A Private Duel with Agent Gunn (The Gentlemen of Scotland Yard) Read Free Page B

fancy restaurants and balls. “Not Verreys. Perhaps something less public—Bertolini’s?
    “Molto buono, mia bella ballerina .”
    “Give me a moment.” She flashed a smile and pivoted toward her dressing room. Cate took one last glancearound the corridor. A wave of melancholy washed over her. If truth be told, she felt a bit deflated. Hugh was nowhere to be seen.
    Cecil prowled after. “I would be honored to wait for you inside, listen to the rustle of your clothes—imagine what you look like behind your dressing screen.”
    “I’m afraid my dressing room would disappoint—terribly cramped.” Cate deftly opened her door and winked. “Not nearly as provocative as one might imagine.”
    Once inside she threw the latch and rested her forehead against the door. She waited for her breathing to shift from gulps of air to something steadier.
    “Must be tiring—fending off such persistent admirers.”
    She whirled around. The tall figure stood in the doorway to the adjoining storage room. He leaned that impressive physique of his along the frame molding and stretched. Sculpted muscle flexed under perfectly tailored clothes. Her small dressing room was suddenly airless. This man had an essence about him—something wild and fierce beneath the gentlemanly facade.
    With his knee bent and his hand on a raised hip, there was an unsettling intimacy in his relaxed pose. It was as though it had been hours, not months, since they last saw each other. Yes, everything was familiar about him. Even those smoldering dark eyes that made her tingle all over.
    Cate looked him up and down. “One gets used to it.” A bit wobbly, she sidestepped over to the vanity bench and unpinned a crown of silver and white feathers. She met his gaze in the looking glass as her heart beat a series of petit jetés in her chest.
    He pushed off the wall and moved in behind her. “You are even lovelier than I remember.” His fingers moved down the row of hooks and eyes that fastened her costume.
    She shifted away. “My dresser will be here any minute, she will—” Persistent fingers gently loosed the back of her bodice. Even as her cheeks flushed with heat, cool air wafted over skin moist with perspiration. His knuckles brushed against the flesh of her back, causing a shiver she failed to conceal.
    He looked up from his unfastening duties. Deep brown eyes, the color of steaming French coffee, met her gaze in the mirror. How could she possibly have forgotten the lightness of his touch? She reacquainted herself with his strong chin and jawline, a bit swarthy perhaps, but wonderfully dangerous—or wicked. Which one was it? Did it really matter?
    Reverently, he bent and kissed her shoulder. “Tell me, Cate, do you respond to lines like: ‘ . . . listen to the rustle of your costume and imagine what you look like . . . ’ ”—his breath drifted over her ear—“naked in my bed with those long, shapely legs wrapped around my waist—”
    She whirled around and slapped him hard across the face. “Get out.”
    He straightened but made no move to leave.
    Cate strode across the small room and pulled back the latch. He slammed his hand against the door. The man was a predator. So why didn’t she scream for help? He had always thrilled, down to her raw, disfigured ballerina toes. Even now, he was the most masculine, feral creature she had ever encountered. And inglés to boot.
    He leaned in close. A gentle nuzzle, just to take in her essence. And she could not help but return his interest. Hesitant at first, like two wild creatures meeting in the forest. She inhaled whiskey and bitters, hints of soap and—his scent. She looked up into heavy-lidded eyes that were far from languorous. He examined her carefully.“When I returned to Barcelona, why didn’t you meet me at Café Almirall?”
    She was almost grateful when anger bubbled up inside. “You used me to get close to my brother. Then you followed him to France, where he and his compadres