Page 49 of And Then There Was the One
“Yes,” she said slowly.
“Andwe don’t want to leap in with the accusations, do we? We want her to trust us?”
“We do,” she said, summoning her patience.
“Andwe know that her favorite thing on earth is books—”
“Well,” Georgie said, out of some sense of fairness, “I don’t know that we can assume that, just because she’s a librarian. She might have other interests.”
“Cats and cardigans, yes. And, apparently, illicit love affairs with local government figures.”
“Sebastian,what is your point?”
“Ah, yes.” He brightened. “Iam going to pose as a Murder Tourist, eager to join her book club.”
“You what?”
“Think about it, Georgie! We’ll pop round her cottage—apologize for calling unexpectedly—flatter her a bit, talk about some detective novels, profess to bedesperateto join this week’s meeting—and, along the way, we’ll see what information we can weasel out of her.”
“I don’t know why you think she’s suddenly going to spill her secrets and confess an illicit affair, just because you pretend to want to join the—whatever it is they call themselves.”
“The Book Clue Crew,” he said promptly, and Georgie shuddered.
“And to answer your question,” he added, “people… tell me things.” He spread his hands in a gesture to imply that he didn’t understand it, either. “I noticed it first when I was at university, but when I started working for Fitzgibbons, I realized it could be an advantage. Once, Fitzgibbons was late for an appointment with a client—a wife who suspected her husband was unfaithful—and I had to keep her entertained. By the time Fitzgibbons arrived I’d given her a cup of tea and she’d told me every dark secret about her marriage. Things that she didn’t think were important, even, that I told Fitzgibbons later, that helped him track down the husband and catch him in the act. And ever since then, I’ve realized that… well, a lot of people are just… lonely. And if someone lends them a sympathetic ear, they’re willing to tell that person just about anything.”
Georgie watched him as he spoke, his eyes drifting away from hers to land on Egg’s supine form. Belatedly, she became aware of the fact that her knees were beginning to protest this treatment, and she clambered gracelessly to her feet,trying not to resent the fact that Sebastian followed suit in a vastly more elegant fashion. Despite how bumbling and idiotic she’d—incorrectly—thought him when she first met him, she’d never failed to appreciate the sheer physical grace of him. He was a man who looked to have been built for motion—tall and fit, with the sort of lean muscle she associated with tennis players. He never moved without looking certain of where he was going; even the simple act of rising from a crouch seemed graceful, like a choreographed dance.
He gazed down at her, so handsome and golden in the sunshine that it made her catch her breath. Just as she’d never been terribly bothered about her own appearance, so, too, had she always viewed handsome men with some suspicion. They were all flash, little substance—not to be trusted. Had she not believed more or less precisely that of Sebastian? And yet now, when she let herself move past the fact of his handsomeness, and instead merely appreciated it…
Looking at him made something in her chest tighten.
“Don’t look at me that way,” he murmured, his eyes crinkling a bit at the corners as he continued to gaze down at her.
“What way?” she managed, hating that the words came out the slightest bit breathless.
“Like you want me to kiss you,” he said, not breaking eye contact, and if she’d thought her chest felt tight a moment before, she properly struggled for breath now.
“I would think,” she managed after a moment, “thatyou, of all people, would not be one to complain about that.”
“I don’t know,” he said, leaning toward her, close enough that, with his height advantage, she had to tilt her head backslightly to meet his eyes. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were. “I hate to mention it, but I haverathergot the impression that my, ahem, romantic history is a bit distasteful to you, Georgie.”
His tone was teasing, but Georgie realized that he was serious—he was asking her a question.
And with only a single moment’s hesitation, she said, “I might change my opinion on that matter, if all that practice proves to have been worth it.”
And, taking that for the invitation it was, he leaned down and kissed her.
Georgie had kissed people before—first out of scientific curiosity, to see what all the fuss was about, but then, too, because she wanted to kiss the person in question. And the kissing had been nice. Enjoyable. Not worth throwing one’s life away for, as the heroines had done in some of the romances Abigail tore through at a frightening pace (and which Georgie occasionally snuck off the shelf to read in the privacy of her turret), but still a pleasant enough experience.
This, though, was not pleasant.
This—the feeling of his mouth on hers and his hand coming to cup her cheek, the press of his thumb against her jaw, tilting her face to precisely the angle he wanted; the feeling of his arm curving around her waist, pulling her toward him—
Well, “pleasant” was certainly not strong enough a word.
She stepped closer to him, fisting her hands in the fabric of that ridiculous, soft jumper, feeling the heat of his skin, the muscles of his abdomen tightening when she pressed her palm flat against him, and his arm snaked around her waist, pinning her to him. His tongue was at her lips, and then stealinginside her mouth, and a pulse beat low and heavy in her stomach.
No, this wasn’t pleasant. Or polite. It was… consuming.
