Suddenly You (8 page)

“You seem to be remarkably facile with men's clothing, Miss Briars,” Devlin commented, buttoning the shirt unaided, concealing the wealth of muscle behind fresh white linen.

Amanda turned away, averting her gaze as he tucked the hem of the shirt into the waist of his trousers. For the first time, she enjoyed the freedom of being a thirty-year-old spinster. This was a distinctly compromising situation that no schoolroom virgin would ever have been allowed to witness. However, she could do as she liked by sheer virtue of her age.

“I took care of my father during the last two year of his life,” she said in response to Devlin's comment. “He was an invalid, and required assistance with his clothes. I served as valet, cook, and nurse for him, especially toward the end.”

Devlin's face seemed to change, his annoyance vanishing. “What a capable woman you are,” he said softly, with no trace of irony.

She was suddenly caught by his warm gaze, and she realized somehow that he understood a great deal about her. About how the last precious years of her youth had been sacrificed for duty and love. About the inexorable pull of responsibility…and the fact that she had so rarely gotten to flirt and laugh and be carefree.

His mouth tilted upward at the corners in the promise of a smile, and her response to it was alarming. There was a spark of mischief in him, a sense of irreverent playfulness, that confounded her. All of the men she was acquainted with, especially the successful ones, were so utterly serious. She hardly knew what to make of Jack Devlin.

She floundered for something, anything, to break the intimate silence between them. “What did Mrs. Bradshaw write about Lord Tirwitt that would provoke him so?”

“Knowing the turn of your mind, peaches, I'm not surprised that you asked.” Heading to a nearby bookcase, Devlin scanned the rows of volumes. He extracted a cloth-bound book and gave it to her.

“The Sins of Madam B,”
Amanda said, frowning.

“My gift to you,” he said. “You'll find the misadventures of Lord T in Chapter Six or Seven. You'll soon discover why he was sufficiently provoked to attempt murder.”

“I can't take this filthy thing home with me,” Amanda protested, staring down at the elaborate gilded adornment on the cover. All too soon, she made the discovery that when one looked long enough at the arrangement of curlicues, they began to resemble some rather obscene shapes. She scowled up at him. “Why in heaven's name do you think I would read this?”

“For your research, of course,” he said innocently. “You're a woman of the world, aren't you? Besides, this book isn't filthy by half.” He leaned closer to her, and his velvety murmur caused the back of her neck to tingle excitingly. “Now, if you want to read something
really
decadent, I could show you some books that would make you blush for a month.”

“No doubt you could,” she returned coolly, while her palms turned wet on the book and a hot shiver went up her spine. She cursed silently. Now she couldn't return the damned book, or Devlin would see the moist imprint her hands had made on the leather. “I'm certain that Mrs. Bradshaw has done an excellent job of describing her profession. Thank you for the research material.”

Laughter sparkled in the blue depths of his eyes. “It's the least I can do, after you dispatched Lord Tirwitt so handily.”

She shrugged, as if her actions had been of no importance. “Had I allowed him to murder you, I would never have gotten my five thousand pounds.”

“Then you've decided to accept my offer?”

Amanda hesitated, then nodded, her forehead puckering in a little frown. “It seems you were correct, Mr. Devlin. I can indeed be bought.”

“Ah, well…” He laughed quietly. “You might console yourself with the fact that you're more expensive than most.”

“Besides, I have no wish to discover if you would really sink to the level of blackmailing an unwilling author to write for you.”

“Usually I wouldn't,” he assured her with a rascally gleam in his eyes. “However, I've never wanted an author this much.”

Amanda gripped the book a little more tightly as he approached her. Stalked her, actually, moving with a stealthy slowness that made her nerves spark in sudden alarm. “The fact that I have decided to work with you does
not
give you the right to take liberties, Mr. Devlin.”

“Of course.” Devlin cornered her easily, not stopping until she had wedged herself against the bookshelves, the back of her head pressing against the leather spines of a row of volumes. “I was merely hoping to crown the deal with a handshake.”

