She'd taken it as confirmation he thought her repulsive.
Impulsively, he reached out and grabbed her by the shoulder, stopping her cold. He spun her around to face him, amazed as always at how small she was, how finely made. No wonder he’d never let himself see her as a woman. He’d break her if he weren’t careful. She tried to shrug him off, but he easily held her in place.
"I did not mean ... I did not mean to imply..." Hell, he was stuttering as if he'd forgotten how to speak English, a language he’d learned a hundred years ago! "You're not unattractive. You're quite ... quite...”
"You've said enough," she moaned, her face flushing cherry red once more. "I want you to leave."
"Not yet."
"My humiliation is complete!" She strained against his grasp.
"I did not mean to humiliate you. I mean to rehire you."
"Never, now let me go," she cried.
She was struggling so, it became necessary to hold both of her shoulders to keep her from flying away. Though he couldn’t think of a reasonable explanation why he found it necessary to keep holding her. The only thing he could come up with was that he didn't want to let her go.
He just didn't want to.
She kicked his shin, and he let out a little yelp of pain. He fell forward, and she fell with him. The desk blocked their descent, wedging Finch against him, with no means of retreat. This didn't seem to dim the enthusiasm of her struggling – or the enthusiasm of his grasping. "Damn it, Finch, hold still. Let me explain."
"Let me go!" She jerked her head back, sending her spectacles flying off her nose and against his chest. He reached for them at the same time she did, and their hands collided. Her’s was warm and soft and trembling. He couldn't ever remember touching her hand, though he must have, over the years. But it had never felt like this. Like a lightning bolt had struck him where they were joined.
He caught his breath. So did she. They both froze.
He stared down into her eyes, which seemed so much bigger without her spectacles. They were wide with surprise, and dark and muddy with anguish. He felt his heart – what passed as his heart, anyway – sinking at the sight of those big, hurt eyes. Suddenly he would have traveled to the moon and back, if it could have restored their defiant luster.
She snatched her hand away a moment later, leaving him clutching her spectacles between them, and she stared up at him uncertainly, afraid to move.
"God, Finch," he muttered, shaken to the core. He began to put her spectacles back on for her, but then thought better of it. He folded them up and tucked them in his lapel. "I don't know why you wear those things all the time," he continued, shaken.
"I need them," she murmured, reaching for his lapel.
"You need them for reading. That is all."
"How do you ... how would you..." she sputtered.
"I just know. You wear them all the time to hide from the world."
"I am not hiding."
"Yes, you..." His words strangled in his throat, for he felt Finch's warm fingers against his chest, burrowing inside his jacket for her spectacles, so that all that stood between his skin and hers was a starched linen shirt. So near his secret heart.
Everywhere her small hand touched, he felt branded. As her head dipped nearer to him, the scent of her hair penetrated all of his senses, choking him. The feel of her small, lithe little form pressed between him and the desk, squirming around for her freedom, suddenly registered, making him burn with an aching, impossible desire.
He had never felt such a strong reaction to a woman in three hundred years, even Yelena, and that it was Finch of all people ... Finch! ... it simply boggled the mind. It was because he was so angry with her, he reasoned. It was because she was defying him, and no one defied him. It was because ... because...
Why had he never seen her before? Why had he never noticed how large and luscious her eyes were, how beautiful her tawny hair was, how big and plump and imminently kissable were her lips?
He must have noticed. He never missed important details like this.
He stopped her hand with his own. She raised her eyes to his, and she seemed puzzled by what she saw written on his features, for her lips parted tentatively.
The movement sent him over the edge, hurtling into madness.
Sasha never did anything without careful deliberation. He had learned long ago that making calculated choices and avoiding impulsive, rash behaviors preserved sanity and orderliness in one's life. Carelessness with one's mind and body led to chaos, and often, as he had learned the hard way growing up, pain and suffering. Yet from the moment he had crossed the threshold of Finch's little flat, he had done nothing but act on impulse. It was quite an unfathomable state of affairs.
He couldn't seem to help himself as he leaned downwards, knocking Finch's small body flat against the desktop, sending handkerchiefs and drafts of her serial novel flying to the floor around them. He couldn't seem to help himself as he placed both arms above her shoulders, lowered his head and touched his lips to hers.
He was stunned. She was the sweetest thing he'd ever kissed. She tasted of honey and lemons and menthol cough drops. Her lips were warm, as soft as a rose petal, as plush as a ripened fruit.
To her credit, she stiffened underneath him, and attempted to push him away.
To his d
elight, her protests lasted only from the time it took her hands to travel from her sides to his shoulders. Then she melted, and her fingers dug into his arms, drawing him towards her, not away. The kiss changed. Her mouth parted more, and his tongue seized the opportunity to taste her deeply, thoroughly. Good sweet Christ!
The kiss changed again as he seized her mouth hungrily, selfishly, until neither one of them could breathe. He leaned into her, trailed his hand across her waist. She was so small he could easily fit his hands around her. Her hips were narrow, her legs slim and long and pressed against his thighs. But her breasts...
Her breasts were surprisingly full, crushed against his chest. He'd never dreamed she had breasts, as they had been unidentifiable in the bags she wore. But there they were, round and heavy and aroused. He ran a very unsteady hand lightly over the curve of one. Finch made a faint moaning sound deep in her throat, and the noise set his loins on edge until he was near to exploding like some green boy.
Dear God, he burned for her. He wanted to take Finch right there and then, no ceremony, no pretense. He wanted to take her against the desk, quick and hard, like some marauding barbarian. Just to show her who was in charge of this little dance of theirs. And then he wanted to carry her over to that shoddy little cot of hers, throw that pink robe into the grate, and make painfully slow, revoltingly sweet love to her all night long.
He had lost his mind.
He was aware that she had gone rigid beneath him once more, and her hands were now attempting to push him away in earnest. He’d never taken an unwilling woman before, and he wasn't about to start. Nevertheless, this time he was sorely tempted.
And this realization, that he hovered so very near the line between who he was and who his monster of a father had been, was enough to stop him cold.
He raised his head as if awakening from a dream.
He didn't want to, but he glanced down at Finch. Damn. Damn. Damn! He still wanted her!
She sneezed in his face.
Prince of Hearts (Elders and Welders Chronicles) Page 9