What a fool he was. How often had he seen it happen? Men in his profession went soft in the head as they went soft in the heart. Hard-hearted as he was, as he had been, he’d always believed that one day he’d be brought to his knees by a serious injury, or die by his own hand, not succumb to a woman. Yet in spite of cynicism and darkened scrap of a soul, he’d learned there was something rather delicious in surrendering to Mae, the woman who would be the death of him—if he didn’t get her killed first.
Mae studied the flat brimmed-hat black above Kitt’s forehead. “Gentlemen remove their hats indoors.”
“Yes, gentlemen do.”
“Really,” she said, “a cowboy hat? You’re a cowboy now, not a spy?”
“It’s not a cowboy hat, it’s an Akubra, the hat worn by Australian jackaroos.”
“A jackaroo rounds up cattle, like a cowboy. It’s a bloody cowboy hat. And you’re Australian now, are you, calling everyone mate, wearing that ridiculous hat? Not sure your accent’s as good as Reed’s.”
“Reed is Australian born. What did you say to Taittinger that he found so amusing?” he said, stepping her to the left.
The tip of her shoe grazed his ankle. “I told him you and Mr Case had a lover’s spat.”
“Ah, quick thinking.”
“Yes, it was.”
He spun her out, pulled her back in, and wasn’t certain if he’d lost rhythm or if she’d gouged her heel into his foot on purpose. “That, Mrs Valentine, was my toe. I know you’ve never been much of a dancer, so odds favour that you’re simply dancing and not trying to hurt me.” He looked down at her again, one eyebrow arched. “Do you want to hurt me?”
“Hurting people is your speciality.” Mae smiled and glanced at Reed over her shoulder. “If anyone wants to give you a belting, I’d say it’s Mr Case—I mean Mr Reed. I think that man really loves you.”
“That’s the only reason he’s here.”
She met his gaze, solidly. “You do have a history. Now nice. Another little morsel of your past, of your mysterious youth. You’re very much like an onion, sir.”
“Yes, my life has had many layers.”
“I meant how you make people cry.” Mae looked over at Reed again. “Is he a good kisser? He looks like he’d be a good kisser. He has a sweet smile. Do you think he’d kiss me at midnight if I asked?”
“He is not a sweet man and you’re not his type.”
“But you are.”
“And you’re mine.”
She glanced at Reed once more. “Is there anyone you don’t use?”
“Are you even trying to keep time with the music?”
“I’m helping you. I am dancing with a drunk party guest. Butlers are known for being professional regarding appropriate etiquette, while drunks are known for being unsteady on their feet.”
“Unsteady. Yes. I am. Christ, you rattle me.”
“I don’t rattle you at all. Nothing rattles you.”
She stumbled when he changed direction. He did too. “You know,” he said, “I think this is quite an aptly-titled song.”
“I’m not cold, I’m angry.”
“Yes, I gather. About the postcards.”
“As if they matter,” Mae said.
“They matter very much. The postcards matter because you’re here instead of home, and since you won’t leave I need to know if you’ll work with me.”
“What on earth do you think I’ve been doing, dancing?”
“No. You’re irrefutably not dancing.”
“And you’re not leading.
“I’m drunk. I have an excuse.” He watched her swallow and felt himself do the same. His hand pressed to the small of her back, bringing her a little closer to feel more than simply the warmth of her hand in his, or her palm pressed to his chest. The smell of her perfume drifted over him again. Sweating, he was sweating, the heat from his neck trapped beneath the collar of his shirt and bow tie, and he hissed through his teeth in exasperation. “Forward-side-together, back-side-together, forward-side-together, it’s a simple box step,” he said and she bumped into his chin and mashed his other foot. “Oh, you are hopeless. One day, I’ll teach you to dance.”
She tipped her chin, head angled. “But not tonight.”
“Yes, not tonight. One of us has a headache.”
“I hope it’s you.”
The left side of his mouth briefly quirked then flattened into something aloof.
Mae’s pale smile resembled a faint grimace of pain. “When I found out what you do, what you are, I should have walked away.”
