“I am glad to see you are well, Miss Thorncroft. Here are twenty thousand pages of busywork I need you to do. Please proceed with all haste, and disregard the occasional glare in your direction as I am suffering from gastrointestinal upset.”
Or something to that effect.
Waiting for the last client to leave (a husband who wanted his mistress followed as he suspected she was guilty of taking up with another lover, never mind that he was guilty of doing exactly what he was accusing his mistress of), Joanna dumped the pile of meaningless receipts off her lap and stood up, stretching her arms high above her head to work the stiffness from her muscles.
Honestly, did Kincaid really need to know what he’d paid for a slab of beef two years ago? Half of the papers would make excellent kindling, and the other half would fare perfectly fine in the bottom of a bin somewhere.
The floorboards creaked as she crossed the room and poured herself a cup of coffee. She’d made the dark brew herself, and was pleased to note it was neither cold nor strong enough to knock a grown man off his feet. After grinding the beans she had added a spoonful of burned sugar for sweetness, a trick her grandmother had taught her. The result was a coffee that was actually palatable, unlike the black swamp water Kincaid had tried to serve her.
Stirring in some thick, white cream, she blew across the top of the ceramic mug, took a sip, and then proceeded to walk straight up to his desk.
“It was the wife,” she announced in no uncertain terms. Placing her coffee on a book so as not to stain the wood finish, she crossed her arms and stared directly at Kincaid’s bent head. He was jotting down notes in that journal of his, and made no indication that he heard her. “Lady Chamberlain killed her husband.”
Kincaid’s pen paused for a split second. “It was not the wife.”
Joanna pursed her lips. “I think it was.”
He resumed writing. Then on a loud, exasperated sigh, he dropped his pen. “Why do you think it’s the wife?”
“Because it’s always the wife.” She uncrossed her arms and reached for her coffee. “If Lady Chamberlain didn’t do it herself, she hired the person who did. You said he was poisoned?”
“That is the working theory, yes. Oleander, perhaps, as his last twelve hours on earth were reportedly not very…pleasant.” Kincaid removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “The coroner should be able to confirm when the exam is complete.”
Joanna nodded. “Most definitely the wife. If I was going to murder my husband, that’s how I would do it.”
Kincaid’s brows snapped together. “Why the devil would you murder your husband?”
“The usual reasons, I suppose,” she said with a shrug.
“The usual—Miss Thorncroft,” he said in a strangled voice.
She blinked at him. “Yes?”
“You do realize you’ve just admitted to plotting murder.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said with a wave of her hand. “I’m not even married yet.”
An odd flicker of emotion passed across Kincaid’s countenance. He leaned forward onto his desk and clasped his hands together. “Still, I would caution you to consider the potential impact of your words before you speak them. And to be careful about making accusations you’ve no evidence with which to confirm.”
There was a lock of rich mahogany dangling just above his right eye. Joanna’s fingers itched to comb it back from his face, but she had a feeling he wouldn’t appreciate the gesture.
Too bad.
There were some people who desperately needed affection, and Kincaid was one of them. He was all sharp lines and defensive angles, but with the right touch—her touch—some of those peaks could be softened.
If I were to ever kiss you, I would not need to ask permission.
“I shall take your advice under consideration.” She sipped her coffee. “As long as you take mine and investigate Lady Chamberlain. A woman scorned is a powerful entity.”
“Do you speak from experience, Miss Thorncroft?” Kincaid asked, his serious gaze intent on her face and every nuanced expression that inadvertently flitted across it.
It was an experience in and of itself, she found, to be gazed upon with such ferocity. As a tall woman with bright red hair, Joanna was accustomed to men staring at her. But they never stared into her.
Except for Thomas Kincaid.
He looked at her…well, he looked at her as if he wanted to know everything about her. As if he wanted to devour every thought inside of her mind. As if he wanted to peel away her layers until he reached her soul.
What would he find, if he went that far?
