Page 41 of Pride: The Rogue
“Operate outside…”
“Self-made men and women,” she clarified.
His fingers curled reflexively around the edge of the table; his nails left crescents upon the ancient wood.
“I’d hardly call Argyll, DuMond, and Craven self-made men,” he said, his tone biting.
“And you are?” Her question contained not a challenge but genuine curiosity.
“In every sense of the word,” he shared, and not with any small amount of pride. “I’m the only one of the group who put money into building the club that didn’t come from the fortunes of some pompous ancestors.”
They may have fronted the majority of the investment; Latimer, on the other hand, received an equal share based on his overall business plan and model for the club. The trio of depraved lords who’d sought a partnership with him knew vices,but they’d not known the level of sinning and games that existed outside their respectable world.
His skin prickled.
Latimer found Livian carefully watching him.
He grunted. “What?”
“By the look in your eyes and the tone of your voice, it does not appear as though you hold your partners in the highest regard, Lachlan.”
Christ. He’d let his guard down. Aside from his former partners, no one knew of Latimer’s split from Forbidden Pleasures.
But Dynevor knows…
He donned a droll grin. “I don’t have a look in my eyes, darlin’. I could, however,” he dropped his voice to a husky whisper, “muster one just by thinking about our meeting earlier.”
Livian gave him an impish smile. “But you acknowledge youdohave a tone?” she rejoined in a whisper to rival his own.
He’d intended to throw her off, instead, the sultry quality of her reply, coupled with the remembrance of the feel of her barely clad body got him hard.
With a smug satisfaction, the triumphant chit gave another toss of her head. “I see.”
“What exactly is it you see?” he asked quietly.
“I’m correct onbothscores.”
His desire flagged.
Latimer clenched the back of his teeth hard. “I don’t have a tone or look in my eyes.”
“In fairness, of the two of us,” she whispered conspiratorially, “I believe I’m better equipped to identify the state of your eyes, Lachlan.”
Livian must have seen something there, after all. For her playful air faded, and she grew solemn. “I’m sorry.”
He sharpened his gaze on her. “For?”
“I trust by your—” Latimer thinned his eyes into slits, and she shifted direction. “Something occurred between you and your partners.”
Christ. The innocent chit could have spearheaded and singlehandedly conducted the Inquisition. Entirely too late, his suspicion reared its head.
“Are you a goddamned reporter,” he asked frostily.
She choked. “N-No!”
“That seems like a pretty hasty, unconvincing denial.”
Color filled the lady’s cheeks. “I’m not!”