“I should have let you go.”
“I should have given notice and walked away, gone to live in Ireland to look after Sean, but I couldn’t help myself then any more than I can now. What do you want me to do?”
“Stick to your usual routine. Basil’s going to wonder where his butler is. Reed said Grant had the flu. That’s useful. Keep it simple. Be professional.”
“I am always professional, sir.”
“Yes. You are. Stop calling me sir.”
“What shall I call you then, Mr Somerset? Ian? Major? Liar?”
Those words rattled his bones. “Before the auction tomorrow, find Grant outside. Ring the police. His death will look like suicide.”
“How do you know?”
He moved her in the simple box step, his timing perfect, his head slanted slightly.
“Set up many of those scenes, have you?”
Kitt glanced at Reed sifting past people, with Taittinger in tow. “Oh, goody. I’ll come to you later and explain what I can then, but now, I need a reason to excuse myself so I can have a better look around outside.”
“So, you’re going to ham up playing drunk even more?”
“I am drunk.”
“Ha! You never stumble or slur when you’re hammered.”
“Well, no one here knows that.” He frowned suddenly, his hold of her loosening. “You really think I’m a ham?”
“No. You’re the entire pig, sir.”
The corner of his mouth twitched again. “I have missed your honesty. Would you like to be a side of bacon or a pork chop along with me? Play up the hostility you feel a little?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you suggesting I hit you?”
“Yes.”
She snorted. “And you tell me I watch too many spy films.”
“I grant you it is unoriginal. However, it’s useful and... Yes. It would be unprofessional of you. You would never behave in such a manner, particularly at a social event such as this.”
“Oink-oink,” she muttered and Kitt moved back, taking her along in the box step and her foot slid between his, hooked his heel, the hand she’d rested at his shoulder gave a shove. He stumbled in reverse, she tripped with him, and he landed on his arse, his back hitting the wall. Mae came down across his lap, her knee grazing close to his balls. His head hit the wall. His hat came off. The little bronze sun god statue on display in a wall nicho above him teetered and fell, knocking his cheek. There was a sting to the blow, a burning on his cheekbone.
Kitt touched the spot. His fingers came away with a smear of red. He smiled and Mae scrambled to her feet, looking properly aghast, left hand to her mouth. He smiled again, broadly, genuinely. How had he not noticed that she’d removed the Edwardian diamond ring from her chain and put on the third finger of her left hand?
Music continued to play. Nearby guests fell silent for a moment, others laughed, some went on dancing and conversing.
“You’re smashed, full as a goog.” Reed helped Kitt to his feet.
Kitt kept on smiling at Mae. She straightened the neckline of her dress, and fell back to her usual butler’s calm, if not somewhat weary expression. Taittinger picked up the cowboy hat and adjusted his glasses, trying to hide his amusement. “Are you okay, Valentine?”
“Yes, I’m fine, Dr Jools. If you’ll excuse me.” She glanced at Kitt, slipped past chuckling, chin-rubbing Reed, and headed in the direction of the kitchen.
Taittinger handed Kitt the cowboy hat. “I don’t think she likes you,” he said with a chuckle.
“Jesus, Ian.” Reed shook his head.
“What? You said give her a thrill.” Kitt grinned and settled the hat on his head, pulling the brim low.
“I said dance with her, not fall down drunk with her. Bourbon on top of red wine and Dramamine is not a good idea.” Reed exhaled.
Taittinger put his hand on Kitt’s shoulder, shot Reed a sympathetic smile, and leaned in closer to Kitt, “Maybe in this case, drinking any kind of booze was a pour choice.”
“A pour choice? You’re hilarious, Tatts, but,” Kitt moved nearer, “nah.” He pulled the flute from Taittinger’s hand and downed the remains of the man’s champagne.
With a sigh, Reed took the glass from Kitt and handed it back to Taittinger. “I think I’d better take him to bed.”
