Her Wanton Wager (11 page)

"That doesn't help either," he said.

Gritting her teeth, she gave the die another shake and let it loose onto the blotter. The cube rolled several times, her heart flipping with each motion. When it teetered on an edge, her breath caught. All air whooshed from her lungs as the die fell.

On
six
.

"Devil take it!" The words burst from her.

 "I think he already has, Miss Fines."

Her gaze cut to Hunt, who made no attempt to hide his look of satisfaction. Temper piqued, she said, "I ... I demand to roll again! You interrupted me."

"Tossing more than once was not part of the contract," he said. "I never took you for a welsher, Percy."

Despite her competitive nature, she believed in playing fair. He had the right of it, and it galled her to no end to know it. "I am not a spoilsport," she muttered, crossing her arms over her chest, "but you did interfere with my focus."

"As I said, it would not have made a lick of difference." He smiled, no doubt because everything was going his way. Which irked her further. "Come now, look on the bright side. 'Tis only six meetings. If you hadn't negotiated with me earlier, you'd have rolled both dice and might have wound up having to see me twelve times instead of six."

That much was true. Feeling slightly mollified, she said, "I suppose."

"Now about that kiss ..."

Dash it all, she'd rolled a blasted six, and she
still
had to endure another kiss from the man? She heaved a sigh of disgust. "It hardly seems fair, but have at it. Just do it quickly," she added ungraciously. "My chaperone believes I am at a sewing circle and expects me back by two."

"Then by all means, let us get on with the business." His lips quirked. "I'll try not to lose track of time."

Lose track of time? What is he talking about? He must be trying to unnerve me. Well, I won't give him that satisfaction. Once and for all, I'll prove I'm not a wicked girl.

She angled her chin upward. "Just so you know, I am no green chit. You're not the only one who has kissed me, you know."

His brows shot up.

Good.
Loftily, she went on, "I am familiar with this particular activity and how it's done. I know for a fact that it never takes more than a minute to accomplish—like the last time."

A choked sound left him. Good again. Now he knew she was no inexperienced ninny. With a twinge, she thought of Lord Charles. The man she ought to be kissing and with whom said gesture would likely be heavenly. But it couldn't be helped; she best handle herself with cool aplomb and get the matter over with.

"I'll, er, do my best not to disappoint," Hunt said.

"Just get on with it." Pursing her lips, she shut her eyes.

And nearly jumped when a warm caress slid along her neck.

"Wh-what are you doing?" she stammered. Her skin tingled where he'd touched her; she'd never known that patch beneath her ear to be sensitive. Yet sparks danced over the surface of her skin.

"Untying your bonnet." His eyes gleamed, the golden flecks in them pronounced against his darkened pupils. "'Tis a grand brim, to be sure, but surely you don't expect me to fit under there with you?"

"Oh. I suppose not."
Do not overreact. Remain calm and collected.
Reaching up, she fumbled with the ribbons; to her consternation, they were hopelessly knotted.

"You're making things worse. Allow me."

Nudging aside her hands, Hunt expertly took hold of the strings. She swallowed as his fingers brushed against her neck, the calloused pads rasping lightly against her skin. A shivering awareness spread over her, raising the fine hairs on her arms and tightening her lower belly. All of her senses chose that moment to come fully awake: Hunt's scent penetrated her nostrils— leather and male spice, familiar yet exotic.

In a rush, the dream of the catacombs came back to her, and she swayed. Suddenly, she remembered she'd forgotten to invoke the no-touching rule. "Mr. Hunt, I—"

He placed a finger to her lips. The brightness of his eyes mesmerized her. "Enough talking. Close your eyes now, Persephone, and take my kiss."

All thought fled as his hands cupped her head, held her in place. She quivered within that strong yet strangely gentle grasp. A breath rushed out, and before she could draw in the next, he kissed her. Firm, warm lips against her own. She tried to think of Lord Charles, to distract herself by recalling his elegantly worded invitation to go for a drive ... to Hyde Park ... her mind grew blurry. The lulling heat of the mouth moving over hers carried her farther and farther away from the shores of rationality.

She began to float, adrift in sensation. In pure and stunning discovery.

