Page 60 of Where the Heart Leads
She uttered a soft sound—neither moan, sob, nor gasp but an expression of all three, a sound of encouragement he had no difficulty interpreting; he responded by letting his hands, clamped about her hips, ease and slide down, around, filling his palms with her firm curves. Fingers flexing, he moved her against him, suggestively, provocatively.
And felt her melt.
Felt all resistance, even that telltale tension in her spine, evaporate.
She was his for the taking, and they both knew it.
One small hand slid from his nape to his cheek, pressing along it as she kissed him—every bit as wantonly, as blatantly, as he wished.
Turning, he trapped her against the desk; the edge hit the backs of her thighs. The files littering the expanse were no longer relevant; he reached out to push them away—
Click, click, click.
The clack of heels approaching along the tiled corridor jerked them both back into the world—the one encompassed by her office with its open archway, and the anteroom beyond with its open door.
They broke apart. Barnaby stiffly rounded the desk and dropped into the chair he’d earlier occupied.
Penelope pulled her chair—which had rolled away—back to her desk and sat in it, and grabbed the three files left on her blotter.
She looked up as Mrs. Keggs appeared in the archway.
Mrs. Keggs took in the restacked files, then the three in Penelope’s hand. “Well, you have worked like Trojans if you’ve got through all those. Only three?”
Penelope nodded. “We’ve just finished.” Locating her reticule on the floor by her feet, she picked it up and rose. “And yes, there’s only three. I’ll have to visit them and see if they’re possible targets for these villains.” She glanced at the clock. “I’ll take the files with me and do that tomorrow.”
Barnaby got to his feet.
Mrs. Keggs smiled brightly. “Indeed. You’ll be wanting your beds, I’ve no doubt. I’ll lock up after you.”
Penelope didn’t meet Barnaby’s eyes as she walked past him. She paused by the hook on which she’d hung her evening cloak; before she could lift it down, his hand appeared and did so.
Behind her, he shook it out and draped it over her shoulders. “Have you got everything?”
His breath brushed the sensitive skin beneath her ear. Her senses skittered; she grimly hauled them back.
“I believe so.” She managed a smile for Mrs. Keggs—her unwitting savior. The three files in one hand, her reticule in the other, her cloak over her shoulders—and Barnaby Adair at her heels—she walked calmly up the long corridor to the foyer, farewelled Mrs. Keggs, then, head high, walked out into the night.
Throughout the subsequent journey back to Mount Street, she remained silent. There was absolutely nothing she could think of to say. She wasn’t sure she appreciated his tact in not saying one damned word, either—especially as she sensed he was amused by her silence.
She did, however, have a great deal to think about courtesy of that thoroughly unwise kiss. Not the one he’d given her, initiating the episode, but the one she—witlessly and wantonly—had pressed on him.
That and what had followed were definitely things she needed to analyze.
Exchanging minimal words, they parted at the door in Mount Street, after he’d verified it had, indeed, been left on the latch, allowing her to enter without rousing the household. The last sight she had of him as she closed the door revealed a certain knowing smile on his face; she would have loved to wipe it off, but decided ignoring it was the wiser course.
Lighting the candle left for her on the hall table, she picked it up and trailed up the stairs…wondering when her wits were going to return to her enough for her to decide where she now stood with respect to Barnaby Adair.
11
Penelope had expected to spend at least a few hours of what had remained of the night reassessing her position with Barnaby Adair. Instead, the instant her head had made contact with her pillow, she’d fallen deeply asleep. Unfortunately, waking with a smile on her lips hadn’t improved her mood.
But it had lent steel to her decision.
She was increasingly certain that all those little touches that might initially have been instinctive were now deliberate. That he knew the effect he had on her and was intentionally playing on her senses.
That he was, in fact, hunting her.
That conclusion had deepened her resolve. After the previous night’s kiss—which shouldn’t have occurred at all, and how she’d come to be so brainless as to recklessly let herself enjoy it she didn’t know—had proved beyond doubt that the only way to deal with him henceforth was to avoid him.
