The Devil's Thief (15 page)

His
arm was wrapped around her waist tightly and he pressed his lips to her ear.
She thought he meant to say something, but he only wrapped his other arm about
her. She lost herself in her desire for him. She was no longer content to take,
but determined to give. She pressed her knees against the desk and rode him
roughly, not really sure what she was doing, and he cried out, a broken, rough
sound muffled against her ear. He began to shake, and she felt the heat of his
release inside her. It made her clench onto him in pleasure, her cry mingling
with the echo of his.

*
         
*
         
*

As
soon as he could think, Alasdair cursed himself for a fool. She’d done it to
him again, hadn’t she? Used her body to numb his mind. She had offered herself
and made him believe she wanted him. He’d taken her, and in the process he’d once
again lost himself. But he damned well wasn’t going to let her sneak out of
here like she had the other night, slipping away with the most valuable
treasure he had owned. He had her now, and she would tell him where his pearl
was. Their coupling had been wild and regrettable. But he’d needed to get her
out of his system. Now he could get down to the business of wresting the truth
from her.

Stiffly
he pulled out of her. She was so bloody hot and tight. He gritted his teeth to
keep from moaning at how painfully good every movement inside her felt. Instead
she moaned, and he smiled grimly with satisfaction. Oh, yes, she had enjoyed it
immensely, too. He knew, quite immodestly, that no other man could give her
better.

He
pulled her arms from around his neck and pushed her away, until he could scoot
out from underneath her. Refusing to look at her, he climbed down off the desk
and busied himself with rearranging his clothing.

“Alasdair?”
she asked huskily.

There
was a certain innocent hesitation in her voice that made him feel like a back-alley
seducer. Damn her! How did she do it? He was not the one who should feel
guilty. He glanced over at her on the desk, annoyed. What he saw made him
seriously think about undoing his trousers again.

She
was leaning back on her hands, still on her knees, her legs spread, her skirts
up around her hips.
Her sex was framed by soft white thighs,
white muslin petticoats, and the dark walnut of the desk
. It was quite
possibly the most irresistible thing he’d ever seen. But resist it he must.

“Get
dressed,” he ordered harshly, and she sucked in a surprised gasp. Then she
yanked her skirts down and covered herself, and Alasdair could breathe again.
She climbed awkwardly off the desk and he didn’t offer to help. If he touched
her he had no idea what might happen, but he knew for a fact it wouldn’t be her
fault.

When
she was standing in front of the desk smoothing her hair, and trying to smooth
her skirts, which were well beyond repair, he went on the attack. “I’ll ask you
again, where is the pearl?”

She
paused with her hand halfway to her hair and he noticed that it was shaking. Why
was she afraid to tell him?

“It’s
in a safe place.” Her cool response belied the tremble of her hand. He was
disgustingly satisfied when he realized she was still affected by their
joining.

“Where
is this safe place?” he demanded.

She
shook her skirts out and then leaned over and ran her hands up her legs one at
a time, smoothing her stockings. He waited impatiently for her answer.

“Here
in London,” was her vague reply.

“Dammit,
Juliet—,” he began, but she spun her head quickly to glare at him and cut
him off.

“My
name is Julianna.” She took a deep breath, clearly trying to control her
temper.

“A
thief by any other name is just as deceitful,” he threw at her.

He
refused to believe that it was hurt he saw in her eyes. She turned away from
him and said, “You may call me Miss Harte,” her voice trembling with anger.

“I
just fucked you like an animal on a desk,
Miss
Harte
,” he said. “I believe we are beyond social pleasantries.”

“I
am beginning to think you were beyond them before I met you,” she shot back.
“And whether or not I allow you to touch me has nothing to do with the pearl.”

His
anger boiled over again. “I bought your body with my pearl,” he ground out.
“And I will expect you to make yourself available whenever I want you until I
tire of you.” She gasped in outrage. “And if that is unpalatable to you, I
suggest you give me back my bloody pearl.”

