“Were you told to seduce me?”
She swallowed. “No one told me anything.”
He still had hold of her hair; he began to wind the lock around his knuckles, forcing her to step toward him. “Pity. You can still give it a go, if you like. All this hair…” He laughed softly. “I could tie you up with it.”
She would bite his throat out first. But if he thought she was a blushing virgin, apt to be scandalized by such threats, then the advantage was still hers. She pitched her voice low. “Let go of me, and I’ll do my best.”
Now his hand nudged her chin up. His dark eyes narrowed on hers. “Oh, I don’t think so,” he murmured. “I don’t leave knives unsheathed.”
In the ensuing pause, she could see the calculations working through his expression. It came to her, very strongly, that it was better he not be allowed to finish them. Heart drumming, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.
He held still for a moment, and then spoke against her mouth, his voice obscene in its gentleness. “You’re going to have to do better than that, Mina.”
ALSO BY MEREDITH DURAN
The Duke of Shadows
Bound by Your Touch
Pocket Books
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Meredith McGuire
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department,
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ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-0094-3
ISBN-10: 1-4391-0094-2
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For groceries delivered, for help in brainstorming plots;
For Road Runner, chicken soup, and pep talks in parking lots;
For itineraries: moldarama; Phase III; the Andes and the zoo;
For offering a space heater when my hands were turning blue;
For kidnapping the modem, for yacht rock and joie de vivre,
This object from the near future is dedicated to Steve.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When a deadline falls two days before a cross-country move you discover anew that friends are the greatest secret weapon in a writer’s arsenal. Thanks to those who helped me across the various finish lines: Maddie and Elizabeth, for their astonishing generosity (and packing skills!) despite the many deadlines hanging over their own heads; Janine, for the email I reread at least a hundred times; Rob and Betsey, for bringing Christmas to me from across the ocean; Steph, Mom, Dad, and Shelley, for cheerleading. I am also grateful for my own New York heroines: the amazing Nancy Yost, the team at Pocket Books, and especially Lauren McKenna, Megan McKeever, and the eagle-eyed copyeditor who caught Mina running up a flight of stairs that did not, in fact, exist. Magical realism, or a segue into the paranormal? Thankfully, readers will not have to decide.
Chapter One
HONG KONG, 1880
Trouble walked in around midnight. She was swaying on her feet from too much champagne and had a man on each arm, though neither seemed to interest her much. Phin was leaning against the wall, nursing a glass of brandy and the beginning of a headache. He watched as her eyes skimmed the crowd. The line of red paper lanterns strung across the threshold shed a bloody light over her white-blond hair. When she spotted him, she smiled.
Loose ends, he thought blackly. A man could hang himself with them.
He handed off the brandy to a passing servant, a Chinese girl with a face as round as the moon. She balanced the tray high on her fingertips as she moved toward the exit, and he found his eyes following the glass, envying the way it coasted over the heads of the guests. A neat escape. Christ, he wanted out of Hong Kong. Every society luminary was in attendance tonight, save the governor and the American consul. As soon as he’d noted their absence, he’d known the arrest was imminent. His job here was done, no reason to linger. But Ridland had forbidden him to sail until tomorrow evening. The man was out to prove something to him. What matters is the results, Granville. Take some pride in your work; you’ve a goddamned talent.
Pride, Phin mused. He wondered if a dog took pride in heeling to its master. The chain at his throat was tight enough that he saw no need to learn to like it; it would tighten or loosen at Ridland’s direction, whether or not he saw fit to lick the man’s hand. And if results were all that mattered, he should be gone by now. There would be other agents hereabouts, as ignorant of his identity as he was of theirs, tasked to handle the aftermath. It was not his business to watch the consequences unfold.
He glanced across the room. Miss Masters was coming straight toward him, maneuvering boldly between couples who twirled like puppets to the musicians’ bidding. His brief flirtation with her had turned into a grave mistake. In the end, he hadn’t required her. Limit complications—that was his policy. Alas, he had started to realize that, in this case, his policy was the problem. Miss Masters was not accustomed to being abandoned by erstwhile suitors, and the novelty seemed to intrigue her.
As he watched, her advance overwhelmed her companions. First one, then the other, was knocked away by collisions with waltzing pairs. She seemed to take no notice. That obliviousness had probably served her well, till now. With Gerard Collins for a stepfather, she would not benefit from too much insight. The things she might learn would trouble her beauty sleep.
But the featherbrain was about to awaken into a strange new world. Once Collins was in custody, her admirers would scatter like rats from a stripped corpse. Her mother would probably try to leap out a window. Both women would learn, very quickly, what it felt like to have one’s choices torn away. He saw no good outcome for them; the mother’s family did not speak to her, and neither woman had a marketable skill. Their beauty would sell, of course, but it would not survive a few rough handlings.
The thoughts darkened Phin’s mood beyond repair. A veal calf in yoke, worrying for two lambs led to slaughter: it made for little more than a very bad joke. The women were not his concern, and flogging himself for what he could not prevent would profit neither them nor him. He turned and walked out.