What would he discover in her secret heart of heats?
Did she want him to know?
Did she even know?
Three months ago, she would have said yes. Unequivocally. She knew exactly who she was. She knew just what she wanted. But now…now with old secrets exposed, and a future that was ripe with uncertainty, and a growing attraction to a British detective who didn’t seem to like her very much, let alone return her interest, she wasn’t so certain.
About anything.
It was a very uncomfortable position to be in.
Especially for someone accustomed to being in control.
Disguising her discomfort behind a wry smile, she used her thumb to wipe away a spot of dust on the edge of his desk. “I imagine one would have to be in love in order to be scorned, and I’m afraid I have never been blessed with that particular pleasure.”
“Good,” he said, rather abruptly.
Now her eyebrows rose. “Good?”
“I…that’s not what I meant to say.” With a grimace, Kincaid raked a hand through his hair and shoved his spectacles into place then promptly removed them, polished the lenses on his sleeve, and then put them back on.
Crookedly.
Joanna lifted her mug to disguise her growing smile. This was the first time she had ever seen the detective visibly flustered, and she found it very…appealing. Maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as unaffected by her as he’d like her to believe. Maybe—just maybe—he really did like her.
“What did you mean to say, then?” she asked, placing her coffee down on the desk with a hard click that made him flinch. Her head canted. “Are you glad I’ve never been in love, Kincaid?”
“Yes. No. I…that is to say…bollocks.” Flipping his journal to a clean page, he picked up his pen and wrote with such speed the words seemed to blur. “Here,” he said, ripping the paper free. “There are supplies I need from a bookshop on the corner. Paper, envelopes, more ink. I’ve an account with the shopkeeper, you need only give him my name.”
“You want me to go now?” she asked.
“Do you’ve a more pressing matter to attend to, Miss Thorncroft?”
“No, it’s just that I thought we might discuss the Chamberlain case in more detail.” And find out why you seem relieved that I’ve never fallen in love, she added silently.
“Your position does not entail solving cases.” He stood up, walked around his desk, and held out the list.
She took it. Their fingers brushed. Heat flared between them, like the strike of a match against flint. With a startled gasp, she looked swiftly up at his face, searching for a sign that Kincaid had felt what she had. But to her overwhelming disappointment, his gaze was shuttered and his emotions were concealed.
A wall of stone would have been able to tell her more about what it was feeling, and she felt a surge of frustration at Kincaid’s refusal to reveal even the tiniest hint of desire.
“The bookstore is easy to find,” he said in a clipped tone. “Turn left, walk to the end of the street where the large oak tree is, then turn right. It will be on the corner. The white building with blue shutters. The proprietor, Mr. Bingley, is very helpful. He should have everything you need.”
As she folded the list and tucked it inside her reticule, it occurred to Joanna, somewhat belatedly, that if Kincaid hadn’t experienced a jolt of sensation when their ha
nds had collided, then he’d have nothing to hide. Maybe the very fact that his entire countenance was as empty as his foyer was actually an indication that he had felt something.
He was just better at disguising it than she was.
Joanna frowned. Thomas Kincaid presented a problem she’d never faced before. In the past, her suitors had never needed any encouragement. As soon as she had refused one, another had lined up, eager to try for her hand. Truth be told, she had never quite understood her own appeal. But she had also never questioned it, and—eventually—she’d come to take the attention for granted. Which meant she had never developed a key ingredient to any successful courtship: the ability to flirt.
Now here she was, actually wanting a man’s attention for once in her life, and Kincaid could not have been more dismissive.
It was all very infuriating.
And confusing.
And very inconvenient.
But then…when had she ever let a little inconvenience stop her? She’d sailed across an ocean in search of a stolen ring, for goodness’ sake. Surely winning the affection of a bookishly handsome (albeit emotionally aloof) private investigator couldn’t be that difficult. After all, she was, if nothing else, a problem solver.
