Page 99 of Where the Heart Leads
Five minutes ticked past, then Alert smoothly rose, went to the French door and opened it. He stepped through, looked about, then closed the door behind him, slipped a key into the outside lock and turned it. Then he walked away in the opposite direction to the one in which Smythe had gone.
The following afternoon, Inspector Basil Stokes of Scotland Yard paced back and forth above a shop filled with feminine fripperies. He’d been pacing for what seemed like hours—an eternity; outside the day was waning, the light fading. The girls downstairs had told him their mistress had left that morning, dressed in her “old clothes.” For the umpteenth time, Stokes cursed beneath his breath; if she didn’t return soon he was going to—
The irritating tinkle of the bell on the front door halted him in his tracks. Scowling, listening even though, after numerous frustrations, he fully expected to hear some female inquire about the right shade of velvet ribbon to match her pelisse, he waited…and finally,finally,heard the voice he’d been aching to hear.
His relief was real but fleeting, drowned beneath emotions much more powerful.
Scowling ferociously, he stalked to the head of the stairs. He was waiting there, hands on hips, when, after reassuring her apprentices and setting them back to work, Griselda—in her down-at-heels East End disguise—came hurrying up.
Looking up, she saw his face, blinked, and slowed, but then, lips setting firmly, she continued up. “Inspector Stokes—I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Obviously.” Jaw clenched, he fought to keep his voice low.“Where the devil have you been?”
Griselda blinked at him, studied him for a fraught moment—and bit back her instinctive reply: that that was none of his damned business. She did not appreciate being browbeaten by a towering, glowering hulk, in her own parlor, no less, but…
After a further moment of studying the storm roiling in his gray eyes, she instead—with entirely unfeigned curiosity—inquired, “Why do you want to know?”
He stared at her while the silence stretched…it seemed that with her perfectly reasonable question she’d pulled the rug out from under his temper, but then he glared. “Why?Why?You go out dressed like that”—he waved at her attire—“alone, and wander about the East End, and then you askwhyI’ve been pacing about this damned room for the last hour imagining all manner of ghastly fates befalling you, torturing myself with images of you in the hands of one of our blackguards?”
He paused. Realizing his tirade had been rhetorical—buying himself time—she nodded. “Yes. Exactly. Why have you been doing that?”
He blinked at her. His anger—even the pretense of it—faded from his eyes. “Because…” His voice died. He raised one hand; she wasn’t even sure he knew he did it. His fingers hovered by her cheek, close, but not touching. As if afraid to touch. Briefly he searched her eyes, as if he might find his answer there, then, failing, he swore softly and moved.
Caught her by the shoulders and hauled her to him, crushed her to him as he covered her lips with his.
She mentally gasped, grabbed his shoulder and clung, her fingers closing tightly in his coat as she hung on for dear life.
It was like being pulled into a whirlpool—of wants and needs, of desire and yearning.
And he called to her, effortlessly drew her until she was kissing him back, until she sank against him and gave him her mouth. And the turbulence within him eased.
Slackened as he controlled it, until instead of walking on the edge of a maelstrom, she found herself waltzing into pleasure.
The simple pleasure of a kiss tinged with something deeper, laced with banked desire, sweetened by caring.
Long minutes later, he lifted his head; he waited until she opened her eyes and met his to say, “That’swhy.”
Further words were superfluous.
She blinked, struggling to reorient herself in a world that had canted. “Ah…” It was her turn to lose the power of speech. She could feel the heat in her cheeks, knew they’d be rosy.
Slowly, his lips curved—gently, reassuringly. “As you haven’t yet slapped me, I take it you aren’t…averse to my interest.”
She blushed even harder, but forced her tongue to work. “No—I’m not…averse to any interest you might have.”
His distracting smile deepened. “Good.”
She wriggled and carefully eased out of his arms; he let her go, but reluctantly.
“Now,” he said, once more assuming a stern façade, “if you could answer my initial question?”
Griselda turned and walked to her favorite chair; she sat, frowning, trying to recall.
He sighed and sat in the armchair opposite. “Where the devil have you been?”
“Oh.” She brightened. “Yes. I went into the East End. I stopped by to see my father, then looked in on the Bushels—Black Lion Yard is more or less on my way.”
“How are they faring, the Bushels? And were the Wills boys there?”
