Page 3 of Dalliances & Devotion (The Truitts 2)

Snubbed him, after talking his ear off for multiple meals, all the while caressing his fingers under the table. Not to mention the kisses. And strokes. And other touches. And the boundary-pushing, salacious letters. Not that it mattered—he’d made an error, that’s all. Thought she had a different role in his story. Thought she was different. His mistake.

David stomped over to the seat across from her and sat, elbows on his knees, his spectacles slipping a bit down his nose. Not staring at her.

Fine, staring at her. Because even though he should know better than to be bamboozled by her charms, the woman was a distraction.

Amalia Truitt was beautiful. All shiny cinnamon-colored hair and flushed cheeks and the plumpest scarlet lips ever created. No photograph she’d sent him ever did her justice.

A prickly heat washed over him. He was shmendrek—an idiot. A hapless idiot. An idiot who should’ve known better then, and needed to be reminded of it now. No dalliances, no Amalia, no anything but work.

Except, just when his goals were finally in sight, she was back, jeopardizing his destiny. He was supposed to be like Joseph, the star of his favorite story as a boy. The man who traveled to a strange land to become an advisor to the king, and saved his people. The promotion could provide that opportunity.

If Amalia didn’t ruin it somehow. The way she ruined what little bit of hope he once had of a normal life.

Ah well. Normal lives were for the boring.

“You really don’t need to be here.” She stared out the window, nose near touching the glass, her hair obscuring her high lace collar.

He mumbled something that resembled, “It’s my job,” even as his mind traveled everywhere but the professional place it needed to be.

I loathe everything my mother’s relatives buy me. How is one supposed to leave a trail of perfume down one’s neck for a man to kiss, if it’s covered?

Oy. Why did she have to be so descriptive in the damned letters? Potiphar’s wife had nothing on her. He needed to picture Thad and the shade of purple his face turned at the idea anyone dared to disparage, let alone threaten his precious baby sister. He owed the man for, well, everything. Leering at Amalia, instead of being on high alert, was no way to repay that debt.

Not to mention her other brother.

Simon.

David gripped his wrist and squeezed, the bone digging into the crook between his thumb and fingers as he willed those memories back. That day in July. The smoke and the gunfire and the screams and the shallow grave in the woods.

No. That had no place here. This was a job and he needed to focus.

“I’m being paid quite well and your family would be livid if I took their money without acting in accordance with my professional expertise.” David shifted in his seat.

Quite comfortable, actually. Once he got his promotion, he’d have to buy himself a chair equally as grand. Yes, money was the root of all evil, but even the good could use a soft place to rest. Once in a while. Besides, he’d be supporting a craftsman. Or something.

“Yes, and I’m sure your expertise is quite impressive.” Amalia sniffed, but didn’t turn and face him. “In all seriousness, David, you can leave.”

“Someone threatened to kill you.” He drew the words out as slow as he could, mimicking his partner, Will, at his most placid and nonchalant.

“It wasn’t so much of a ‘threat,’ but rather a wish for my death.” She clutched the handle of the large black case so tight her knuckles turned white. He squinted behind his frames as his senses woke, the ones that kept him alive so many times on the battlefield. What was she hiding?

“I think your interpretation is a tad optimistic.” He angled himself close enough to whisper in her ear. “This isn’t a game or a lesson your brother and I cooked up to scare some sense into you.” Though, judging by her incautious behavior with the door, a bit of schooling in discretion wouldn’t have been the worst idea.

“Even Thad isn’t that mean.” She stuck out her lower lip and squinted at him. “And I know his handwriting. Yours too for that matter.”

Did she now? Hot liquid stirred in his veins. He pulled off his spectacles and rubbed his brow. “I would’ve written something more creative. As you well know.”

A twang nicked at his intestines. He should never have engaged all those years ago. And, moreover, he should’ve burned all her letters, instead of rereading each of them before every dangerous mission the union army—or rather, Major Allen—sent him on.

After he completed the job, when he gained power he could use to make a real difference, he’d light a celebratory flame, be free of the memories of the shallow and spoiled teenager who saw him as a mere diversion—a plaything to be used.

David drew closer, invaded her space like he did with suspects. Hints of magnolia and citrus and spice, the same perfume that she’d dabbed into the corners of her letters, welcomed him. A signature scent, or whatever nonsense she called it in the columns that he most certainly never read nor clipped and saved. “No more holding hands with strangers under the table?”

Amalia pulled back and shook her head so hard her curls bounced. “I was a child and an imbecile, but I learned from my mistakes and grew up. No more teasing innocent boys.”

“I thought I proved I wasn’t so innocent. Many times.” He pulled back and tutted a little at her. “So no ill-advised flirtations, only marriages?” She flinched and tightened her arms around her midsection. A familiar spark lit in David’s brain. He made a show of retreating inside the chair, but instead of reclining, he leaned forward, chin in his hands, intent on her. “Speaking of which...”

“Neither of my husbands would’ve done this.” She flipped her hair.

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