Page 29 of Someone to Watch Over Me
“No, it wasn’t,” he growled. He would laugh, too, if he weren’t hampered by a painful erection. Getting back into bed, he rolled to his stomach, buried his face in a pillow, and willed his fierce arousal to subside. Sensing that Vivien was approaching him, he lifted his head and gave her a warning stare. “Stay away from me—or I may decide to bed you anyway.”
“Yes, sir.” She sounded suspiciously meek. “Perhaps I’ll just gather my clothes and dress in the adjoining room.”
“Do that.” He dropped his head back to the pillow with an explosive sigh.
***
Vivien dressed in a rich blue gown of velvet and Italian corded silk, with long sleeves that were puffed at the top but close-fitting from the elbow to wrist. The ends of the sleeves were finished by a spill of crisp white Brussels lace, as was the high scooped neckline. Twisting awkwardly, Vivien fastened as many of the buttons in the back of the gown as she could reach, and resolved to ask Mary to help with the task later.
She unplaited her hair, combed her fingers through the rippling, braid-crimped locks, and moved to regard her reflection in an oval looking glass affixed to the damask-covered wall. The gown was becoming, enhancing the blue of her eyes and the unruly color that still flooded her cheeks.
As she thought of Grant in the next room, she expelled an unsteady breath. Her body was hot, her hands were cold, and she was glowing all over with a bewildering mixture of agitation and delight. Even now she wanted to go back to him, ask him to touch her again…let him take her beneath him.
She understood the mechanics of the act, but she had no memories of performing it and no real idea of what to do. All the unknowns made her distinctly nervous. Just now he had been so incredibly gentle, and she had very nearly surrendered herself to his experienced hands. No one, least of all she, could deny that Grant Morgan had appeal. But she did not love him. And some deep-seated instinct warned that the intimacy of lovemaking must be reserved for a man she loved very much. That feeling was entirely contrary to the way she had lived her life up until her accident.
Frustrated, Vivien pressed her hands to her head and groaned. She couldn’t blame Grant for suspecting that she was playing some kind of game. How else could her puzzling behavior be explained? She was a prostitute, and no one could change her nature overnight.
“Oh, why can’t I remember?” she said aloud, clenching her fists against her temples, pressing her knuckles hard against the throbbing of her pulse.
Grant dressed and left for Bow Street without eating or reading theTimes, without saying one word to Vivien. It was obvious that the housemaid had told the other servants about the scene in his bedroom that morning. Every one of them, including Mrs. Buttons, had treated him with a careful politeness that made him want to bite someone’s head off.
Entering number 4 Bow Street, he gave his coat to Mrs. Dobson. The atmosphere at headquarters was busy and quiet this morning, as Sir Ross Cannon was finishing the latest edition ofThe Hue and Cry. The weekly report was circulated to magistrates from one end of England to the other, containing details of unapprehended criminals and their foul deeds.
As Grant reached Cannon’s office, the magistrate appeared at the doorway and thrust a sheaf of paper and a pencil at him. “Good, you’re here,” Cannon said briskly. “Have a look at this. It’s going to the printers in ten minutes.”
Grant wedged his shoulder against the doorframe and rapidly scanned the document, scribbling a minor correction here and there. When the chore was finished, he ventured into Cannon’s office and found Keyes leafing through a procedural book. Dandified as usual, Keyes was dressed in moss-green trousers, an embroided cream brocade waistcoat, and a tailored brown coat. His throat was swathed in an intricate waterfall necktie that kept his chin propped high.
“Good morning,” Grant said, placingThe Hue and Cryon Cannon’s mahogany desk.
Keyes grunted noncommittally, having found the passage he sought. He read half a page, closed the book, and reinserted it among the others on the shelf.
In the meantime, Grant sat in the chair next to Cannon’s desk. Reaching into his coat pocket, he extracted the small leather-bound book he had found at Vivien’s town house and regarded it morosely. He had scanned every page repeatedly, searching for information. By now the lurid details should have lost their ability to shock, but the acts conveyed by the lines of delicate feminine script still gave him an uncomfortable crawling sensation. Every inflammatory word was stuck in his memory as if it had been nailed there.
“What are you reading?” Keyes inquired.
Grant responded with a brief, humorless laugh. “It’s not suitable for one of your tender years, Keyes.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” The older man plucked the book from Grant’s hand. As he opened the volume and read a page or two, his bushy eyebrows climbed his forehead like a pair of ascending spiders. “Filthy stuff,” he remarked, handing back the volume. “May I ask the identity of the author?”
Grant smiled grimly. “You don’t want to meet her, Keyes. She’s a tormenting witch. One smile from her can twist your insides like a rag mop.”
Although Keyes’s manner was deliberately causal, his hazel eyes were keen with interest. “This has to do with the bloat from the river, doesn’t it? She’s still alive—and you’re harboring her in your own home. I’ve heard the rumors.”
Grant leaned back in his chair, slanting an impassive stare at the Runner. “You should know better than to listen to rumors, Keyes.”
“Who is she?” the other man persisted. “Has she named her assailant?”
“Why such a fascination with my case?” Grant countered.
“I merely wish to offer my assistance if it’s needed,” Keyes said. “You’ve helped me a time or two, after all. You seem a touch defensive, lad…A simple question or two, and you scowl at me like a baited bear.”
“If I need your help, I’ll ask for it.”
“See that you do,” Keyes replied with a neutral smile, and left the office.
Grant sat brooding in silence. Keyes was right—hewasdefensive and ill tempered, as any other man in his position would be. When he was with Vivien, it was easy to forget who she really was and what she was capable of. Only when he was away from her did he see the situation in its true light. She was a courtesan, a woman who had proven herself incapable of love or fidelity. Someone had tried to kill her, most likely one of her legion of past lovers. His job was to find out who had assaulted her, and catch him. And then remove Vivien Duvall from his home and his life for good…before she ripped his heart out.
Sir Ross reappeared in the office and headed for the earthenware jug of coffee. At the same time, his cat Chopper leisurely walked through the doorway, jumped up to the unoccupied corner of the oak desk, and reclined on her side, surveying Grant solemnly.