SOMETIME AFTER THREE a.m., he opened the door with barely a whisper. A nightlight in the kitchen cast his shadow eight-feet tall on the cabinets and wall. His socks shush-shushed over tile and carpet, moving toward the bedrooms before his shadow turned about, and he shushed into the sitting room, stopping in front of the sofa.
A dog’s head popped up, narrow snout poking through a skin of blankets. There came a huff of impatient breath. “You would get here the minute I finally nod off.”
Kitt pulled off a knit cap and unzipped his thermal jacket. “Why can’t you sleep in a bed large enough for two adults, Mae?”
“You know why.”
“Yes, you hate to sleep alone. Except you’re not alone. A dog? Really?”
“One word from me and he’ll bite off your broken nose.”
Kitt looked at the slip of a dog beside the bed linen-shrouded slip of a woman. “Goodness me, he is terrifying.”
“I never thought to get a dog before,” she said. “Dogs are lovely. They’re loyal, trusting, and live without pretence. They are honest in what they want from you.”
“You think I’m not honest?”
“You played dead. Felix doesn’t know that trick.”
“I believed I was a dead man, Mae, and when I realised I was alive, I had postcards sent so you’d know too. You didn’t get my postcards, did you?” He removed his socks, twisted them into a ball and tossed them in the direction of where he’d left his joggers. Kitt looked at her in the half-light, suddenly remembering when she’d whispered, come home in rank, semi-darkness. He switched on the brass lamp that sat on the end table beside the sofa. “Do you know, as I lay dying my last thoughts were of you?”
Mae put an arm over her eyes. “Go away.”
“I told you we’d discuss this later. It’s later. And I know what you want.”
“You know what I want? You’re a cracker.”
“Well, am I wrong? You’re here on this couch, sleeping with a dog because you hate sleeping alone in anything larger than a peapod.”
Mae said nothing, her arm still across her eyes.
“You’re not going to give me an inch, are you?”
Her breathing remained soft and even.
“No. No, you’re not. Sod it.” Kitt scooped her up, linens and all, and set her on her feet. He stood there, holding her and the blankets tightly, and it came upon him without any precursor. His first sob came out in a hiccup, the second full of tears, the third as snotty and wet and undone as a frightened little boy waking from a nightmare.
Uncovered, Felix hopped off the couch and nudged his thigh, and Kitt went on weeping, as months of tension broke apart. Mae pressed her face to his chest, trapped, half-mummified by the bedclothes wrapped around her. “Oh, what a baby ya are,” she sighed.
“I know,” he sniffled. “I know.”
“Hush now. Hush now, Hamish.”
Kitt lifted her, carried her across the sitting room and toed open her bedroom door. Dim light spilled into the dark room. He crossed the distance to the bed, laid her on the mattress, and settled in beside her, tucking loose bedcovers around them both, wiping his face and nose. He held her close, her head on his chest. “Go to sleep, Mrs Valentine,” he said, voice gravelly with dissipating tears and a cool nose poked into his neck. Half a second later, the dog dropped down at his ankles, chin on his calf. “Don’t even think about it, Sport.”
“Felix. His name is Felix and he has a better a chance of staying here in this bed than you do, Kitt.” She shut her eyes.
“Reed said he’s something of a humper.”
“Felix likes to try exert his dominance.”
“Who’s top dog in this bed right now?”
“I am, of course, ya crybaby. And he knows it.”
“As do I.” Kitt settled his arms about her again.
Silence stretched out. Mae thought he’d drifted off. She opened her eyes and glanced up at his trim beard, at his cheek where shadowy light turned the thin, scabbing, slice the little statue had made on his cheek almost black. He was here, trying to repair, to reconnect, and she was...she didn’t know what she was. “I’m sorry I knocked you down,” she whispered.
“No, you’re not. You enjoyed it,” he said, in a wide-awake voice.
Yes, Mae had enjoyed knocking him on his arse, it had been cathartic in a way, but it was disconcerting to find pleasure in his fall. How far had she slid into the depth of soullessness? “I’m tired, shirty, and I don’t have the energy to do this or to have you try and seduce me.”
“I couldn’t seduce you if I tried.”
