her eyes were spectacular, as compelling as gathering storm clouds, he noted distractedly, while continuing to work surreptitiously to free his bound hands and legs.
“You’ve gone to considerable trouble to have me transported here—what with the drama of opiates and ruffians, so you’ll forgive my impatience,” he said trying to get her to say the words he wanted to hear.
She looked at him carefully, smoothing the leather of her gloves as though the motion helped her come to an important decision. “I believe I’ll explain what you need to know later,” she said slowly and unpleasantly. And with her free hand pulling her cloak more closely around her she made a motion as though to rise from her seat. “In the interim, you’re coming with me.”
“Just like that?” He raised a brow speculatively. “This is becoming more and more diverting, so much so that I can almost forgive the brutality of the previous evening. Now tell me,” he leaned forward slightly as though being asked to raise the stakes in a polite game of whist, “why should I?”
“I have something you want.”
“You are an attractive woman…”
Anger steeled her voice as she rose from the stool in a swirl of wool and silk. “Don’t be obtuse. There’s much more at stake here which I’m sure you know.”
Blackburn shrugged, feeling implausibly relaxed in his rumpled evening clothes. Despite an urge to destroy the woman in front of him, along with the man who sent her, he was actually enjoying himself. “Why don’t you tell me what it is, then,” he asked almost gently, as if he’d ever been denied anything in his life. “I’m getting rather bored. I should like to think you’d get to the point in the next minute or so.”
“You actually believe there’s cause for humor here?” She cocked her pistol for emphasis, the silver glinting in the dim light. “I suggest that you take this meeting quite seriously, Blackburn, because you have a critically important decision to make. You either go with me willingly tonight—or I leave you here to languish indefinitely. I somehow suspect these accommodations are much too damp and dark for your liking.”
“I’m truly intrigued now, Mademoiselle.” She couldn’t mistake the mockery in his voice.
“Introductions are hardly in order,” she conceded, her full lips tightening, as though preparing herself for an unwelcome task. “I know who you are. And you, no doubt, know who I am. More important, we’re after the same thing.”
“And that might be what exactly?” If Devon Caravelle had been watching more closely, she would have noticed that his smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“Beethoven’s Eroica score. I know who has it.”
The unspoken name swung between them like a noose.
Le Comte Henri de Maupassant.
His eyes never left her face, but his expression was deliberately indolent, almost careless of the situation. “So you may be aware of the Eroica—but why should I be impressed? First off, you’re Brendan Clifton’s daughter, Devon Caravelle. And second, it should be easy for Le Comte’s current mistress to ascertain its whereabouts.”
“I expected that you would know who I am,” she countered, not bothering to deny or confirm her position of mistress to the Frenchman.
It wasn’t as though he was expecting her to blush or demur, for God’s sake, yet Blackburn fought back a sense of irrational disappointment, as though her association with de Maupassant should in some way matter to him.
“The fact that you’re his new mistress is widely known—no news there,” he said harshly, giving himself a mental shake. “I also know that you’re probably with the Frenchman because of the score.” Surprisingly, the words left a bitter aftertaste.
She rose from the stool, switching the pistol to her left hand, her eyes guarded, her shoulders braced. “Those details are unimportant.” Each of her words was as hard as diamonds. “What is important is that you are—unfortunately for you—integral to discovering what lies entangled within some of the most beautiful music ever composed.”
“I think I’m beginning to understand now,” he interrupted. “You and Le Comte need me.” In this strange conversation, they had come to an impasse, the air between them crackling with a strange and uncomfortable current.
“That’s probably a fair assessment.” She kept a firm grip on the pistol and he knew that this encounter was costing her some effort. He could see it in the rigidity of her spine, the resolute set of her chin. Her every move was calculated, controlled and yet something about her suggested emotions, and a bold sensuality, held closely in check.
Her eyes pinned him to his place on the bunk. “I will secure the Eroica—which you have been unable to do so far—and then under my direction, at an undisclosed location, we will discover what secrets the score holds.”
Just like that.
Inwardly, Blackburn shook his head, amazed. The idea of supervision held little appeal for him, reinforcing his growing suspicion that Devon Caravelle was either arrogant beyond belief, reciting from a prepared agenda, or unwilling to recognize exactly whom she was up against. In response, he assumed his best imitation of the dissipated rogue, shifting his long legs out in front of him while loosening the cords binding his booted feet—as if he had all evening to discuss his options.
“But why should I?” he murmured insolently. Then lying through his teeth, he added casually, “Le Comte and I move in some of the same circles, though I can’t claim any direct association with him. And forgive me if this question is crude, but quite frankly, what do I get out of this?”
Devon Caravelle smiled without humor. “From what I understand, you’ve been after the Eroica for some time. So now’s your chance. And once our work is done, you can report back to your Wellington that all is well for all I care. What could be more straightforward for somebody like you?”
“Hardly straightforward—for somebody like me,” he said in a warm gravelly voice inviting confidence, yet at odds with the frost in his gaze. “Theoretically, if we were to do it your way, I would help you decipher the code and then have you relinquish the results to de Maupassant.” Blackburn’s gaze was mocking. “Doesn’t make much sense to me. And more important, why should I trust you—and the Frenchman?”
“Because you have no choice.” Her voice was steady, her stance arrogant. And suddenly, it was enough for Blackburn. He sat absolutely still, but his body thrummed with intensity.
“You clearly don’t know me very well, Mademoiselle.” His gaze fastened on her. “I always have a choice.”
The words held a veiled threat and, for the first time that evening, she backed away from him turning toward the door. Blackburn stopped thinking and surged from the bunk. He moved quickly, his next actions a blur as the loosened ropes binding his hands and legs were kicked aside. He spun her around so quickly that her feet left the ground as she was shoved roughly up against the door, slamming it shut, her pistol clattering uselessly to the floor. The room plunged into darkness.
Damn, it felt good.
He could sense every inch of her body stretched next to his. It would be far simpler to kill her now.
Holding her wrists high above her head, he heard her breath catch in her