Then the kiss deepened, and a mysterious undercurrent stirred within her.
What on earth is happening?
she wondered foggily.
It wasn't like this last time ...
She felt her knees give out, but she didn't fall; instead, she was lifted upon something solid, and all she could do was cling to the warm, hard muscle that was anchoring her and turning her inside out all at once. Her lungs burned, she could not breathe, and when her lips parted to pull in air, he moved inside with bold alacrity.

The caress shocked her. Rocked her.

A single thought flashed in her head:
more.

He tasted of decadence, of freedom. He probed boldly, and she responded with the ungovernable need rising within her. His tongue slid against hers, and a molten wave washed over her. She moaned and the kiss tangled, growing hotter and hotter. Just when she thought she might die with the pleasure of it, he left her lips to suck her earlobe, to lick his way down her neck.

She was afire; she wanted
more
heat. A whimper lodged in her throat as he cupped her breast, fondling her through the bodice. Beneath the thin layer, her nipples sprouted, and need steamed in her veins.
Touch me there, oh please touch me—

The bright chime of a clock shot through her sensual daze.

In a single, shocking moment, several facts crashed into her awareness. She was sprawled across a desk, clinging to Gavin Hunt like a limpet to a rock. His tongue was planted firmly in her mouth, while his hand palmed her breast, his thumb strumming lazily across its hardened tip. As she registered this last fact, a shock of pleasure radiated from that wanton bud to the juncture of her thighs. A flush of wetness alerted her to reality.

Dear God.
Panic imbued her with sudden strength. She shoved at Hunt's heavy shoulders with all her might. "Let me go!"

He barely budged, but he did lift his head. His thick brown hair lay disheveled over his forehead. The laces of his shirt dangled, hair-dusted muscle visible where his cravat had once been. The buttons of his waistcoat had popped free.

Good heavens ... had
she
done all that?

The wicked gleam in his eyes told her the answer and sent a humiliated ripple over her already tumultuous senses. A pulse beat madly in her throat. If he meant to ravish her ...

"As you wish," he said and pulled her into sitting position.

She was off the desk like a shot. She yanked her bodice up, her face so hot she was certain the skin would melt from her bones.

"I m-must go," she stammered, edging toward the door. "My companion ... 'tis late ..."

"About our meetings, Miss Fines."

Meetings?
Her feelings were a fracas. Her body tingled in all the places he had touched her ... and some where he hadn't.
What has he done to me?

"Will Friday evenings work for you? I will come for you at, say, ten o'clock?"

She moved her head numbly.

"Excellent." Male satisfaction imbued that single word. Before she knew what he intended, he caught hold of her hand and kissed it. His eyes roved over her with dark possession. "I must say, I am looking forward to the next six weeks."

Not knowing how to respond, she tugged her hand free and dashed out with as much dignity as she could muster.

TEN

Returning to the Seven Dials, Gavin felt neither shame nor pride about his origins. The rookery had spewed him from her dirty womb and left him to survive or die. The way he saw it, he'd paid any filial dues he owed in blood, sweat, and misery. He kept his eyes moving, scanning the derelict buildings. Beside him, Stewart was doing the same.

Instinct—it never left you.

"Why do the club owners always insist on meetin' at The Blind Stag? I
hate
the Dials. Nothin' but cadgers and thieves." Stewart scowled. "An' blowsy bunters, to boot." 

Following his mentor's gaze, Gavin saw a drunken strumpet in the street up ahead. With a bottle of gin in one hand and a rod in another, she shouted obscenities at a boy and beat him as he huddled against a wall. A scene straight from Gavin's own childhood. Inside his gloves, Gavin's fists clenched ... but he walked on. From his own experience, he knew that interfering would only guarantee the boy double the knocks afterward.

Motherly love,
he thought with derision. Nothing hurt more.

Then his glance shifted over to Stewart, and his scar throbbed with another indelible memory. He and his mentor had never spoken of that first night in the hulks. Stewart had done what needed to be done; Gavin had never blamed him for it. After all, some things were best left unsaid, and the two of them had never had any use for sentiment. They were men of action: they worked together, fought together, and watched each other's back.

