No wonder Luke had climbed into Claire’s bed. She had to be one of the earthiest, most sexual creatures he’d ever met. There was no coyness to her, no artifice as there was with many women of his acquaintance. It wouldn’t occur to her to tease or flirt unless she intended to follow through, because she was doing it for either business or pleasure. She must have reminded Luke of Arden a little that way—all brash and blunt.
He could speak plainly with her, be brutally honest if necessary, and she would give it back. She’d taken his remark about the dirigible rudder—a desperate lie, but oddly true at the time—and turned it into a joke between them. There shouldn’t be any warmth between them at all, no camaraderie; yet they didn’t seem able to avoid it. He’d set out on this journey determined to dislike her, and after some sixteen-plus hours in her company, he was already losing the battle.
He wanted to ask her more about betraying her agency. About how she came to the decision. Oh, he knew it was because of her brother, but there must be more to it. If she explained it, perhaps he would understand his father a little better—a man rumored to have betrayed the Wardens, though it was never actually proved.
But he wasn’t going to think about his father while sporting an erection that seemed to have been forged from gregorite.
Claire was entirely too likable when she wasn’t trying to provoke him. Though he had to admit to being guilty of provoking her as well. He should have known better. Nothing could happen between them. In a few hours he would meet with another W.O.R. agent already in attendance at the house party of Lord and Lady Dunrich. He’d be foolish to walk into such a situation without backup he could trust—he’d [rususe learned that lesson the hard way, thanks to Sascha.
Once he’d made contact, all that would be left would be to take the Doctor and Stanton Howard into custody. Claire would draw them out, he and the other agent would apprehend them; then they’d return to England, and he would very likely never see Claire again. She would be taken back to her cell, and left to whatever future the Wardens offered her, and he would be back to trying to atone for a life of mistakes that weren’t his own. He hoped his father paid for his sins or found absolution—whether in heaven, hell or somewhere in between.
Such thoughts should have been as effective as a bucket of ice water on his libido. They were not.
Alastair took clean clothing from his valise and went to the bath, where he filled the sink with hot water and slathered his face with shaving soap. As he swiped the sharp blade of his razor over his jaw, he thought about how he’d reacted last night when Claire said his name. The woman had a way of making ordinary words sound sensual as hell.
And the way she’d looked at him when she came out of the bath . . . He’d known quite a few women over the course of his life, and none of them had ever looked at him like that. Not even Sascha, who’d gone out of her way to seduce him. Sascha had looked at him in a manner that suggested she thought of all the things he might do to her. Claire looked at him as though she was thinking of all the things she might do to him—arousing as hell, and very tempting.
Thinking about those very things did nothing to ease the insistent tightening in his groin.
He rinsed soap residue from his face, blotted the water with a towel, and then massaged a small amount of lightly scented oil into his skin to ease the redness shaving sometimes left on his face.
He was still hard.
Sighing, Alastair knew there was no point in denying the damn thing. It was determined to poke against the sink, chafe against the front of his trousers, and make an all-around nuisance of itself until he literally took it firmly in hand.
It was all Claire’s fault that he was reduced to servicing himself in the bath like a horny boy. He braced one palm flat against the wall as he loosened the drawstring of his trousers and let them fall to the floor; then he wrapped his fingers around the rigid length of his erection and set himself to the task of ridding himself of the damn thing.
But as his hand moved, he began to think of all the things Claire might do to him if given the chance, and all the things he might do to her. For a few moments, until bringing himself to climax, he forgot about the fact that she was the wrong woman, that he couldn’t completely trust her, that there could never be anything between them, and he indulged in what might have been under different circumstances.
The result left him trembling, weak in the knees, feeling guilty as hell, and surprisingly sad.
Chapter 7
What the hell was that?
Claire sat up right in bed. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was; then memory came flooding back. She ^rusus="-1" facwas alone, but the pillow beside hers held the indent of having been slept on, and there was a familiar cinnamon hair on it.
“Alastair?”
She heard the sound of taps and then running water. He must be in the standing-bath. The thought of him standing naked beneath a spray of hot water was a fleeting but effective one. Now was not the time for distractions.
In a few hours Stanton Howard’s throat would be at the mercy of her blade, if she could get her hands on one. Or perhaps she’d stab him in the ear with a hat pin. Or shoot off bits of him with her gun—provided Alastair gave it to her.
Alastair. He was going to end up one of her biggest regrets; she could feel it. It was bewildering, as she had known him only a short time. How sad that the first man she felt a real . . . connection with was the one she could never have. Fate had a perverted sense of humor.
Her stomach growled. She was ravenous. Surely he wouldn’t object to breakfast? She climbed out of bed and slipped into the wrapper draped across the footboard. Then she went to the call box on the wall. There was no dial or crank on it, so it was useless for outside calls unless the inn had a switchboard—which she doubted. She brought the handset to her ear and waited.
“Good morning! What might we do for you?”
Claire smiled. Thick as mud was the woman’s accent, but at least she understood it. “I’d like to have some breakfast sent up to my room if that’s possible.”
It was, and she rattled off what she would like. The woman assured her it would arrive “in a tic” and hung up. Claire began choosing her clothing for the day while she waited. The Wardens had supplied several gowns for her to wear, each of good quality. Not the best, of course, but they were well-made items suitable for a successful American actress who didn’t like her clothing to overshadow her looks. Simple but elegant. There was a small assortment of cosmetics packed in a vanity case as well. They truly had thought of everything.
She selected a lovely day gown that wouldn’t be too injured by travel. It was a rich violet that would complement her eyes and complexion. The gown was in need of an iron, however. She shook the garment out and draped it over the back of a chair. Perhaps the rest of the wrinkles would fall out. A knock sounded upon the door just as the water shut off in the bath. Perfect timing. Two maids bearing trays loaded with food and a coffee service entered without triggering Alastair’s lock. The food smelled so good, Claire’s mouth watered. One of the maids spotted her wrinkled gown and immediately offered to take it away to have it pressed. Claire thanked her and let her take it. It wasn’t as though she could do it herself.
The maids closed the door behind them, and Claire pounced on the food trays, left on a small table near the window.
The door to the bath opened, and Alastair stuck his head out. “Who was that?”
Claire glanced over her shoulder and wished she hadn’t. Wet, his hair was darker, and it curled about his nape. And the towel he held about his waist rode even lower than the trousers he’d worn to bed—it was shorter, too, so now she was treated to a glimpse of well-shaped and muscular calves.