Page 37 of Masquerade

Settling in for whatever she offered, already knowing he wanted more. His body was willing. She pressed herself against his chest, her leg rising to stroke the outside of his thigh, frying his brain with an unconscious shimmy. His hand dropped to cup her backside, so she’d have no doubts about where this was heading. She raised her head, her breaths coming in short gasps.

“Sorry.” Her foot hit the ground.

“That’s what I said at the library.” He’d cursed himself as a ham-fisted idiot ever since. He’d bruised her ego, and distressing her hadn’t been his intention.

“You shouldn’t apologise for kisses.” She dropped her forehead onto his chest. “You should check if they’re welcome, but apologising gives the impression you didn’t enjoy them.”

“And you did?” His mouth was dry. “I apologise for apologising at the library.”

“Where do you want me to drop you?” She stepped back, her voice unsteady while she searched for her car remote. It boosted his morale to learn they were both suffering. “Get in.” She zapped the car.

“I’ll get out somewhere on the route. I don’t want to take you out of your way.” He swivelled to study her. “Did you enjoy yourself tonight?”

“They’re a wonderful couple.” Her voice softened.

“Georgehaswon you over.”

She scowled at the road ahead.

“Your secret’s safe with me.” He held up his hands in submission.

“He’s flexible. Open to ideas.” She pushed a strand of hair that had fallen forward during their kiss behind her ear. “I told you that before.”

“And?” He was interested in what she wasn’t saying.

“I admire him. He encourages you to find your best. And you do.”

Her reading of George’s character was perceptive. George and Fran had instinctively reached for each other when the topic was betrayal. Just as his parents always had. He’d forgotten that, until the last few years, he’d wanted what his parents had shared—absolute love and trust. The clever Ms. Turner intrigued him—by turning the conversation on its ears with talk of trust and truth and deception.

“Careful,” he teased her, enjoying the idea he’d mussed Ms. prim, sexy, clever Turner. “I’ll have to add respect to liking you as well.”

“You respect my work.” There was no doubt in her voice. “But you’re saying something else. You respect George.”

“I do.” For Liam, it was a boon to trust a colleague’s work again.

“And you don’t respect too many people.”

“No comment.” Her scent was fainter but somehow more appealing in the confined space. Liam bet if he nuzzled the hollow of her neck he’d find a trace. Her usual hairstyle displayed her slender neck, giving her a look of delicate vulnerability. Tonight, he’d learned that, like him, she was a survivor. Lifting the hair from her neck, he blew gently on the exposed skin before leaning closer.

“Hands off, or you’ll be on the pavement with your thumb out,” she muttered.

“I thought it might encourage you to share more war stories of growing up. I especially like the ones where you and Anna swap.”

“Where do you live?” She took the main road towards the central business district.

“Pyrmont. On the Glebe side of the fish markets. Niall said Anna was devoted to you.”

She blew air though her nostrils like an enraged bull. “You make me sound like an invalid.”

“Or a recluse,” he replied. “Books and isolation.”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“Pax. Books and isolation are part of my routine as well.” Liam stared straight ahead. “You picked me as a loner.”

“I have a routine.”

“Part-time at the library when you live with Anna, and part-time at an unknown cottage where you write.” He recited the little he’d learned.

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