Then why did he sometimes sense that dark moment hovering between them?

"You alright, lad?"

Stewart's voice yanked him back to the present. His mentor was giving him a strange look. "I'm fine," he said. "Just, er, thinking."

"Not about that chit, I 'ope," the other man said sourly.

In truth, 'twas a fair guess seeing as how thoughts of Percy continued to plague Gavin. She mystified him. One minute, she'd showed uncommon concern for a mere street boy and the next she'd torn up at Gavin for no reason. Then she had apologized, and her sincere acknowledgement of her mistake had floored him.

He couldn't recall the last time anyone had cared to have his forgiveness (and certainly never a female). Nowadays, people feared to cross him at all—and if they did, they either hid the fact or found someone else to blame. In his mother's case, she'd found the most convenient solution of all: she'd blamed
him
for her failures.  

Percy's honesty, her obvious concern that she'd misjudged him, had blown through him like a zephyr from some exotic, sun-drenched land. His chest had prickled with warmth, pins and needles awakening a dormant part of him. In that moment, it had seemed that she ... cared. About him. Then came their kiss. Christ, the way she'd responded to him, her intoxicating taste and wanton passion—

"Don't like that look on your face, Hunt," Stewart said.

Feeling like a idiot, Gavin coughed in his fist. "I'm, er, reviewing strategy for the meeting. Thinking on how best to approach the other club owners."

"Shoot first and don't get shot," came the laconic reply. 

They approached the center of the Dials, where the seven streets collided in a celebration of depravity. Taverns faced each other on all seven apexes, and prostitutes swarmed even at this early hour to ply their trade. Bending their heads, he and Stewart entered through the low doorway of the Blind Stag. The tavern was packed with the usual crowd of riff-raffs, the air ripe with the stench of stale ale, smoke, and unwashed bodies. Pushing their way through the rowdy main room, they went upstairs to the private meeting chambers. Gavin was not surprised to see who'd been the first to arrive.

"Good day, Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley."

He bowed over the bejeweled hand the latter held out as if she were royalty. Which, in a manner, she was. Mavis Kingsley came from powerful criminal stock; her father, Bartholomew Black, was an infamous cutthroat who controlled much of the Seven Dials. Several years ago, Mavis had wed Warren Kingsley, owner of The Palace. Kingsley's club now almost rivaled the success of The Underworld, in no small part due to Mavis' connections.

Gavin exchanged bows with the richly dressed Adonis standing beside her.

"La, Mr. Hunt, such fine manners you have." In contrast to her husband's polished good looks, Mavis had a plain face, sallow and sharp-edged from a chronically frail constitution. Even her opulent gown could not hide the meagerness of her figure. "I was telling Kingsley here that we should have you over for supper soon. All work and no play, as they say."

"How kind of you," Gavin said noncommittally.

"I could arrange for a few eligible ladies to be present as well." Mavis batted sparse eyelashes. "'Tis past time there was a
Mrs.
Hunt, wouldn't you agree, Kingsley?" 

"Of course, my dear," her spouse said indulgently. "Marriage makes the man."

On the rare occasion Gavin had thought about wedlock, he'd pictured his bride as a hard, practical sort ... mayhap like Mavis, though he wouldn't suffer being led by the bollocks like Kingsley. His would be a properly submissive wife. Who'd be loyal and content with a partnership based on mutual benefit.

A woman the very opposite of the troublesome Miss Fines.

"A man makes 'imself. 'E can't depend on no one—and 'specially not one in a skirt," Stewart said tersely. "Anyone who says differently is a fool." 

Mavis gave a brittle laugh. "Never argue with a bachelor."

"While we have you, Hunt," Kingsley said, "I wanted to express my outrage at what happened to your patrons. Know that you have my full support in getting to the bottom of this."

Utter claptrap, of course. Less business for The Underworld meant more for competitors like The Palace, and they both knew it. Kingsley had always been a tricky, underhanded bastard. Years ago, before his marriage to Mavis, he and Gavin had had a "misunderstanding" over a wench. Gavin had given Kingsley a public drubbing, leaving the man weeping in the dirt like a babe. He was certain Kingsley had never forgiven him for the humiliation.