The Dark Seduction of Miss Jane

by Amanda McIntyre

  “Excuse me?”

  “Come now, by now your encounters with Clarice have proven—how shall I put it—enlightening?”

  “That’s absurd. Where are you hearing such vicious rumors?” Agitation rose in her voice.

  “Here and there, Miss Goodwin. I’m sure they are merely gossip.” He tossed her words back to her. Still, he was relieved that it was not Jane, at least, causing troubles between Clarice and Jonesy.

  “I prefer men.”

  “Duly noted.” And pleased to hear it, he thought.

  “Now, can we get back to these notes?” He studied her. “That is why you came today, isn’t it?” What he wanted to ask was why she was nosing around McFarland Manor, pretending to be something she was not. Had her experiences not proven that she had not the expertise or skills in this little game she insisted on playing? Though he didn’t trust the man, and had a hunch that Vladimir was likely the culprit sending her the notes, he had no viable proof yet. What he had discovered was Vladimir’s admiration for young women was not exclusive to London.

  “Tell me why you think that the two are not related,” she said changing the topic

  He sighed. If it would keep her out of harm’s way, he’d tell her anything. “Let me see if I can explain.” He walked over and spread the notes out on the table. She came to his side, her breast brushing against his arm as she leaned over to share his view.

  “Are you an expert in handwriting?” She reached for one of the notes and held it up to the light.

  “Nothing quite so mystical. Simply years of experience. It is not difficult to discern certain nuances when it comes to penmanship.”

  He caught the soap and lavender scent of her skin and he fought the desire to bury his face in her neck and nuzzle the sweet flesh. He plucked the note from her hand and placed his attention entirely on deciphering the scribbled handwriting. “Our stalker, if you will, is obviously a man of distinction, perhaps well-educated. Look at how his J’s loop with an almost artistic flair.”

  “Perhaps a performer?”

  He cut her a look. Did she know more than she was sharing? “True, there is eloquence to his wording. A common criminal would surely use broken or misspelled words.”

  “Unless the suspect was purposely trying to throw us off his trail.”

  “Miss Goodwin.” His patience wore thin. “May I remind you, we are discussing the notes. Which have nothing to do with the murder case.” She stared up at him and raised an impervious brow.

  She was a stubborn woman. He sighed. “For the record, our findings have determined that our suspect in the embankment case is most likely someone of lower social status, and not”—he pointed to the notes—“someone who can write like this.”

  Her blue eyes narrowed on him. “Surely you’re not implying that eloquence is a proven basis for determining the profile of a killer, are you?” She paced across the floor and back, pinning him with a curious look. “Forgive me, but isn’t that thinking rather stilted?”

  He did admire her spunk—to a point. But his years of experience in investigating crimes required little defense. To play along, he posed the question to her. “What you have to ask yourself is why would a man of stature kill poor women at random?”

  She held his gaze and he could fairly hear the gears turning as she absorbed the question. He’d not intended to discuss the murder case with her, and yet she’d managed to pick his mind with her insatiable curiosity. “But if you have not yet been able to identify the body parts, how can you know their social status? Is it too far outside the realm of possibility to think that a man of stature, one well respected my many, could be as twisted inside and capable of these insidious acts?”

  Her remark cut to the quick. He had to remind himself that she had no knowledge of what his father had done, or about his horrific past. However, she’d managed to challenge his by-the-book reasoning. Bloody hell! What should have been so obvious a possibility, based on his own life experience had, until this moment, eluded him. Perhaps he’d turned a blind eye for personal reasons. A dangerous thing, and even more so, that it took an untrained and stubborn woman to make him see it. It compelled him to ask if she had a theory, regardless of how novice he thought it might be. “Why do you feel that these notes are from the same person who is the subject of my murder investigation? The fact that no one has come forward to report a missing person indicates that the victims were, in all probability, poor. In all likelihood, they’d been living on the streets.”