Laughter and squeals swarmed the front hall. He shouldered without caution through careless elbows and dark-suited shoulders, making for a darkened corridor where lamps flickered dimly in windows left open to the humid breeze. Hong Kong was glossy and green, fragrant with flowers after the evening storm; the whole damned city smelled like a debutante.
“Mr. Monroe!”
She had followed him? Phin turned. She paused a few feet away, beneath an archway of red and black tiles; how she’d moved so quickly in that gown, he had no idea. It was tight and narrow, deeply bustled at the back, a sky blue silk that was probably meant to match her eyes. A mistake, in his opinion. Her eyes were such an unlikely hue that they really needed no complement. Paired with the silk, they took on a brilliance that seemed almost outré.
He could see why Hong Kong society disagreed on the question of her beauty. Her coloring did border on the freakish. “Good evening,” he said to her.
“Mr. Monr
oe,” she repeated, stepping forward. Her voice was breathless and distinctly triumphant, as if his name were the answer to a puzzle that had vexed her for some time. A drop of sweat curled down the delicate line of her collarbone; its progress riveted him. He had no idea why his body had the bad taste to be fascinated by hers. She looked breakable, and he was not a small man. “How does the evening treat you?” she asked. “Surely you don’t mean to retire so soon?”
He mustered a smile. “It treats me very well,” he said. “And, no, I was only going to fetch something from my rooms.” He paused, giving her an opportunity to excuse herself. Of course, she did not take it. “And you, Miss Masters? You looked to be enjoying yourself.”
“Oh, thank you very much! I was enjoying myself. Happy as a clam at high water. But as I was telling my English friends…” She glanced over her shoulder, as if only now realizing that she’d left them behind in the ballroom. Turning to face him again, she somehow managed to trip. The little hop she made in recovery brought her stumbling into his chest.
He caught her by the forearms. She smelled like a distillery, and as her eyes widened, they caught him like a fist in the gut. Such an odd shade. He would not argue with her beauty, but he preferred a woman to look like one. With her white-blond hair and huge eyes and petite figure, Miss Masters more closely resembled a porcelain doll. Alas, she could not behave like one. Dolls were mute; she chattered incessantly. He knew a way to silence that mouth.
Christ. The girl made his brain misfire. He set her away from him more forcefully than the instance required. “Have a care,” he said.
She arched a silvery brow. “A care for what?”
For falling on men in darkened hallways. For placing your hopes in a stranger. “For your balance. Stumble in front of company, and people might decide you’re intoxicated.”
“Oh, dear.” Her lashes batted. “Is that not allowed?”
He sighed. Even had circumstances not conspired against her, she would have managed to ruin herself eventually. Her little society world was perfumed and creamy, but it had its rules, and she grew increasingly rash in breaking them. “I don’t think there’s a law against it, no.” His mouth had gone dry; he paused to clear his throat. Good God, this headache was ill timed. Her glance flickered up, and he realized he was rubbing his temple. Come to think of it, this headache had something in common with her: they both grew more irksome by the moment. What had he been saying? Ah, yes. “But you wouldn’t want others to think you intemperate by nature.”
The officiousness of his tone belatedly struck him. She had a knack for inciting such asinine behavior. She was artless in the way of children or puppies; watching her, one found oneself braced for an accident. Puppies got stepped on; children fell from windowsills; Miss Masters was dancing at the edge of a cliff, and no one, not her wan, withdrawn mother or even her tyrannical bastard of a stepfather, cared to leash her.
She was protesting. “But that is so unfair, Mr. Monroe! I drink nothing but champagne, which is very respectable indeed. And if I’ve had a bit too much—why, then it’s only to anesthetize my boredom with the company!”
He laughed despite himself. Occasionally, he came near to being convinced that she was having everyone on with this empty-headed routine. Certainly, from another woman, the remark would have served a masterful set-down to his pomposity.
But no, she smiled along with him, sunny and vacant, ignorant of her success as a wit. “Unless you propose to entertain me?” As her eyes dropped to his mouth, his laughter died. She had better watch out. “Oh,” she said softly, “Mr. Monroe—you have such lovely lips.”
And then she launched herself at him.
At first, he was too surprised to resist. She was forward, yes, but he hadn’t expected a seduction. Not that this was seduction, precisely—she grabbed his hair and pulled down his head with all the subtlety of a crank. Her lips banged into his so forcefully that he anticipated the taste of blood. He pulled back in simple self-preservation, and she followed him, her breasts pressing hot and soft into his chest. The small, breathless noise that burst from her lips bypassed his brain and went straight to his balls.
No. He was not going to kiss her back. She was a reckless, harebrained child, and if he dreamed of her, it was only from boredom.
She opened her mouth and he felt the wetness of her tongue. He took her by the elbows, intending to push her away, but her skin, so astonishingly soft, scattered his intentions. He stroked his thumb down her arm, just to make sure that he wasn’t mistaken, that it really was as smooth as his midnight thoughts had suggested. She moaned encouragement. God save him, but no doll had ever made such a noise. And she was twenty, not a girl.