And this was just another problem.
“Miss Thorncroft,” Kincaid said warily. “What are you doing?”
“Testing a theory.” Never taking her eyes away from his, she slowly traced a path from his elbow to the blue and purple veins on the inside of his wrist. He wore only a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled partially up, exposing his forearms to her inquisitive fingertips. “I’ve a very scientific mind, Kincaid. And I have always enjoyed…experiments.”
He expelled a ragged breath when she lightly circled her thumb around the throb of his pulse. His pupils dilated, amber eyes darkening to aged cognac. The muscles in his arm tightened, and when he spoke it was not with the tone of a man unaffected by pleasure, but one trying not to drown in it.
“This—this is not proper, Miss Thorncroft,” he rasped.
A smile teased her lips. “You forget I am an American, Kincaid. We’ve never been overly fond of British propriety.” She lifted his hand and lowered her lashes to conceal the glint of sensual mischief in her gaze as she pressed her lips to the heel of his palm.
A growl tore itself loose from the depths of his throat, and her heart thrummed wildly in response.
She’d never made a man growl before.
It was all quite wolfish…and wicked. She was tempted to do more. To demand more. But having gotten an irrefutable answer to her question of whether Kincaid felt something for her or not (it was clear that he did), perhaps it was time for a tactful retreat.
“I should go see about that list,” she murmured, turning away.
His stare burned a hole in the small of her back as she sauntered out of the room, her uncharacteristically lascivious gait empowered by the passion running hot and heavy through her veins. She closed the door then sagged against it, wondering what she’d started…and how it would end.
Chapter Ten
When Joanna returned from her errand an hour later, Kincaid was gone and his office was empty.
She’d intended to be quicker, but there had been too many books to look at. She could have easily spent half a day browsing through the shelves, particularly since the majority of the novels were by authors unfamiliar to her, but she hadn’t wanted to give Kincaid an excuse to fire her off. Despite their undeniable physical attraction, it was obvious her presence unsettled him, and she wouldn’t be surprised if he used the tiniest excuse to end their agreement and let her go.
Leaving the items he’d requested in a neat pile beside his desk, she considered poking around, but how would she explain herself if Kincaid suddenly showed up and she was elbow deep in a drawer searching for his inner-most secrets?
Better to curb her curiosity and return tomorrow. At least, that was the plan until she saw James on top of the bookshelf. Naturally, she couldn’t leave without coaxing him down for a nuzzle. That would just be rude. And when he leapt off the shelf and accidentally knocked over a stack of papers, she couldn’t not pick them up. And when she saw how woefully disorganized Kincaid’s books were, she couldn’t help but sort them in alphabetical order by title. And when she finished categorizing the books, she couldn’t very well leave before she’d cleaned up the rest of the shelves, could she?
“Miss Thorncroft, what the hell are you doing up there?”
Joanna froze halfway up the bookshelf. She’d been trying to reach the top, and with no ladder to be found, she had decided to simply climb, arranging things as she went. But it seemed she had lost track of time…and if the sharp bite of annoyance in Kincaid’s tone was any indication, he was not pleased she was still in his office.
“My job?” she said innocently, swiveling her head. Unfortunately, she’d allowed herself to become distracted by Kincaid’s return and the slight movement caused her to lose her balance. The flat soles of her ankle boots slid off the shelf. Her fingers started to slip. With a shriek, she fell backwards…and landed right in Kincaid’s arms.
He had moved across the room with lightning quickness to scoop her out of the air. Cradling her against his chest, he glared down at her, his eyes nearly black with fury.
“You little fool,” he snarled, his face inches from her own. “You could have broken your neck! What were you thinking?”
Joanna’s heart pounded like a drum inside her chest. “I was only trying to—”
“You will not put yourself in peril again!” His grip tightened. “Do you understand me?”