  “And I maintain that if all you’ve found are parts, how do you know who your victims are? Or if they are one in the same, scattered about?” She regarded him with a surprised look and picked up the second of the three notes. “Look, there…and there. At first, I thought it was dirt, but upon closer inspection, they appear to be bloodstains. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but have there been any other body parts discovered since the last note that I received? I’ve seen no such reports in the papers.”

  He picked up the note and strode to the window. The woman was off her bloody rocker. He’d scrutinized that note, read it at least twice and seen…his eyes narrowed. At the very corner of the page there was a smudge—dirt, perhaps. Blood, maybe. More than likely food stains. The point, however, was that he’d missed it altogether—a clear indication that his mind had not been on task. He glanced over his shoulder and found her temptingly close—so close that he wanted nothing more than to pull her to him and forget this conversation entirely. He blinked away his lust-filled thoughts. “And when did you receive this last note?”

  “Sometime between last night and this morning.”

  This meant one of two things, if her theory was true. He should be hearing from Willoughby soon, and if so, Jane might well be in greater danger than he originally thought.

  “You need to let this go.” He dropped the note and gently grabbed her by her shoulders. “It is imperative that you let me take care of this now.”

  She regarded him, a small crinkle forming on her brow, and then shook her head and pulled away, turning to gather her things.

  He touched her shoulder. “What are you doing?” he asked, watching her tuck her notes in that journal she carried like a bible. “I’m afraid I need to hold onto those notes.”

  She held the book to her breast. “These are my property, part of my investigation.”

  “You are not going to continue this investigation, madam. Now, please give them to me.” He held out his palm. Her rudimentary sleuthing skills were a delightful distraction, but her damn stubborn nature had grown infuriating.

  “I thought that you would perhaps see the value I lent to the investigation with my findings. Foolishly, I had hoped we might be able to help each other. I thought you were different, more progressive in your thinking—a kindred spirit in adventure. But apparently, I was mistaken. It appears you view women in the same light as most narrow minded men I’ve known.” Her blue eyes flashed indignantly. “Oh, you listen politely, your tolerant smile masking what you really think. And when we’ve finished, regardless that what you hear has one shred of worth, you instead pat us dutifully on the head and put us back up on your little glass curio shelf until such time as you wish to play with us again.” Her knuckles were white as she gripped her journal to her breast.

  “Ballocks, Miss Goodwin. You couldn’t be more wrong.”

  “Am I?”

  He closed his eyes. “Aside, madam, from your penchant for being overly dramatic, you are being both stubborn and irrational. If you do not hand over those notes, I may need to find a reason to bring you up on charges.”

  Her cupid-bow mouth dropped open. Contempt shone in her fierce gaze.

  “On what grounds?”

  He dragged his eyes from her mouth, his brain fumbling for a valid answer when in truth, he had damn little and he knew it. A thought popped into his head. “Withholding potential evidence in a murder investigation,” he rattled off, hoping there was such a thing on the books.

  More surp
rise. “Do you mean to stand there and tell me that you now admit there might be a connection? Why else would any information I have be of value to you? Further, do you have designs on taking the credit for what we’ve discussed today?”

  “Miss Goodwin,” he said, struggling to keep his voice calm. “The information you have has no meaning on its own merit. But as I’ve made quite clear, I cannot rule out any possibility.” He took a step toward her. “And for the record, I am not a man who places women in curio cabinets. I happen to prefer a woman with a mind of her own.”

  She pressed her lips together and stared at him. The air around them went still.

  He tried not avert his attention away from her chest rising and falling beneath the simple white blouse she wore tucked into her sensible black skirt.

  “Bloody hell,” she muttered and, grabbing his face, pulled him into a searing kiss that sent his libido soaring.

  Reaching blindly for her arms, he pushed himself away to right his equilibrium. Those eyes held his, challenging him—a siren’s song to his weary soul. One more kiss. He shook his head, backing her to the wall, lifting her arms over her head. She’d destroy him and enjoy the process, he was certain. God help him. He wanted to carry her to his bed, drop her on those rumpled sheets, and finish what he’d started that night at the Manor.

