Page 34 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“Seven years ago, wewereenemies.”
It was an arrogant brick in their bridge of trust. He couldn’t regret saying it. They needed absolute truth, though his reward was her frosty demeanor.
A gusting sigh and, “I am trying, Miss MacDonald.”
She looked out the window, her neck a pale kissable column.
“I suppose complete understanding is too much to ask.”
The smallest crack broke her words. Her need stripped bare. A gratifying swell spread inside him, warm as a summer breeze. The goddess of Swan Lane had visited him for more than entry to the Marquess of Swynford’s house.
“I didn’t know you wanted my understanding.”
Her mouth twisted bitterly. “Of course I don’t want your understanding.”
“You have my support to take the dagger.” It was a guarded offering, a beginning.
“Very magnanimous of you.”
Miss MacDonald’s gaze consumed a distant place outside. She was probably counting the minutes until Vauxhall Garden’s fireworks burned their last dazzling light. Then she’d be done with this torturous meeting. He half expected the interview to end with insincere apologies, and their bargain to remain undone.
She was still staring at the world outside when she said, “Take off your queue.”
“What?”
Miss MacDonald was sylphlike and fair, her diamond-white-paste earbobs catching streetlights. The art of distraction. Keep him focused on a shiny piece to throw him off balance. Fielding would do the same.
“You heard me.” Her earbobs twinkled prettily. “Take it off. I want to see you with your hair untied.”
“That’s hardly a question.”
Her feline gaze met his. “Would you untie your queue for me?”
The carefully worded dare snaked through him. A choice to swim above her challenge or sink into soft, deft provocation came with it.Ask anythinghad been the nature of the game, its scope unsketched. His hands knew the answer. They rose slowly to his nape while she watched. Arousal made his arms cumbersome and his fingers clumsy. He untied the black silk ribbon mooring his queue. Blunt-cut hair fell forward and brushed his jaw.
Appreciation glinted in hazel eyes. “That’s better.”
Her voice caressed him and a shudder followed. The black silk was lustrous and slippery between his fingers, like sex.
“Do you want to tie me up again?”
“Is that your question?” Her smile slid sideways. “It is your turn.”
For a heart-thudding moment, he considered it. Blood coursed his veins, honeyed and thick.Caution, man, caution.
He heeded the warning in his head and stuffed the ribbon, half in, half out of his outer coat pocket.
“You would be a formidable barrister in court.”
“Well, we both know that will never happen.”
Miss MacDonald took an unashamed survey of his hair, his jaw, his mouth, her gaze tormenting him wherever she looked. Pretty red lips parted, a bold slash of sin in moonlight. He could almost taste her almond face powder on his tongue.
“Is tying up men a preference of yours?” Nostrils flaring, he had to know.
“Is that your question?”
“It is.”
