Page 41 of The Sound of Seduction
And somehow, amidst the quiet breaths and tender gestures, she knew that whatever it was had changed something between them. Would it last after he healed and left that bed behind?
She wasn’t sure she dared to find out.
Chapter Nineteen
Stan stood bythe window, feeling almost—almost—himself again. Two more days had passed since that wretched night had left him battered, bones weary, and spirit shaken. The haze from the ordeal had begun to clear. it was her—that quiet certainty—he remembered everything about her.
Wendy.
Clear as crystal. The brisk, cool press of her fingers against his fevered skin. The focus in her eyes that stayed just as steady while he thrashed helplessly, as it did when she paused to dab sweat from his brow. He closed his eyes, and there she was, hovering in his mind as vividly as if she were still standing at his bedside.
Those wispy blonde curls framing her face, combined with the intelligent and discerning look in her eyes, made his insides melt—but not from a fever this time.
A sharp knock at the door snapped him from his reverie.
“Come in,” Stan called, voice still hoarse but stronger than it had been in days.
The door opened with a creak, and Andre strode in first, his bottle-green coat flaring sharply around his knees. Wendy followed closely behind, holding a metal tray with bandages, a jar of ointment, and scissors.
Andre spoke first, his tone clipped and professional.
“Stan,” he greeted without flourish, eyeing him like one sizes up a patient who is entirely too stubborn for their own good. Andre gestured lightly toward Wendy. “You’re up again?”
“I can’t lie in bed all day, Andre. Nothing will be resolved that way,” Stan quipped.
“Well, I’m here to assess whether you’ve undone all the mending from the past two days.”
“Hmm,” came Wendy’s soft, thoughtful hum. She stepped closer than Andre, near enough for Stan to catch the faint hint of her lavender soap underlined with something warmer—clove or anise perhaps? Certainly, one of the scents from the practice at 87 Harley Street. Her head tilted slightly, assessing him like an artist gauging the flaws in a newly stretched canvas.
Her gaze settled on him—deliberate, steady, and so thoroughly scrutinizing that for a moment, the room stilled. He felt flayed open, laid bare beneath her eyes—not from pain, but from how intimately she seemed to see him. His neck prickled beneath her critical eye, the sensation spreading across his skin like the warm fizz of?uica, the Romanian plum brandy, rolling down one’s throat. Something flickered in her features, unreadable as always, but Andre’s voice sliced cleanly through the room before he could find his footing with words.
“It’s von List that worries me.” Andre glanced pointedly back at Wendy for some unspoken exchange before he turned sharply to Stan. “He’s not someone to be left unattended. His men could have—”
“I know. They had Thea twice.” Stan’s resolved hardened to confront List. Whatever came next was harder for Stan to hold on to. Andre’s matter-of-fact tone shifted each word into static, each syllable tumbling into the buzz of thought suddenly coursing through him. Von List. He had enough information about him now thanks to the truth serum Alfie had made. With the right angle, there should be a way to send List back to where he came from.
He felt the prick of anxiety drill low in his stomach, but Wendy’s stare lingered even as Andre finished speaking.Without waiting for a response, Andre pressed a hand briefly to Stan’s shoulder, a physician’s touch of finality.
“I’ll look in again later,” Andre said over his shoulder from the doorway, already departing briskly. “Don’t be this difficult a patient when she changes your bandages.”
The latch clicked softly behind him, leaving Stan alone with her.
Silence stretched before Stan finally wore it down. His voice met the air without apology. “I must go after him. Von List.”
It sounded solid when he spoke the villain’s name aloud. Certain.
“Not today.” Wendy’s voice danced past him, light yet firm.
“Today, tomorrow—it doesn’t make a difference.” His jaw tightened slightly as his words pressed against her reason. “It’s Wednesday. He lingers at White’s after lunch. Civil as places go—I’ll find him there.”
Wendy exhaled faintly, a flash of disbelief flickering across her features. A pause, a shift, before she folded her arms across her middle with a small shake of her head.
“You think they’ll take you seriously like that?” Her eyes swept him again—leveled at him, unwavering, edged by challenge.
“This?” He gestured toward his day-old linens and the unruly fall of his hair. He scoffed faintly. “My valet—”
“Will do a perfunctory job,” she cut in, lips curving into something faintly mischievous. “He wouldn’t dare show actual initiative.”
“And why is that?” Stan asked.