  “Let me help you. Let me have my story,” she whispered through her shaky arousal.

  He couldn’t resist her like this, willing, warm, vulnerable. He nuzzled the sweet spot beneath her ear, driving himself mad with thoughts of kissing her again. She turned her head, giving him access to the warmth beneath her jaw. He drove one hand into her hair, tilting her head to trail kisses down her throat, and with the other fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. He nearly cried for joy when the fabric parted and her sigh wafted across his cheek. He touched his fingers to her soft lips, drawing them down her slender throat. Her pulse, erratic to his touch, filled Randolph with the desire to rip the blouse from her body and send those tiny pearl buttons skittering across the floor. He took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut to block the dark need washing over him.

  She touched his cheek. “Please…Randolph.”

  “No, I can’t. I can’t. It’s too dangerous,” he ground the words out through clenched teeth. He touched his forehead to hers, staring down the opening of her blouse, his thumb tracing back and forth across her collarbone, his memory scorched with the vision of her in the corset, those perfect creamy swells of flesh waiting to be worshipped. She touched his chin and raised her mouth, melting her lips against his in wanton need of another kiss. He was lost.

  “This isn’t going to change my mind,” he whispered fighting his baser urges, demanding another kiss instead, savoring each exquisite taste. He wanted to tell her everything—how he hadn’t been able to erase her from his mind, how she’d plagued his dreams. He grew harder with each sensuous kiss. His fingers itched to cradle those breasts, to kneel at her feet and undress her piece by piece.

  Suddenly, she grabbed the back of his hair and yanked his head to look at her. “Do you think I would use my body to get what I want, inspector?”

  He already knew the answer to that. “Is that a challenge?” He held her defiant gaze for a heartbeat and then brought his mouth down on hers. The sound of the heavy rain battered the window glass. His desire skated on the thin edge of reason as he threaded his fingers through her short tufts of hair, holding her face to his, relentless in his need to taste her mouth over and over. She was divine, unafraid, giving as much as she took. He knew she’d be a fierce lover.

  She tugged his shirt from his trousers, her fingers frantically moving toward the button of his waistband. Reality slapped him with startlingly clarity. He couldn’t do this. “No, Jane. This cannot happen.” He clamped his hand on hers, and brought it to his lips as he reeled in his blind lust. He was desperate to reveal that she’d been with him that night at the manor. But the possibility that she’d find him a bastard of the first degree kept him from telling her the truth. She deserved better than this, better than him. But God, he burned for her with an unquenchable fire.

  She looked up at him, searching his eyes. “What if I were to tell you that I’d found a way to get close to Vladimir?”

  He searched her eyes, the question halting his libido with alarming speed. She was good. He took a step back, straightening his clothes, deliberate in refastening his waistcoat. He held in a smile, trying not to let the sting of her sudden change affect him. He wondered how long he could keep up this façade. “What do you mean, Jane?”

  “The interview I told you about?

  He nodded, playing along as though he didn’t know anything.

  “It was with Madam McFarland.” She attempted to smooth back her short-cropped hair that he’d mussed. She quickly rebuttoned her blouse. Suddenly, all business.

  He knew that she’d defied him and he wasn’t sure how to take the fact that she was admitting it to him. “I asked you not to get involved and you went to the manor, knowing that the paper came from there?”

  “I am an investigative reporter. What would you have me do?”

  “Listen. Stay out of trouble. Try not to get arrested.”

  “So, now you’re going to arrest me for helping you?”

  He closed his eyes against the dizzying combination of lust and frustration.” If I thought it would keep you out of trouble, then I just might.”

  “Then you won’t like what I’m about to tell you.”

  “Then perhaps you should reconsider whether it is wise to speak further.”

  Her eyes glittered, though he wanted to believe it was residual passion. Her mouth, looking well kissed, challenged his last brain cell. He swore she was baiting him.