“How
dare you!” she whispered vehemently. “I am not some whore you bought on the
street, Mr. Sharp. We had a bargain,
for
one night only
. My obligation is at an end. As is this conversation.”

She
tried to walk past him haughtily but he grabbed her arm and pulled her into his
side. She turned her head away, refusing to look at him, and he put his mouth
right next to her ear so she wouldn’t miss a word. “I own you as long as I know
your secrets, Julianna,” he whispered coldly. “And if you do not produce my
pearl within the next two days, everyone else will know them as well.”

She
finally turned to look at him, disdain written plainly on her face. “Well,
then, you’ll have lost the weapon you need, won’t you?” With those words she
tugged her arm free and walked out of the library.

*
         
*
         
*

Two
hours later Alasdair was still in the library.
As soon as
Juliet—no, Julianna.
Miss
Harte
. As soon as Miss Harte had walked out, he’d found Roger’s decanter of
whiskey and started drinking. He was determined to drown the memory of her
coming for him tonight, the memory of her sweet bottom thrust up in the air so trustingly.

He
hadn’t meant to ravish her. But he had been so relieved to see her again, so
relieved to have the pearl within his grasp. She’d angered him with her refusal
to relinquish it, and his blood had heated to boiling. Then his body had taken
over. And she’d responded to him. He couldn’t resist her. No man would have
been able to resist her, willing and eager in his arms, no matter that her
lovemaking was still unpracticed. She was the very epitome of temptation.

He
tried to pour himself another drink and spilled whiskey on his Hessian boot. He
was sure his valet, Evans, would have a thing or two to say about that.

“Well,
it seems everyone around me is turning into a veritable sot.” Hil’s voice
startled him and he nearly dropped his glass.

“Damn,”
Alasdair muttered. “Forgot you were here.”

Hil
came over and appropriated his glass, taking a meditative sip as he watched him
with those all-seeing eyes. “Did you? I can’t say I’m surprised. I imagine
you’re not remembering much from one moment to the next.” He held up the glass
and peered into it. “Is it helping?”

Alasdair
shook his head and felt his gorge rise. He stopped himself immediately. It
wouldn’t do to cast up his accounts on his stained Hessians. He hadn’t done
that in years, and he was relatively sure Evans would give notice if he did.

“No,
hmm?” Hil asked sympathetically. “What’s harder to forget? That she didn’t tell
you where the pearl is, or the way she looked while you ravished her on my
desktop this evening?”

Alasdair
looked at him in shock. “How did you know?”

Hil
laughed and set the glass down. “For one, my papers are scattered all about the
floor and there appears to be a rather large ink stain on my Aubusson.” He
looked at Alasdair with a raised eyebrow. “You’ll pay for that in the morning.”
He walked over and began to pick up the papers, peering closely at the desk
before putting them back on it. “For another, Miss Harte was walking rather
gingerly when she reentered the drawing room, and I cannot remember seeing a
woman who looked as though she had been so thoroughly fucked for a very long
time.”

“Don’t
talk about her that way,” Alasdair demanded, but it came out as more of a slur.

Hil
looked at him with an amused smile tipping up the corners of his mouth. “No?”
he asked. “Well, then I shan’t mention Miss Harte and fucking in the same
sentence ever again.”

“Her
father know
?” Alasdair asked in alarm.

Hil
shook his head. “No, I don’t believe so, although I’m sure it is only because
he’s her father and doesn’t want to see that sort of thing. He believed her
story about tripping and falling and spilling lemonade all over herself.” Hil
tilted his head. “Do I want to know why she had lemonade all over her person?”
He shook his head. “No, don’t tell me. It might entail using the words
Miss Harte
and
fucking
in the same sentence again, and we’re not allowed to do
that.”

“Damn
right,” Alasdair agreed in a huff.

