Rendezvous (9781301288946) (22 page)

Her chief concern for now was what to
do in the hours stretching until then, hours to be spent in the
apartment, alone with Sinclair.

Although she had her back to him, she
remained conscious of his presence. She knew he sprawled in the
chair where Lazare had sat. As soon as the men had gone, Sinclair
had made himself comfortable, stripping off his frock coat and
cravat. Even without looking at him, Belle retained a clear
picture, Sinclair's image imprinted upon her mind, the way his dark
head rested against the back of the chair, the cast of his rakehell
features for once solemn and thoughtful.

He was so quiet. Too quiet for
Sinclair. What was he thinking? She had no idea. Sometimes she
wondered if she ever truly knew what went on in his head. It
occurred to her more forcibly than ever how little she knew of her
partner.

Belle frowned as her thoughts shifted
back to Sinclair's disturbing remark about Feydeau. Sinclair's
explanation had been plausible enough, and yet it had startled her,
his betraying knowledge that she found unaccountable.

Over the years, Belle had acquired an
instinct for detecting when a man was being less than honest. When
she had asked Sinclair about Feydeau, she could have sworn Sinclair
was lying to her. And all those questions about Paulette this
morning. Sometimes Sinclair seemed far more bent upon seeking
information about the society than about Napoleon. But
why?

Vague suspicions drifted through
Belle's mind as intangible as wisps of smoke. She shook her head as
though to clear it. Perhaps once more she was building a case upon
trifles. That was the difficulty sometimes. Being suspicious, not
trusting, had become second nature to her. It had saved her life
upon more than one occasion. But life on the edge as Sinclair
described it could be a wearisome affair.

Hearing Sinclair stirring at last, she
turned to face him. He had shifted to the edge of his chair,
removed his pocket watch from its fob to examine it, shook it
first, then held it to his ear.

As though feeling her gaze upon him, he
glanced up and smiled. When he smiled at her like that, she felt
that she knew him very well, his eyes reaching out to encompass her
in their warmth, something in his glance establishing a conspiracy
between them, a conspiracy of hearts which shut out the rest of the
world.

An absurd thought. Yet she found
herself returning his smile, slowly pacing toward the side of the
room where he sat. She stood over him, watching as he deftly
wielded a tiny gold key, winding his watch. The timepiece bore a
look of spartan plainness, the face set with bold black Roman
numerals, no scene engraved upon the gold case, yet somehow more
elegant for its simplicity.

"That's a most handsome timepiece," she
remarked.

"A gift from my father," Sinclair said,
without looking up from his task. "One of those rare occasions I
ever merited his approval."

It was the first time Belle could ever
recall Sinclair mentioning anything about family. Drawing up a
stool from in front of the hearth, she settled herself upon it, so
close that she could lean upon the arm of Sinclair's
chair.

"You and your father," she asked, "you
do not get on well?"

"Well enough—as long as neither of us
speaks to the other."

He spoke in his usual light fashion,
but Belle detected an undercurrent, a hint of regret that perhaps
only she could have caught, harboring so many regrets
herself.

As she observed him give the key one
final turn, she said, "I never had the opportunity to quarrel with
my father. I never even knew who he was."

Why had she told Sinclair that? she
wondered. Perhaps there was something about sitting before a
crackling fire on a wet gray day that invited confidences. Perhaps
for some odd reason she could not define, she felt it was time
Sinclair knew the truth about her.

"I am illegitimate, the daughter of a
Drury Lane actress." She pretended to gaze into the orange-gold
glow of the flames, all the while covertly studying him, awaiting
his reaction.

"Well, Angel," he drawled as he
reattached the watch to its fob. "I have frequently been called a
bastard myself."

His response provoked a laugh from her,
the words so irreverent, so improper, so totally Sinclair. She had
just told him her greatest source of shame, the secret that had
devastated Jean-Claude Varens, and Sinclair had not raised so much
as an eyebrow. Instead he had managed to make her laugh over
something that had always caused her pain.

In that instant she knew what it was
about Sinclair that disarmed her. He never judged. He gave her
complete freedom to be exactly who she was, nothing more, nothing
less. A rather overwhelming gift and a little frightening. She was
not sure she was ready to accept it as yet.

She felt relieved when he turned the
subject, although she suspected he might have been doing so to
avoid any more discussion about his own past. Picking up the rope
that Lazare had been toying with earlier, he said, "I suppose you
noticed our friend Lazare's handiwork."

"The noose? Yes, I observed him
fashioning it during the meeting. I expect he thought to unnerve
me."

"Angel—"

"I know." She cut him off, recognizing
Sinclair's warning growl. "You want to tell me again to be careful.
I shall. I do assure you that I shall keep Lazare's role in this
affair to a minimum."

Sinclair did not appear satisfied, but
he swallowed what he had been about to say. He fiddled with the
rope, and the knots Lazare had made easily came undone. Sinclair
gave a snort of contempt. "The man appears to be handier with his
knife than a rope. Whatever part he plays, I hope if there is any
trussing up to be done, you don't entrust it to him."

Belle smiled. "If anything in that line
becomes necessary, I could do it myself. I tie a very wicked
knot."

Sinclair said nothing, casting a
skeptical glance at her hands. She could tell he was assessing the
softness and whiteness of her fingers, then drawing his own
doubtful conclusions. This hint of male arrogance sent a prickle of
annoyance through her.

"Believe me, Mr. Carrington," she said.
"If I ever tied your hands together, you would not get them undone
very quickly."

"Care to wager on that?" A wicked
sparkle appeared in his eyes.

"No," she retorted, "for I fear any
wagers made with you would not involve money."

"But what have you to fear?" He favored
her with the most maddeningly superior grin. "If milady is so sure
of herself.”