To hell with it. His mouth opened on hers. She tasted of champagne and strawberries. Her small body, so sweetly curved, pressed against his. The top of his head seemed to lift off. Sweet, so much sweeter than he had expected; she was sinuous as a flame, writhing against him. Her hands pressed into his shoulders, persuading him to step back against the wall. She needed a lesson in subtlety; she needed to be taught some truths about the world, quickly, before the morrow came. He would be glad to teach them. It would be a favor to her—
What the hell am I doing?
He thrust her away, breathing hard. She stumbled backward, and his idiotic hands reached out to catch her; he balled them into fists and made himself wait.
She caught her balance against the opposite wall. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly; her eyes were wide. “Dance with me, Mr. Monroe?”
Good God. He ran a hand over his face, up into his hair. She had no sense whatsoever. That, or rejection was simply unfathomable to her. He sought for some remark that would recall her to propriety, assuming she even knew the meaning of the word. But his body mocked him and his brain felt like sludge. He settled for, “I beg your pardon?”
“My friends from England were complaining of how poorly Americans dance.” She reached up to finger the diamond teardrop dangling from her ear. She had recovered herself now; her manner was perfectly casual, as if she hadn’t just given him a taste of her tongue. “I simply cannot agree. I dance very well, and I feel sure you do, too. Shan’t we prove it? For America, sir!”
Perhaps he was wrong to underestimate her. Certainly, to his continued astonishment, he was a damned fool to overestimate himself. “I don’t think that would be wise.”
She frowned. “Why not? Because I kissed you?”
He glanced down the hallway. “Precisely, Miss Masters.” At this rate, someone was going to catch them together. That was the last thing he needed. Maybe a bit of plain speaking would serve where manners had not. “Unless you have a burning desire to be fucked against a wall.”
The image those words conjured made his own voice hoarsen, but the language did not seem to register with her. “Well, I would never wish to do such a thing in a ballroom,” she said, and took his arm.
He should have used a more genteel word; it was clear that she hadn’t taken his meaning. Or maybe she’d taken it all too well, for her grip was strong, as though the last shred of maidenly decorum had abandoned her. Either way, she was a force of chaos, and her insanity was contagious; he was letting her tow him down the corridor toward the ballroom. He felt thoroughly light-headed.
A dance, then. Simple enough. He could keep his hands to himself for one dance, even if he had to bite off his tongue to distract himself. It wasn’t as if he actually had anything to fetch from his rooms. And God knew, if he tried to act on the pretense, she’d probably follow him into his bed.
The music came spilling out to greet them, much louder than before. Aggressively loud, in fact. He found himself flinching from the clamor as she drew him inside. The current set was concluding. She said something, but he could not make it out. Why was he humoring her? His head ached. She was needless temptation, pretty flesh wrapped around a brain filled with air; there was nothing in her for him but a whole lot of trouble.
The dancers were parting ways. The next
set was soon to begin. She turned to him expectantly. When he did not immediately extend his hand, she reached for it. He realized something was wrong when he couldn’t feel her fingers.
He drew a breath, and the floor rocked beneath his feet.
He staggered backward, dimly registering a collision. A cry. The world disassembled, then swam back together. Miss Masters was mouthing something. It felt like twin screws were being forced into his temples. God in heaven. Was this some new variation on malaria?
The girl’s face grew very large. Leaning toward him, that was all. He struggled to focus. Her visage faded in and out. God, he was cold. “Are you all right?” That was what she was asking.
As darkness washed over him again, he realized that malaria did not strike so suddenly. The image of the brandy flashed through his mind, the glass gliding away from him, its contents sloshing. Half full. Only half. “No,” he managed. He was not all right.
He’d been poisoned.
He fell forward, straight into Mina’s arms. His chin slammed into her nose, pain, good Lord, she actually saw stars, and then his chin was settling onto her shoulder. It took a moment, through the shock, to work out what was happening: she’d caught him beneath the arms, quite by accident. He was too tall and too heavy; his knees were buckling. He was going to pull them both to the ground.
She leapt away. He plummeted, face-first. His head bounced against the floor with an awful crack that promised blood. She stared down at him. A few feet away, someone screamed. Silken trains hissed across the floor, ladies whirling to gawk. For three weeks, she had been waiting for Phineas Monroe to fall at her feet. But he had proved to be unnaturally graceful, immune to gravity and flirtation both. Naturally, when he finally succumbed, he did it in the most vexing fashion imaginable. For all his charms, he was, after all, a man.
Dimly, she registered the faltering of the orchestra. That was fine with her. Their Beethoven had sounded a bit tart; only the cellist really deserved a hearing, his bow flowing down the strings like honey off a spoon. She sank to her knees as people began to crowd in around her. “Drunk,” someone guessed, but Monroe had seemed sober enough to her, although he was out cold now; a pat to the face could not rouse him.
Written on Your Skin Page 1
