Page 51 of Garden of Lies

It was not until Mrs. Dunstan had removed the tray that Ursula realized that the expression in Slater’s eyes was the heat of controlled anger, not desire. He was in a dangerous mood.

“I’m making you nervous?” he asked. “How the devil do you think I felt when I realized Rosemont’s shop was on fire and there was no sign of you anywhere?”

Ursula adjusted the towel around her shoulders and reached for the brandy glass.

“Very well,” she said, trying to acknowledge his point with grace. She swallowed some brandy and set the glass aside. “I do comprehend that you may have been somewhat startled by the fire.”

“Startled?” Slater closed the distance between them with two long strides, reached down and hauled her up off the stool. “Startled?Madam, I was teetering on the brink of madness when I saw you emerge from the alley door. It’s a wonder I’m not being fitted for a straitjacket and booking a room in an asylum at this very moment.”

Her own temper flashed like lightning. “I am very sorry you are so overset by recent events, Mr. Roxton, but I would remind you that I am the one who nearly died today.”

“Good Lord, woman, don’t you think I realize that? You scared the hell out of me. Don’t ever do anything like that again, do you understand?”

“It’s not as if I intended to end up in a house fire.”

“You should never have gone to that shop alone. If you hadn’t mentioned your destination to your housekeeper—” He broke off, jaw tightening.

“It was a perfume shop, for heaven’s sake, a place that Anne had evidently visited any number of times.”

“Exactly. And I would remind you that Anne Clifton is dead. What were you thinking?”

She opened her mouth to answer him but she never got the chance. He yanked her hard against his chest and kissed her with a fierceness that stole her breath.

The kiss was not meant to summon her response, nor was it an exploratory kiss intended to woo her and invite her into greater intimacy. This was a lightning strike of a kiss, meant to lay waste to any thought of resistance. It was a claiming, conquering kiss, a kiss fueled by a wildfire of desire and demand. Slater branded her with the kiss as though he was intent on marking her as his and his alone.

The kiss ignited her senses.

After a stunned few seconds, an electrifying thrill arced through her. She was consumed with a deep, aching urgency, a need that matched the primal forces she sensed in Slater.

She wrapped her arms around him and threw herself into the sensual battle. He responded with a shuddering groan that reverberated through every fiber of her being. The towel around her shoulders fell to the floor.

Without warning, Slater broke off the kiss and set her a few inches away, his hands locked around her forearms.

“Don’t move,” he said.

His low, husky command sent another wave of shivery excitement through her.

He released her, crossed the room to the door and turned the key in the lock. The ominous clink of iron-on-iron rang like a distant thunder in the small space. When he paced back toward her, yanking at the knot of his black tie, the dark promise in his eyes sent a delicious shiver of anticipation through her.

By the time he reached her the strip of silk dangled around his neck. He stood still, not touching her. She knew that he was waiting for some sign.

Fingers trembling, she reached up and undid the first button of his shirt.

That was all he needed. He clamped his hands around her waist, lifted her up off the ground and sat her on the edge of her desk. Before she realized his intention, he pushed the skirts of the dressing gown up over her knees and moved between her legs.

“Slater.”

She did not say anything else. Torn between shock and a rush of feverish excitement, she could not find any more words.

He anchored her with one hand wrapped around the back of her neck and kissed her again. She arched into the embrace, tightening her legs around his thighs. She savored the exotic drug that was his scent, a mix of sweat, soap and the unique essence that was Slater. No other man had ever clouded her senses in such a way.

And then he was undoing the fastenings at the front of the dressing gown. The layers of velvet and lace fell apart at his touch as though made of clouds and mist. There was no corset or camisole to bar his way. When his palm covered her breast she closed her eyes and turned her head into his shoulder to suppress a small cry.

“Half of London wonders why I have not shown any interest in forming a liaison with a woman,” Slater said. His thumb and forefinger tightened gently around one nipple. “I have asked myself the same question from time to time. But now I have the answer.”

She looked up at him through half-closed eyes and kissed his throat.

“What is the answer?” she asked, astonished by the sultry sound of her own voice.

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