Hil
sighed. “This is going to be more work than I bargained for, isn’t it?” he
muttered. Alasdair had no idea what he was talking about. “I thought she was
quiet and pretty and highly intelligent, with deep reserves of passion and
integrity, just the sort of girl for you. But you’re going to make me work a
little harder for it, aren’t you?”

“Got
to work hard,” Alasdair mumbled, as Hil wrapped an arm around his waist and
helped him stumble out of the library. “Got to earn what you’ve got, Hil,” he
admonished. “Don’t expect someone to hand it to you on a silver platter.” That
was good advice he’d received from his Scottish mother. “Or steal it. Don’t
steal it.” That seemed important, too, for some reason. What was Hil working
for? “Thought you had everything,” Alasdair told him, confused.

 
“I do not want what I have not got,” Hil
said enigmatically. “But sometimes I wish for what I cannot have.”

Alasdair
sighed. “Don’t we all?” he asked plaintively. Then the lights dimmed, as he
heard Hil echo his sigh.

Chapter
Ten

 
Alasdair rubbed his throbbing temple as
he leaned against a tree in front of his house, watching Miss Harte’s door. She
wasn’t going to avoid him today. He’d dragged himself over here at an ungodly
hour, even though he was worse for the drink, in order to catch her.

When
he had awoken that morning with an aching head, he had suddenly remembered his
first meeting with Julianna.

Mr. Harte had introduced them. It hadn’t
been at a ball or some other function; it had happened there on the street one
afternoon. He’d been in a rush, late for the races, and Harte had stopped him
so he could introduce his daughter. Alasdair hadn’t even looked at the girl
properly. He’d had the impression of a slight, nondescript girl, too shy to
meet his eyes. And then he forgot her as soon as he rode away. The memory
shamed him. He hadn’t seen the fire in her, hadn’t known the depth of passion
she was hiding under her unremarkable exterior. Somehow he felt that he should
have seen it. Now it was all he could see.

“Why
are we here again?” Roger whined from the stairs in front of Alasdair’s door,
where he sat in abject misery, his head clutched in his hands.

Hil
tapped his walking stick on the sidewalk. “We are here to follow Miss Harte,”
he said cheerfully. “And hopefully she will lead us to the pearl.”

“We’re
going to follow her the whole bloody, damn day,” Alasdair growled, “if that’s
what it takes. The whole damn week.” He sighed and covered his eyes with his
hand. His head really was throbbing.

Hil
tsk
ed loudly. “Really, the two of you
should learn to hold your drink. One would think you’d both been to a gaming hell
last night as opposed to a rather tame entertainment at my house.” He glanced
at Alasdair with wry amusement. “Well, tame for some.” When Alasdair gave him a
dark look, he assured him, “Yes, I know, I’m not to mention them in the same
sentence.”

“Mention
who?” Roger asked irritably. “And I don’t see why I have to be here. Can’t you
two do anything without me? Why was I so indispensable?”

Alasdair
dropped his hand and said, “You aren’t. Go.”

Hil
put his booted foot on the step next to Roger and leaned down to say, rather
loudly, in his ear, “Sharp is right. You weren’t. But I thought you needed
punishment today for your behavior last night.”

Roger
cringed away from him. “What behavior?”

“Accosting
Miss Harte in the library,” Hil answered as the door across the street finally opened.

“What?”
Roger exclaimed, coming unsteadily to his feet. He groaned, and Alasdair turned
to glare at him. “Please, tell me I didn’t,”
Roger
said, grabbing his head with both hands. Alasdair’s only response was a
continued glare. “Damn me, Sharp, I’m sorry. My only excuse is I don’t remember
it. I was cup-shot rather quickly.” He sighed. “Did I apologize to the lady? Or
is that part of my punishment?”

“You
apologized,” Alasdair told him in clipped tones. “If you hadn’t, you’d be
sporting a black eye at the least.”

“And
I would deserve it,” Roger mumbled. “I deserve it now, apology or not.”