the battle of wills was just beginning. “I said I needed more time.”
“I no longer believe you, if I ever did. You are the man’s mistress and you have the opportunity to manipulate him sexually. And yet you are reluctant to do so. Why? My patience is wearing thin.”
“You were expecting me to run from your arms to his tonight?” Devon threw back the coverlet and rose boldly from the bed to slide into her slippers. Despite her all but transparent gown, Blackburn seemed unperturbed by her near nakedness.
“I’m certainly not asking you to do anything you haven’t done before,” he said with infuriating nonchalance. He had absolutely no idea that she was immobilized by the hideous choice that he was forcing her to make.
Furious, she stalked past him to the foot of the bed. “And you thought that the damn scenario you created in the ballroom this evening would somehow help. Did you think that Le Comte, maddened by jealousy, would calmly hand over the score to you in exchange for my undying devotion, once I came to his bed from yours?”
Two seconds passed and his dark gaze did a slow burn down the length of her body.
“You weren’t coming from my bed.”
The words were said in a barely audible growl and she felt an awareness as intense as a stroke of flesh on flesh. Her knees weakened as heat pooled between her legs.
In self-defense, she reached into a wardrobe and jerked out a satin robe.
“That garment is not suitable for where we’re going.”
“We, Blackburn, aren’t going anywhere,” she said with finality, shrugging into the robe and tying the narrow sash firmly around her waist. “All you have to do is give me more time and I’ll get the damn score.”
“I don’t see de Maupassant nestled between your sheets. So let’s just say your time has run out.” Blackburn lounged on the bed, watching his quarry frantically looking for ways out of her maze.
“I don’t need another ultimatum.” She firmed her jaw and motioned toward the door hoping to usher him from her room. “Tomorrow we’ll see if that public charade you orchestrated has had the desired effect on Le Comte. Maybe he’ll present us with the score on a silver platter. Though I doubt it,” she ended caustically.
“For once we’re in agreement.” Blackburn slipped her revolver neatly into his waistband. “And that’s why you’re coming with me.”
How could she have forgotten just how sleekly he moved, lethal and quiet, as he closed the distance between the bed and the door in the space of a held breath? She steeled herself for his touch, feeling like a ripe fruit about to burst. His scent, a faint hint of sandalwood. Then a strong hand enclosed her wrist like iron, convincingly stalling her escape.
His voice was rough, his breath soft on her ear. “I don’t like it when people renege on their promises, Mademoiselle. And I don’t make idle threats. You failed to produce the Eroica this evening—there are consequences.”
A heady combination of barely restrained desire, fear and mistrust scented the air. She tried to pull away, a jolt of streaming pleasure mixed with panic rising like a tide.
“Surely you don’t mean to hand me over to the authorities tonight.” She stared at him, barely comprehending. “What use would I be to you then? You’d be no further ahead, no closer to getting the score.”
“Didn’t you think I might have my own motives for participating in this drama of yours, Devon?” Blackburn continued, his question purely rhetorical. Her name fell from his lips and lingered tantalizingly in the hostile air between them.
She held her ground. “Your motives are of no interest to me.”
His smile was more taunting than comforting. “Probably your first mistake.” Without releasing her wrist, he quickly searched the cavern of her wardrobe and withdrew a dark green pelisse.
“So, go ahead—throw me to the authorities.” Despite the brave words, Devon now tried to shrug away from him. She watched in disbelief as he silently threw the garment over her shoulders and propelled them both toward the window. Opening the shutters and then the casements, he lifted and then deposited her effortlessly outside on the small balcony overlooking the interior courtyard twenty feet below.
The night was soft and she found herself pinned against a frame as hard and unyielding as granite. She waited, this time hanging on desperately and with a sinking in her stomach.
She couldn’t see his face but felt his mouth touch her temple, her ear. “I am the authorities, Devon—as you’ll soon learn.”
Her heart shuddered and then began a nervous staccato. Dear God. She pictured a dark, damp cell and worse, torture, the rack, bread and water…Her thoughts careened out of control. Hanging would be preferable.
“I shall scream,” she warned in a small voice, trying hard to ignore the rise and fall of his warm chest against her back.
“No you won’t. Somehow I don’t think you’d like to attract your lover’s attention at the moment.”
Damn. She hated it when Blackburn referred to Le Comte as her lover. Tamping down her anger and fear, she focused on what was sure to be a hard landing on the flagstones of the courtyard below. The Frenchman’s concert festivities had concluded and not a creature stirred in the almost preternatural silence of this wealthiest section of London.
Blackburn’s quiet, deadly calm was more terrifying than what could possibly wait beyond the courtyard and yet she fought the disconcerting urge to turn around and cling to him. He held her patiently as though expecting a struggle and then, taking advantage of her surprising docility, levered them both over the ironwork balustrade to dangle for a dizzying second ten feet over the flagstones below.
They landed soundlessly alongside clinging ivy.
Ready to run, she kicked backward and felt her slippered foot make contact with his shin.
“Not good enough.” His words caressed the nape of her neck, as sensuous as the inky air surrounding them, and she answered with a rebellious but hopelessly futile jerk in his arms. She could feel his smile in the dark.
Fury boiled to the surface. This escapade of his was going to cost. “This is positively medieval. Where are you taking me and why? Why even bother with a parody of justice? Why not just kill me here on the spot?” No answer except for his unyielding force, dragging her toward the back garden of Le Comte’s luxurious town house.
Slipping by the deserted servants’ entrance lit by a single torch, they rounded a corner where the fine gravel stone gave way to a meticulously manicured lawn. In the darkness and only for a moment, Devon thought they had stumbled upon a bronzed colossus, but with a flick of its proud head at the sight of its master, the horse came to life.
Blackburn was past listening to her. Instead he heaved her up into the saddle and mounted behind her while, as though accustomed to such nightly adventures, the huge steed, rooted to the spot, waited for its master’s signal. Enveloping them both in the caped greatcoat that had been secured in one of the saddle pouches, Blackburn pulled Devon firmly against him. She could feel the steady beat of his heart through the fine fabric of his evening clothes.
They rode hard, a half ton of steaming horseflesh