In the blink of an eye, he’d once again transformed into the dangerous, deadly rogue she’d first glimpsed in the pleasure gardens. A rogue who wouldn’t hesitate to slay the dragon with his bare hands and then rescue the damsel in distress.
Except Joanna was no damsel.
She was the dragon.
And it was time Kincaid tasted some of her fire.
Before she could consider the potentially serious repercussions of her actions, she grabbed a fistful of his shirt to hold herself upright, and dragged his mouth onto hers.
For a moment, he was frozen.
For a moment, everything was still.
Then his arms banded around her, and his lips parted, and the world stopped spinning as everything in it blurred, then came into sharp, stunning focus.
With a possessive snarl that was more animal than man, Kincaid shoved her back against the very same shelf he’d just saved her from. Her skirts bunched as he hitched her legs up over his hips, and she locked her ankles together as he deepened the kiss with a demanding thrust of his tongue.
Books toppled all around them. One grazed Joanna’s shoulder. She barely felt it. She barely felt anything except for a wild pulsing inside of her that had grown so loud it drowned out the sound of her own heartbeat roaring in her ears.
Heat licked across her body like a flame, burning away everything in its path.
Inhibitions.
Logic.
Self-restraint.
They were all reduced to smoking piles of ash when she arched against Kincaid, clinging to his broad back as her hard nipples scraped against his chest and a damp ache gathered between her thighs.
This was what she’d been missing. This was what she’d been craving. This was the proof she’d been searching for that passion, real, bone-melting passion, truly existed. Kissing Kincaid, being kissed by Kincaid, was like opening her eyes for the first time and seeing a midnight sky filled with shooting stars after a lifetime of empty darkness.
Her nails dug into sinewy muscle as he drew her bottom lip between his teeth. She gasped, the muscles in her belly tightening as he nipped, and then suckled, and then nipped again. Bristle scraped against the edge of her jaw when he lowered his head and skimmed his mouth down her neck, leaving a fiery trail of kisses in his wake. Her head fell back, exposing the slender line of her collarbone and lifting her breasts.
/>
He cupped a heavy globe in the palm of his hand, his thumb strumming across her nipple over the thin fabric of her muslin bodice. A strangled mewl spilled from the depths of her throat and her fingers swept across his shoulders to tangle in his hair, sinking into all of that delicious, glossy mahogany as he continued to fondle her.
She would have had their embrace go on forever if she could. But shooting stars only lasted for a moment, and after a final, lingering brush of his lips across hers, Kincaid gently set her down on her feet.
“I…” He cupped the back of his neck, his expression was adorably rueful. Like a boy who had gotten caught with his hand in a jar of sweets. “I apologize, Miss Thorncroft. I do not…I do not know what came over me.”
“Mindless lust?” she suggested dazedly.
Goodness.
Joanna had been kissed before. Charles had even touched her left breast, although he’d immediately apologized and turned so red she had feared he was going to suffer an apoplexy. Because of her previous experience, she’d considered herself—if not an expert—at least somewhat well versed in the art of seduction.
What a fool she was!
Her previous encounters had done nothing to prepare her for this. Nothing could have. It would be like describing all the colors in the rainbow to a blind person, or the ocean to someone who had never seen a drop of water. Impossible to describe, the fiery desire she’d discovered in Kincaid’s arms could only be felt. And once felt, never forgotten.
Nearly a minute since he had ended it and her body was still humming with tiny little aftershocks of pleasure. Her nipples were still aroused. The soft, secret place between her thighs still ached. And all this, from a single kiss.
It was mindboggling.
“Lust is one way to describe it,” Kincaid agreed. “Still, it is no excuse for the way in which I behaved. I should not have allowed myself to lose control, and I humbly ask that you accept my apology.”
Joanna resisted the urge to roll her eyes. He was certainly acting very prim and proper for a man who’d just had his tongue between her lips and his hands all over her breasts. She found she liked the juxtaposition between the rogue who had ravished her and the detective who was—
Bewitched by the Bluestocking Page 13
