Betina Krahn (7 page)

“The proprietress of this establishment sent me.”

“I knew it!” She brandished her weapons and saw his gaze dart from whip to cane. “Look, you—you’ll get nothing out of me but trouble!”

“No doubt,” he said, holding his ground. “I repeat, I haven’t come to sample your”—he gestured to her exposed form—“
charms.
I’ve come as Mrs. Brown’s agent.”

Beatrice scowled. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but this wasn’t it.

“Her agent? In what?”

“Certain
legal
matters.”

“You’re a lawyer?” Her mouth dropped open in surprise, then she snapped it shut and scowled. “I should have known. Conspiracy. Criminality. Depravity.
Lawyers
couldn’t be far behind.”

It was his turn to redden.

“There has been a mistake,” he continued, his voice
suddenly a bit deeper and smoother. “Mrs. Brown sent for me the moment she learned you were in her establishment. She wants no difficulty. In fact, she is eager to free you.”

He had evaded the question of his role, Beatrice thought, as she struggled to ignore the way his attention strayed from her face. Blue, she realized. His eyes were a vivid blue.

“Well, she
has
difficulty, whether she wants it or not. And if it was all just a mistake, why doesn’t she let me go?” she demanded, annoyed at the way she couldn’t seem to find a word to describe the exact color of his eyes. Sky blue … powder blue … turquoise … kerry blue … cornflower … azure …

“Well, there
is
something she insists on having first,” he said, moving to the side, strolling deliberately toward the far side of the ottoman.

She turned to follow his movement, momentarily absorbed in the way he moved … easily, naturally … with consummate male confidence … as if he were used to being scrutinized. Only men at the top of their game moved as he did; only men who knew what they wanted and fully expected to get it. The question was, what
was
his game?

“A fat ransom, no doubt,” she declared, pulling her wandering attention back under control, intent on staying a step ahead of him in this … this bizarre interview that was taking on the tenor of a business negotiation.

“Not at all.” He had the gall to chuckle. Aloud. “Mrs. Brown has no need or desire for your money. What she wants is your written agreement not to press legal charges against her or her establishment.” He shrugged. “That is her only condition for your release.”

Was it possible that the creature who ran this place
really had sent him to negotiate her release? She couldn’t imagine white slavers employing lawyers to placate their victims or cover their mistakes, but the tide of power did seem to be turning. The questions were: how far and why.

“
GIVE ME YOUR
coat,” Beatrice ordered.

“What?” The lawyer was genuinely taken aback.

Much better, she thought, feeling as if she were finding her legs in this unthinkable bit of commerce. If twelve years in business and trade had taught her anything, it was that you had to keep your opponent off guard.

“I refuse to discuss your client’s wishes until I have your coat.”

Clearly reluctant but at a loss to proceed otherwise, he removed his coat and offered it to her. She extended the bamboo rod like a scepter, motioning for him to drape it over the end. With a wary eye on him, she slid both of her arms, still holding the whip and cane, through the sleeves.

A disconcerting wave of body heat enveloped her as the garment settled against her skin. But now that he had literally given her the coat off his back, she was certain that she could get more.

“The moment I am free,” she declared, “I intend to
see your client and everyone else connected to this outrage prosecuted to the fullest.”

“I know this has been a trial for you, Mrs. Von Furstenberg.” His voice acquired a deep, rolling quality. “But punishing my client makes no sense. She and her employees had nothing to do with your abduction.”

“They didn’t?” She tossed the whip and cane onto the ottoman and folded her arms. The relief that flickered through his expression surprised her. For a lawyer, he was surprisingly easy to read. And to lead.

“How can you know with any certainty that they had nothing to do with it…
unless you know who did
?”

He blinked, his chin tucked, and he stiffened. Common signs of surprise. Or guilt. “My client has no idea who was involved.”

“You say you know nothing about it, and yet you’re sure it was a mistake. How can that be, Mr.—what did you say your name was?”

“My identity isn’t important. I’m here only as an intermediary,” he protested. She could see a sheen of sweat developing on his features. He knew more than he was saying. “If anyone here knows what happened, it is
you.
What do you remember about how you came to be here?”

Clever. Turning it back on her. As if he didn’t know every little detail. She wrapped his coat tighter and folded her arms over it.

“I was on my way home from a meeting when my carriage was stopped by two men—Irish from their thick accents and even thicker heads.” She turned her head away from his unsettling gaze and felt her hair scraping the coat collar. It was dangling in disarray around her shoulders and she squashed the impulse to tuck it up
and make herself more presentable. “They demanded my valuables, and when I refused to cooperate, they hauled me bodily from my carriage. Then as the police approached, they dragged me off with them, bound and gagged me, and brought me to this abominable place.”

“There you are, then. A simple robbery gone wrong.” He inhaled deeply, inflating his chest and running his hands down his vest. Her eyes followed in spite of herself. Large hands … muscular, neatly tapered. “We may never know what possessed those idiots to abduct you. But it’s clear that they realized they were in over their heads and they had to find a place to leave you. The Oriental enjoys something of a reputation for upper-class premises and personnel. No doubt they thought you would be more in your element here.”

Connor cringed inwardly as he watched Beatrice Von Furstenberg’s nostrils flare and her gaze narrow like a poised scalpel. Now was
not
the time for double entendres—either intended or accidental. He tensed as she reached for the whip and began to fondle it, tracing the braided leather and testing the flexibility of the shaft with long, capable fingers.