“Are you going to try?”
“Do you want me to try?”
Mae said nothing.
He turned her slightly, his mouth at her ear, his lips brushing the shell, and he ran fingers down her throat, into the open neckline of her nightgown and between her breasts, skimming across the edge of her nipple. “Would you like me to try?” He kissed the little hollow behind her ear and trailed his hand to the hem of her nightdress, fingers running beneath the elastic of her knickers. “Shall I touch you?”
She pushed his touch away. “That I can do myself.”
Kitt went still. “What is it you want then?”
“I want to sleep soundly, in a bed with you holding me, so that when I wake up in the morning I’ll be fresh and ready to figure out how angry I have to be. And I want...I want...” Mae exhaled. “Oh, feck.”
“What do you want, Mae?”
She twisted in his arms and sat up, yanking her nightgown over her head. “To feckin’ make love with you one last time.”
“With the dog watching? Wait. One last time?”
“Go to bed, Felix,” she said. There was a quiet thump as paws landed on the carpet.
Mae looked at Kitt for a moment and he held her gaze, yet her hands moved tentatively. She took hold of his black tee, bunching it up his chest to bare his flesh, and moved no further. He tugged the shirt off. The garment joined the nightdress on the floor, followed by his track bottoms and boxer briefs. Still hesitating, she pushed him into the mattress, pressed the weight of her naked skin to his, and kissed him carefully, as if he were a bubble she could burst. Her hands moved the same way as her mouth, her touch delicate on something fragile. A love found and lost and found again, this man found and lost and found again, it was so fleeting, so easy to break.
Kitt began to touch her the same delicate way until her caution altered to something more solid, her fingers firm, groping, grasping, pressing him close, closer, and he understood why she’d hesitated, why she went slow, why she dug her fingers into him now. The new urgency wasn’t about satisfying desire. This was about permanence. She wanted to ensure that he wasn’t a ghost, that he was here. Once she had established his intransience, she began to kiss him the way he should have kissed her when he’d arrived home from Geneva, the way he should have before he’d left her home alone with a spindly Christmas tree and fallen into a hellhole, the way he should have when she’d come out of the bathroom and found him sitting on this bed hours ago.
She kissed him long and slow and deep, and he would have
laughed at himself because a woman, this woman, was his home, his life, and it made his heart ache, his head hurt, he hurt with startling emotion that merged with pent-up desire, and the grisly images he saw when he closed his eyes—and sometimes when he left them open. With a half-sob, half-groan his mouth opened under hers. Their tongues tangled and his hands went to her breasts, fingers tracing around them. The sound of his breathing began to match hers. Mae bit his neck and stroked the length of his spine, palming his arse, pushing him as near as she could.
She was warm and soft, and he realised he was just as warm and soft—frustratingly warm and soft. His passion intensified, his hunger for her an open maw he was eager to feed, and yet, despite how he touched or kissed her, or how she’d darted her tongue in his ear and rubbed against him, that soft frustration continued. Rather than focus on the malleability, he trailed his fingers down her torso, skimming between her thighs.
With an impatient huff, Mae dragged his hand away. Kitt kissed her breasts, her ribs, her belly, kissing until his mouth met the softest, warmest part of her—and found himself just as soft and warm as before. For half a second, her breath caught, she quivered beneath his lips, and his pliable state didn’t seem to matter, but her hands moved to either side of his head and she drew him back up the path he’d taken. She didn’t want his mouth, hands, or fingers.
Kitt lifted his head. “Mae, I can’t,” he said, shifting to rest on his hip beside her, a few centimetres of space between them. “I ca—”
“I don’t want to talk.” She nudged him sideways, slid a leg over his hips and straddled him, hair spilling over one eye. “I don’t want to talk, I want to—” she reached back and grasped yielding, flaccid, warm flesh. “Oh.”
“Oh? Not, ‘what a blow to manhood, what a betrayal to virile spies everywhere’?”
“Do you really think I would mock you for being the Spy Who Can’t Get It Up?”
Forever in Your Service Page 11