  He sensed her hesitancy when she glanced away before continuing. “Wesley managed to arrange a dinner interview with Vladimir. At some point, the best we can figure is that he placed us both in a trance of some sort.” She averted her eyes, placing her hand over the neck of her blouse. “All I can remember is following him to his suite, and thinking this was a quiet place to do my interview.”

  Fascinated that she would be willing to reveal this information, knowing how he would react, made it difficult to separate the personal side from the professional. As much as he wanted to know what happened, at the same time he steeled himself that she may well have pulled the same stunt with Vladimir as she’d done just now with him.

  “He made me undress—“

  He raised his hand to halt her explanation. “I don’t need to hear anymore. What you did with Vladimir in private is no concern of mine.” It was a boldface lie, and the thought alone of Vladimir’s hands on her outraged him. But his feelings about the man—or hers—were not the issue. “Whether or not you feel violated by his actions, as deplorable as they are, it does not make Vladimir a murderer, and quite possibly not the one sending you notes, either.” He fought wanting to scream at her for taking such a risk. “Perhaps he’s just a very lonely middle-aged man.” Knowing he had no right to ask, he couldn’t help himself. He had to know. He curled his hand over the back of the dining room chair and stared at his boot. “Did he touch you, Jane?”

  “I thought you didn’t want to know any more,” she stated softly.

  “I need to know if he violated you against your will.” Randolph scratched the back of his neck. This was ridiculous, he told himself. There was nothing but unadulterated lust between him and Jane Goodwin. He had a job to protect her, as he would any citizen, that’s all.

  There was a silence, and when he looked up, she’d turned to the window.

  “It was not entirely against my will.”

  A part of him died inside. Randolph chewed on his lip, his patience stretched thin. “Meaning what, exactly?” Why should you care?

  “Vladimir told me that even though I was in a trance, his power can only tap into my subconscious.” She glanced at the floor.

  Randolph squeezed the chair rail until his knuckles turn
ed white. “Bollocks, Jane. This from a man who is trying to justify that he had to use hypnosis to get what he wanted?” Thunder rolled in his veins. “The point is…” he sputtered, barely able to get the words out of his mouth. “Did you like it?”

  “What do you mean?” She turned to face him, confusion etched on her face.

  He met her eyes, searching them before frustration broke loose, slicing him wide open. He rushed toward her, watching her eyes grow wide as she backed away from him, impeded by the wall. He slapped his hands on either side of her, caging her between his arms. “Let me make myself perfectly clear. Did you enjoy being with him?”

  She looked at him, her gaze filled with a mix of fear and sadness. She shook her head. “I don’t remember. He had me in some kind of trance. I was brought out of it by Wesley knocking on the door to the suite Vladimir had taken me to.” She licked her lips, hesitating before she spoke. “I wouldn’t have gone with him had I been of sound mind.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” he challenged. “How far would you go, Jane, to get your story?”

  Her gaze narrowed on him, and she raised her hand preparing to slap him, but he caught her wrist. “I’ll say this one more time. Stay away from Vladimir.” His body trembled with frustration, barely able to stand the thought of any other man’s hands, most especially Vladimir’s, on her. “Do you hear me? Stay away from him.”

  She nodded. Her piercing blue eyes seemed to look straight through him. “And what of the other man?”

  His eyes cut to hers. “What…other man?”

  “The man in the Crimson Suite. The man in the mask who forced me to wear a blindfold, who did unspeakable things to my body. What about him? Is he, too, dangerous?”

  Did she know he had been her mysterious lover? Was she keeping that information to herself, waiting for an opportune time to use it? He could acknowledge she’d seen another man, but that would present more questions and he wasn’t able to address them now—if ever. He wanted to answer her, to lay the bloody truth on the table and be done with it. The truth was, that man in the Crimson Suite was, indeed, far too dangerous for her. He’d take her heartas he had no heart of his own to give. “Don’t go back to the manor, Jane. You don’t belong there.” He left it at that and prayed she would, too.