“A handshake,” she said unsteadily. “I suppose I could allow—” She gasped and bit her lip as she felt his huge hand close over hers. Her short fingers, always so cold, were engulfed in heat. Once he had taken hold, he did not let go. It was not a handshake, it was a possession. The difference in their height was so extreme that she was forced to incline her head at an uncomfortable angle to look up into his face. Despite her sturdy and substantial figure, he made her feel almost doll-like.

There was something wrong with her breathing, a sudden wont of her lungs to take in too much air. Her senses dilated and quickened from an overabundance of oxygen.

“Mr. Devlin,” she managed, her hand still caught in his, “why do you insist on publishing my novel as a serial?”

“Because owning books shouldn't be a privilege of the rich. I want to print good books in a way that the masses can afford them. A poor man needs the escape far more than a wealthy man does.”

“Escape,” Amanda repeated, having never heard a book described in such a way.

“Yes, something to transport your mind from where and who and what you are. Everyone needs that. A time or two in my past, it seemed that a book was the only thing that stood between me and near insanity. I—”

He stopped suddenly, and Amanda realized that he had not meant to make such a confession. The room became uncomfortably quiet, with only the jaunty snap of the fire to intrude on the silence. Amanda felt as if the air were throbbing with some unexpressed emotion. She wanted to tell him that she understood exactly what he meant, that she, too, had experienced the utter deliverance that words on a page could provide. There had been times of desolation in her own life, and books had been her only pleasure.

They were standing so close that she could almost feel the heat of his body against hers. Amanda had to bite her lower lip to keep from asking him about his mysterious past, and what he had needed to escape from, if it had something to do with the scars on his back.

“Amanda,” he whispered. Although there was nothing lurid in his gaze or voice, she couldn't help remembering her birthday evening…how gently he had touched her skin…how sweet his mouth had tasted, how smooth and thick his black hair had felt against her fingertips.

She fumbled for the right words to break the spell between them; she had to extricate herself from this situation at once. But she was afraid that if she said anything, she might stutter and stammer like a nervous girl. The effect that this man had on her was appalling.

Mercifully, they were interrupted by the entrance of Oscar Fretwell, who knocked perfunctorily and came into the room without waiting for a reply. In his cheerful vigor, he seemed not to notice the way Amanda hopped away from Devlin, a guilty flush rising to the surface of her skin.

“Pardon, sir,” Fretwell said to Devlin, “but the runner, Mr. Jacob Romley, has just arrived. He has taken Lord Tirwitt into custody, and wishes to interview you as to the particulars of this morning's hullabub.”

Devlin did not reply, only stared at Amanda like a hungry cat that had just been eluded by an appetizing mouse.

“I must be going,” she murmured, retrieving her gloves from the fireside chair and donning them hurriedly. “I'll leave you to your business, Mr. Devlin. And I will thank you not to mention my name to Mr. Romley—I have no wish to be spoken of in
Hue and Cry
, or in any other publication. You may have the credit for felling Lord Tirwitt all on your own.”

“The publicity would sell more of your books,” Devlin pointed out.

“I want my books to sell because of their quality, Mr. Devlin, not because of some vulgar piece of publicity.”

He turned a genuinely perplexed frown on her. “What does it matter, as long as they sell?”

She laughed suddenly and addressed the manager, who waited nearby. “Mr. Fretwell, will you see me out?”

“It would be my pleasure.” Fretwell gallantly presented an arm to her, and she took it as they exited the room.

 

Jack had always liked Gemma Bradshaw, recognizing their likeness as two hardened souls who had made something of themselves in a world that offered little opportunity for the lowly born. Each had discovered early in life that opportunity was something one had to make for oneself. This realization, combined with a bit of luck here and there, had allowed them to achieve success in their chosen fields, his of publishing and hers of prostitution.

Although Gemma had started as a streetwalker, and doubtless had excelled at it, she had quickly come to the conclusion that the threat of disease, violence, and premature aging so common to prostitutes was not for her. She found a protector with enough money to finance the purchase of a small house, and from there she had established the most successful brothel in London.

