There’s no need to make like a frightened virgin. Buttoned or unbuttoned, you’re simply not my type, so you’re in no danger of imminent rape. I hope that reassures you.’
Reassures me? Alix wanted to scream. Nothing about you reassures me. I want you out of this house, and out of our lives.
Aloud, she said with emphasis, ‘Goodbye, Mr Brant.’
He shook his head. ‘No, Miss Coulter. Didn’t you hear me say I’d be back?’
He inclined his head to her with mocking courtesy, then reached past her to open the drawing-room door.
Alix watched him cross the hall to the front door. It wasn’t until it closed behind him that she realised she had been holding her breath.
Whatever happened, she told herself fiercely, no matter what Seb or anyone else said, she was going to keep that—character assassin with his insinuations and innuendoes away from Bianca. Whatever her faults, she didn’t deserve anyone like Liam Brant casting a spotlight on them. Bianca needed to be protected from him, and she, Alix, would see that it was done.
She swallowed, and her hand moved slowly and reluctantly to adjust the buttons on her dress. ‘You’re not my type,’ he’d told her cynically, and he certainly wasn’t hers, so why could she not dismiss the memory of that brief brush of his fingers against her breasts?
Alix bit her lip. She was going to protect Bianca—but the unanswerable question was—who was going to protect her?
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