He dropped the rope in her lap. She
should have laughed off his remarks and let it go at that. But she
had never, from the time she was a little girl, borne sense enough
to back down from a dare.

Sinclair clasped his hands together in
front of him and docilely held them out to her. Slowly Belle picked
up the rope.

"Oh, no," she said. "I would never make
it that easy for someone I had captured. Stand up, turn around, and
put your hands behind you."

He did as he was told, but with such a
smirk on his face, Belle resisted the urge to give the rope an
extra hard tug as she began knotting it about his wrists.
Frequently she had found one could judge the strength of a man by
his hands. Sinclair's tanned fingers were long and well formed, the
tips slightly calloused. She could feel the tautness of the muscle
coming down from his forearm and took great care to make the knots
tight, well secured.

"There." She stood back, admiring her
handiwork. "I would likely bind your ankles as well, but since I
don't have another rope, this will do for demonstration
purposes."

He cast a patronizing look over his
shoulder. "If you wish, I will pretend to have my ankles tied."
Stiffening his legs together, he took a slight hop
forward.

“Step back and give me a little room.
After capturing me, I would assume you went on your way, pursuing
your nefarious schemes."

"Consider me gone." Belle dipped into a
mocking curtsy. She moved back to the doorway, hands propped on her
hips, waiting to see what he would do next.

Sinclair dropped to his knees and
rolled to one side. Belle watched him flex his shoulders back,
straining to move his arms past the hard curve of his buttocks,
then down over his legs in an effort to draw his hands up in front,
It was rather an incredible maneuver, considering Sinclair's
muscular build and the tightness of the shirt and waistcoat
restraining him. He appeared to be quite limber, but from the beads
of perspiration dotting his brow and the set of his lips, Belle
could tell the movement was not performed without some
pain.

She had never intended the foolish game
to go that far. "Sinclair—"

"Quiet," he said through clenched
teeth. "I need to concentrate."

Taking a deep breath, he exhaled and
with a final strain that seemed likely to dislocate his shoulders,
he succeeded in getting his arms behind his knees. With one fluid
motion, he eased his bound hands around his feet, then drew them up
in front of himself, struggling to a sitting position, a triumphant
expression on his flushed features.

"Very good," Belle said grudgingly.
"But now what? I wouldn't have been stupid enough to leave a knife
behind or any sort of a candle for you to burn through the
rope."

"Then I shall just have to do it the
hard way." Raising his hands, he began tugging at the knots with
his teeth. Belle folded her arms over her chest, watching him in
confident silence. There was no way he was ever going to undo her
knots in that fashion. None whatsoever.

It took him less than ten minutes. He
leapt to his feet with a self-satisfied flex of his back muscles
and dangled the undone length of rope before her eyes. The chagrin
must have shown upon her face for he laughed and said, "There was
nothing wrong with your knots, only your choice of rope, Angel. It
wouldn't seem so, but this thick hemp is far easier to undo than
say a silken cord from a robe. Never let your captive dictate his
own bindings."

"I shall strive to remember
that.”

With a mischievous glint in his eyes,
he fingered the rope and advanced upon her. "Now it's my
turn."

"Oh, no." She shook her head firmly.
But he continued to stalk toward her. Belle backed away. Slowly,
but relentlessly, he pursued her around the chair. Belle suppressed
a ripple of laughter.

"Behave yourself, Mr. Carrington," she
said in as stern a tone as she was capable of. "I would never
permit my enemy to tie me up."

"What would you do to stop me?" he
asked in tones of silken menace. He had her nearly backed up
against the bookcase, twin devils dancing in his eyes. Well, Belle
thought, if he insisted upon pursuing this game of pretense, she
was going to make up a few of her own rules.

She startled him by snatching an object
from the shelf behind her. It was only the end of an unlit candle,
but she brandished it at him.

"I would draw forth my concealed
pistol." With her thumb she feigned cocking the ‘weapon’. "Now you
must stop or I will blow a hole in your chest."

She was not certain if Sinclair would
acknowledge the imaginary pistol. His lips twitched with amusement.
Still clutching the rope, he raised his hands, such an expression
of deceptive meekness upon his face, she did laugh.

It was all so absurd. She did not know
why she was enjoying it so much. Maybe because so many times she
had enacted this scene in deadly earnest. There had never been any
place in her life for frolic or lightsome behavior. And maybe it
had something to do with the undercurrent of challenge that had
existed between her and Sinclair from the very beginning. She
became suddenly aware of how her heart thudded, of a stirring in
her blood.

That was her mistake, forgetting one of
her own basic rules and allowing her attention to wander when
training a weapon upon someone. Sinclair was quick to sense how she
wavered and took full advantage. With a lightning-quick movement he
tossed the rope toward her face. In the second she took to blink,
he pounced, deflecting the hand that held the make-believe weapon.
If it had been a pistol, it would have discharged harmlessly in the
air.

Seizing her wrist, Sinclair forced her
arm down and the candle end dropped to the floor. He pinned her
against the bookcase, his face only inches away, his eyes
glittering.

"Checked again, milady."

Did he truly think so? Belle tilted her
face upward, her lips curved in a deceiving smile, Then she trod
down hard on his instep.

Sinclair's smirk vanished, his eyes
widening with pained surprise. "You little vixen—" He had loosened
his grip enough for her to hook her foot about his ankle, setting
him off balance. But the maneuver backfired. As Sinclair went down,
he pulled her with him. As they tumbled to the carpet, he still
maintained his grasp. They wrestled for a moment, banging into the
chair, until Belle felt her carefully secured hairpins coming free,
her tresses falling about her shoulders. She shook her hair back,
clear of her eyes, just as Sinclair pinned her flat on her back
beneath his weight, both of them slightly breathless with
laughter.