Gemma's house was run with intelligence and high standards. She had chosen and trained her girls carefully. She had made certain that her girls were treated as luxury items, high quality offered at astronomical prices, and there was no shortage of London gentlemen willing to pay for their services.

Although Jack appreciated the beauty of the girls who worked at the handsome brick house with its six white columns in front and ten balconies in back, and luxurious salons and bedrooms within, he had not accepted Gemma's standing offer of a free night with one of her girls. He had little interest in spending the night with a woman who could be had for a price. He liked to win a woman's favor, he enjoyed the arts of flirtation and seduction, and most of all, he couldn't resist a challenge.

Nearly two years had passed since Jack had approached Mrs. Bradshaw with the offer to write a book about the escapades that had taken place inside her infamous brothel, and about her own intriguing past. Gemma had liked the idea, sensing that such a publication would increase her business and enhance her reputation as the most successful madam in London. Moreover, she was justifiably proud of her achievements and was not averse to boasting.

So with the help of one of Jack's writers, she had filled her memoirs with good humor and naughty revelations. The book had succeeded beyond both of their most ambitious hopes, bringing a flood of money and publicity that had quickly boosted Gemma's establishment to a level of international repute.

Jack and Gemma Bradshaw had become friends, each relishing the opportunity to talk with brutal honesty. In Gemma's company, Jack was able to discard all the social niceties that usually prevented people from speaking plainly to each other. The amusing thought occurred to Jack that the only other woman he could talk to with such freedom was Miss Amanda Briars. It was odd, but the spinster and the madam shared the same refreshing quality of directness.

Although Gemma's schedule was always heavily laden with appointments, and Jack had called unexpectedly, he was shown to her private receiving room without delay. As he had suspected, Gemma had anticipated his visit. He was torn between amusement and irritation as he saw her lounging gracefully in the sumptuous parlor.

Like the rest of her home, the parlor had been designed specifically to flatter her coloring. The walls were covered in green brocade, the gilded furniture upholstered in soft shades of gold and emerald velvet, against which her piled-up red hair gleamed like a flame.

Gemma was a tall, elegantly voluptuous woman with an angular face and a large nose, but she possessed such remarkable style and self-confidence that she was often called a beauty. Her most attractive quality was her sincere appreciation of men.

Although most women claimed to like and respect men, there were only a few who actually did. Gemma was definitely one of them. She had a way of making a man feel comfortable, of making his faults out to be amusing rather than annoying…of assuring him that she had absolutely no wish to change anything about him.

“My darling, I've been waiting for you,” she purred, coming forward with outstretched arms. Jack took her hands and stared into her upturned face with a sardonic smile. As always, her hands were so heavily bejeweled that he could barely feel her fingers through the clattering rings and stones.

“I'm sure you have,” he muttered. “We have a few things to discuss, Gemma.”

She laughed in pleasure, clearly delighted by her own clever prank. “Now, Jack, you aren't put out with me, are you? Truly, I felt that I was giving you a gift. How often would you have a chance to play stud to such a delightful creature?”

“You found Miss Briars delightful?” Jack asked skeptically.

“Naturally I did,” Gemma replied, with no hint of sarcasm. Her dark eyes crinkled with amusement. “Miss Briars came to me as boldly as you please, requesting a man for her birthday the way one would order a cut of beef from the butcher. I thought it wonderfully brave of her. And she spoke to me in such a pleasant manner, just as I've always imagined respectable women talk with each other. I liked her exceedingly.”

She sat gracefully on the chaise longue and motioned for him to take a nearby chair. In a habit that was second nature to her, she arranged her long legs so that their elegant shape was outlined by the skirts of her wine velvet gown. “Tolly,” she commanded, and a maid seemed to appear from nowhere. “Tolly, bring Mr. Devlin a glass of brandy.”

“I'd like coffee,” Jack said.