But, truth be told, she did seem to be in her element. Shockingly so. She was altogether brazen … standing there in her corset and stockings, her body boldly displayed, her eyes blazing, her abundant hair in tantalizing disarray … She was testing the whip with a slow, alluring hint of determination. He swallowed hard. She was clearly in charge and had been from the moment he walked through the door and found himself facing a woman thirty years younger and a hell of a lot more attractive than expected. Not to mention, nearly naked. Charlotte had neglected to mention that he would be negotiating with a half-naked woman.

“There was a woman who helped the pair carry me upstairs and lock me away,” she said tautly “It shouldn’t be difficult to find her. She was dressed like one of the poor creatures forced to work in this place … no doubt an accomplice. I suggest you set about finding out who it is. What law firm do you work for?”

His hands clenched at his sides. “That is not important.”

“Oh?” She looked him over. “What if
you’re
an accomplice, too?” She smacked the tip of the whip on her open palm.

He was sure he paled; he could feel the blood draining from his face.

“I assure you, I had nothing to do with your being here.”

“Tell me who you are.”

“That is irrelevant.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Just accept my client’s proposal and walk out of here a free woman.”

“And let whoever did this to me remain scot-free? Never.”

Suddenly they were toe to toe, virtually nose to nose, and he hadn’t a clue how they’d gotten that way. Her warmth spiraled upward and on it, he caught a sensual blend of fading perfume, scented talcum, and feminine musk. His heart began to thud. As he looked down, his gaze dropped of its own will to the line between her breasts and his coat, then rebounded to her face. Torchlight reflected in her eyes like sentinel fires. He could almost feel the contained outrage, the battle readiness in her. And he sensed one more thing … something else … something … not quite so angry.

“You won’t need that,” he said, taking hold of the whip.

She searched his face, openly considering him. Her chest seemed to rise and fall faster and the fires at her core burned hotter. Then as he began to slide the whip from her hands, she suddenly grasped it tighter and lurched back out of range.

“Tell your client”—her voice seemed constricted—“I won’t sign anything until I have names and proof of who was behind my abduction.”

“You’re determined to be unreasonable, then.” He fell back a pace, then another, irritation growing with each step. “Perhaps another night of the Oriental’s ‘hospitality’ will change your attitude.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath, but before she could protest he escaped out the ironbound door.

HE LURCHED INTO
the corridor feeling as if he were just a step ahead of the jaws of disaster … only to find Charlotte Brown waiting for him.

“Well?” she demanded, stepping squarely into his path.

“She has to think it over,” he said, trying to slip past her.

She countered his move, trapping him against the wall and subjecting his bare shirt and vest to her discerning scrutiny. “What’s there to think about? It’s a simple straightforward deal. What happened in there, Barrow?”

“Damned infernal female. You should have let me throw a bag over her head and dump her in a woods somewhere,” he said gruffly, shouldering past her and heading for the stairs.

She grabbed his sleeve and fixed him with a warning glare.

“She’s mad as a wet hen and swearing vengeance on
everything on the premises that sweats and moans,” he said. “Does that clear it up for you?”

Charlotte pursed one corner of her mouth. He had the unsettling feeling that she was looking straight into his thoughts.

“Then I’d say you have your work cut out for you,” she said, shrugging off the news and adopting a maliciously cheery determination.

“Me?”

“You’re the one who has to sweet-talk her into leavin’ the law out of this.”

“Why me?”

She lowered her chin and narrowed her eyes, a look that said they both knew better. He was involved now because he had somehow been involved from the very start.

Frustration and recrimination rasped his conscience like grit on a grindstone. How the hell had he gotten himself into such a mess? He stepped around Charlotte and headed up the steps muttering to himself. But as he retrieved his hat from the old butler at the side door and jammed it down on his head, Charlotte’s voice stopped him.

“I’ll expect you at eight tomorrow night.” It was not an invitation; it was a command. “And bring your smoothest line of blarney, Barrow. Sounds to me like you’re going to need it.”

TWO HOURS LATER,
Beatrice was pacing back and forth in the Dungeon, clutching the whip with one hand and rubbing her stiff neck with the other. He’d left her there … just left her … to endure yet another night in this miserable rat hole in Perdition’s Pantry. At least her
virtue seemed to be safe … for whatever that was worth. She tossed the whip onto the ottoman.

At least someone knew who she was and had the sense to beware her wrath. She shivered and pulled the coat tighter around her. They’d sent a smooth-talking lawyer to persuade her to forget the pain and indignity she’d suffered; they either seriously underestimated her or greatly overestimated him.

Her thoughts turned yet again to the man sent to deal with her. Tall, elegant, and educated, with arresting blue eyes and a manner as silky as his dark hair. She’d seen his sort before, though she generally saw them across a crowded boardroom table, while flanked by a pack of legal beagles and—she glanced down at herself and blushed—while fully dressed.

It was her lack of clothing that had caused her unprecedented reaction to him, she told herself. Her heart had raced, her head had gone all spongy, and her body flushed hot on the side facing him …

A key rattled in the iron lock. The door swung open and in charged that moving mountain in a turban,
Punjab,
making straight for her. She gasped and scuttled back, looking for the weapons she had used to defend herself earlier. But the huge Indian was already between her and the ottoman where the whip and cane lay.

“Come, mamsab.” His broad, eager grin appeared.

“Don’t you come near me!” she choked out, backing around the ottoman, hoping to make it to the door.

But his bulk was fully equaled by his agility. In one deft movement, he bolted across the ottoman and grabbed her by the arm. In her struggle to get away, she yanked her arm from the sleeve and struggled out of the lawyer’s coat, leaving the giant holding an empty garment as she dashed for the door. He tossed it aside and
lunged for her—grabbing her just as she reached the doorway. Instantly she was lifted up, thrown over his shoulder, and borne out into a dimly lit corridor.