Page 81 of The Money Man
“Leland and the Feds have traced another hacking attack to Barsky. Even if they can’t prove he’s guilty of it, they’ve got him nailed for BalanceTrakR, thanks to you,” Tully continued. “They’re very grateful.”
“The gratitude goes both ways. I want him kept in jail for a long, long time. Although I think I’m even happier that Ivan’s in captivity. He was really scary.”
“Yeah, he’s done some things that I won’t share with you. Those they will able to prosecute him for. Truth is, I prefer dumb thugs like Ivan to smart psychopaths like Barsky. The smart ones are harder to catch.” She saw the guilt cloud his face. “And a lot more dangerous.”
She held up her gloved hand. “Please don’t apologize again.” Tully was still beating himself up over the fact that she’d been taken hostage on his watch.
She squeezed his arm as they reached the carriage. He carefully helped her into the high vehicle, where he put a hot brick under her feet and spread a blanket over her lap before he closed the door. The October chill invaded the red velvet upholstered interior, so she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. The carriage rocked as Tully sprang into the driver’s seat and set the horses in motion.
Her heart was racing with curiosity and excitement as the carriage swayed along behind the trotting team. They continued up the tree-lined roadway before turning onto a stone-paved surface that ran alongside a grand fountain filled with water-spouting statues. They turned again to pull up in front of a stone mansion with a wide set of steps leading to a cathedral-size double door adorned with ornate metalwork.
It swung open to allow light and faint strains of music to spill out. A man dressed in the elaborate livery of a footman, with satin breeches, a coat embellished with gold braid, and a white wig, came down the steps to open the carriage door. As he offered his hand to help her down, she saw the tortoiseshell glasses and realized that it was Leland.
“You should wear a wig more often,” she teased as she climbed down.
“It itches,” he said with a grimace. But it suited his aristocratic bone structure.
“I guess there’s no point in asking you what’s going on either,” she said as he escorted her up the steps.
“None whatsoever.” He led her through the door and into a grand hallway with an inlaid parquet floor, a huge bronze chandelier, and not another person in sight. “However, you’ll be happy to hear that BalanceTrakR is about to become a legitimate accounting service. The FBI approved KRG’s takeover of the software today.”
“That’s wonderful news! A lot of small business owners will be thrilled.” She’d had to transfer her own clients back onto their old accounting systems while KRG and the FBI worked out a way to keep BalanceTrakR up and running for the thousands of customers who’d purchased it. The software was such a good system that the clients—including Alice—wanted to keep using it. Although it was somewhat off mission, KRG had proposed to make it part of their Small Business Initiative. As Derek said, this was another way to help small entrepreneurs.
Leland led her across the beautiful wood floor, where he threw open another door, bringing them onto a landing at the top of a grand staircase. “Miss Alice Thurber,” he announced in a stentorian drawl before giving her a wink, bowing low, and retreating.
She had an impression of ornate gold frames around huge paintings, gilded sconces with flickering lights, and a swirl of motion and color, but what drew her eye was the man waiting for her at the bottom of the richly carpeted steps, his hands behind his back, his face lifted to hers.
As she came slowly down the stairs, her dress trailing on the oriental carpet, her heart felt like it was going to swell right out of her chest. Derek looked magnificent in a blue cutaway coat that emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow waist. He wore tightly fitting tan pantaloons that outlined the powerful muscles in his thighs while his calves were encased in gleaming, knee-high Hessian boots with gold tassels. His cravat was snowy white, his waistcoat cream brocade. A gold watch fob dangled from his waist.
He was every one of her favorite Regency heroes brought to life. Happiness and anticipation quivered through her, making her breath quicken. She hoped she didn’t spill out of her low bodice.
As she reached the last step, he bowed, the blond streaks in his hair catching flickers of light. “Miss Thurber, a pleasure to see you this evening.”
“Mr. Killion, you are too kind.” She remembered Dawn’s instructions about her curtsy and inclined her head only slightly.
He held out his hand while his eyes traveled over her neck and shoulders, scorching a trail across her skin. “May I have this dance?”
“I believe I’m free, sir.” She laid her gloved hand against his palm and felt the strength of him when his fingers closed over hers.
As he led her onto the black-and-white-marble floor, she realized that the motion she’d registered in her peripheral vision was a projection of dancers, all wearing Regency dress, twirling over the walls and paintings while the strains of a waltz filled the room.
“A waltz. How daring!” she said, getting into the spirit of the scene.
“I wish to touch more than just your gloves.” His voice and his eyes told her how much more. “I want to feel the way your body moves against my hand.”
“Mr. Killion, that is most improper.” She tapped his shoulder reprovingly with her fan.
“Most,” he agreed.
She laughed with a breathless sound, their silly banter sending desire on a slow slide through her.
He took her shawl, her fan, and her reticule and tossed them on a nearby chair. For a moment, he simply stood and looked at her, the skim of his gaze making her skin tingle everywhere.
Then he took her right hand, using it to pull her in closer to him before his right arm circled her waist so that her skirts brushed the top of his boots.
“La, Mr. Killion, you will scandalize the gossips if we dance this close together.”
“Let ’em talk,” he said, looking down at her with a smile of utter tenderness. “Soon I hope they’ll have no right to complain.”
