Page 47 of The Avenging Angel and the Spy
He regarded her with astonishment that soon became a flash of some more heated emotion. When he released her wrists, she insinuated her hands between them, caressing his shoulders. Undoing the top button of his shirt, she slipped her fingers inside the linen, the crisp fabric in marked contrast to the warm pulsing flesh of his chest beneath.
“You don’t fight fair, Angel,” he said.
“Alas, sir,” she whispered. “I am but a poor weak woman. I haven’t a gentleman’s notions of honor.”
“The problem is, neither have I.”
His arms closed roughly about her, his mouth seeking hers, claiming her with a searing kiss. He shifted onto his back, pulling her on top of him, but Belle felt no rush of triumph, for she was no longer in any more control of the situation than he.
Like a reckless child, she had played amongst the embers, and fire is what she had found. She tasted of it on Sinclair’s lips, felt it in the heat of his body beneath her. As her lips parted, inviting the probing sweetness of Sinclair’s tongue, those same flames flickered to life inside of her.
She should stop him, but how she had needed this. Last night had been so endless, she still felt the chill of it in her soul. Sinclair was all that was warmth, all that was life, stirring in her desires she had too long ignored.
He made an effort to put her from him, although she could tell from the tremor coursing through his arms what effort it cost him. “Angel, I am sorry?—”
“No!” Recklessly she pressed herself atop him. “Don’t stop. Please. I have been alone for so long.”
Her plea dissolved whatever resistance he had mustered. With a low groan, he reclaimed her lips. She buried her fingers inhis hair, clutching him to her, prolonging the heady sensation of the kiss, for once casting caution to the winds. Her whole life had been a gamble, so why was she so afraid to take one more risk—that perhaps with Sinclair, this time might be different.
The apartment fell silent except for the crackle of the fire, the more raging inferno Belle felt building inside her. Sinclair was just beginning to undo the braided loops of her spencer when they heard the click of the latch on the outer door. The sound, soft as it was, seemed to crack through the apartment with the force of a pistol shot.
She and Sinclair exchanged a startled glance. The clatter of footsteps on the marble floor of the antechamber beyond terminated their mounting passion as effectively as if the casement had been flung open, dousing them with chilling rain.
Sinclair was the first to react. Cursing under his breath, he scrambled to his feet. Grasping Belle by the wrist, he hauled her up after him. She had time to do no more than draw in a composing breath and attempt to smooth back her hair before Paulette peeked into the drawing room, rainwater yet beading upon the covered basket in her hand.
Paulette’s lips rounded in momentary surprise, then her insolent gaze swept from Belle’s disheveled hair to the undone buttons of Sinclair’s shirt. Belle was annoyed to feel a wave of heat course into her cheeks.
“I hurried to finish the marketing,chérie, for fear you might need me for something else,” Paulette said, “but I see that my return is most out of time.”
Sinclair glared at her, but Belle straightened, gathering up the ends of her dignity.
“Not at all. It is fortunate you are back so soon. I will be going out tonight and need you to help me with, my hair and gown.”
“Certainment.” There was mockery in the curtsy Paulette made. She raked Sinclair with a hungry gaze. “Mycongratulations, chérie. You have thebon chance. Do not allow me to disturb you. I will be in the kitchen.”
Smirking, Paulette backed out of the room, leaving an awkward silence behind her. Belle turned to face Sinclair, but there was no question of resuming her place in his embrace. Paulette’s return had effectively shattered whatever longings had pulsed between them. They regarded each other for a moment, both feeling somewhat foolish.
“Good fortune, indeed!” Sinclair said, echoing Paulette’s remark. “The pert trollop! Though perhaps we ought to thank her for the intrusion. We appear to have gotten somewhat carried away with our role-playing.”
“So it would seem, Mr. Carrington.” Belle managed to force a smile.
“I am sorry, Angel. I usually have a little more finesse than to attempt to make love upon the drawing room carpet. I don’t know what the devil got into me.”
His apology was all that was gallant, but Belle would have none of it. She had ever borne responsibility for her own actions.
“I was the devil,” she said. “I deliberately provoked you.”
“But I am sure you never meant matters to go that far?—”
“Don’t try to tell me what I meant. It is not my way to arouse a man and then play the part of outraged virtue.”
“And it is not my way to compromise a lady’s reputation, either.”
“Compromise? Good God, Sinclair.” Belle essayed a bitter laugh. “You talk as though I were some sort of an innocent—which you well know I am not.”
“What you are”—he cupped her chin with his fingers, forcing her to meet his gaze—”is a woman with a most vulnerable heart.”
His words, the tender look that accompanied them, pierced her with a feeling so poignant it was nearly akin to a physical pain. Belle thought it would be far easier to stand naked beforehim than have him peer into the most hidden recesses of her soul.
