by Anne Gracie
He grinned. “I know, but it’s worth it.”
She laughed.
“So, what’s this place you need to get to in such a hurry?”
No point keeping it a secret now, so she told him everything, about Mrs. Foster and the silent partnership, about Max and Freddy, and about Bartlett and why they were going to this address.
He listened in silence and the more she told him the guiltier she felt, keeping it from him. It had been his suggestion, after all, that had begun it all. She’d thought she was protecting herself from his interference, but now it just felt . . . mean.
But not a word of reproach passed his lips.
And that made her feel worse than ever.
* * *
The shop wasn’t quite what Daisy expected; for a start it wasn’t for sale, but for lease—a five-year lease with an option to renew for another five years. In all other respects it was perfect. It even had gas connected, which meant light for working in during the dark of winter as well as heat.
“A lease isn’t a bad idea,” Flynn murmured in her ear. “Why tie up all your capital in a building?”
Because she wanted to own something. Something that belonged to her.
“If you lease the place, you could afford more staff and materials, produce more, sell more, and in five years, if you need to expand, you can.”
She could see his point. She was glad now she’d invited Flynn to inspect the building with her. He’d offered to wait outside, but she felt mean enough without adding to it. “No, come in with me,” she’d told him. “I’d be glad of another opinion.”
To tell the truth, she was more than a little nervous. She’d never spent so much money in her life—never had so much money. The sums were quite frightening for a girl who’d earned a few guineas a year plus board and bed.
Gibbins, the agent, was a small dapper man, with an accent that started off as quaite refained, but once he realized he was talking to an Irishman and a Cockney, his East End origins became more apparent and his attitude slightly superior.
The more patronizing he became the less nervous Daisy got. She soon realized he’d discounted her completely; as far as Gibbins was concerned she might as well have been wallpaper.
From the beginning, he addressed himself entirely to Flynn.
To Flynn’s credit he did nothing to encourage it—apart from looking big and impressive and beautiful, which she supposed he couldn’t help. He hardly spoke a word, left it all to Daisy. As he should.
The agent’s affectations didn’t bother Daisy, but when throughout the inspection he continued to address himself exclusively to Flynn—when she was the one asking all the questions—she finally saw red.
She poked him in the ribs. “Oy, mate! I’m the one you’re doin’ business with, not him. And I’m standing over here.”
Gibbins frowned and looked at Flynn for confirmation—which made Daisy even madder.
Flynn shrugged. “I’m just the driver.”
Gibbins pursed his lips. “Do you mean to say the property would be leased by a woman?” He was still talking to Flynn. Daisy would have clipped him over the ear, except she really liked this building. The more she saw the more she wanted it.
Flynn’s eyes hardened. “A lady, yes.”
“And I’m still standin’ over here,” Daisy said, poking Gibbins in the back.
He turned stiffly. “But I understood . . . My communication was with a Mr. Bartlett.”
“That is correct. My man of affairs,” Daisy declared loftily.
Flynn had a sudden attack of coughing and turned his back. Daisy ignored him. To Mr. Gibbins she said, “Now, are we going to do business or does my man Bartlett have to tell the owner that you refused a good offer because you was too stiff-necked to deal with a woman?”
Gibbins looked unhappy. “I don’t know . . . Don’t you have a husband who can sign for you?”
Flynn shifted restlessly. Daisy was sure he was going to say something, tell Gibbins he was going to marry her or something. She narrowed her eyes at him in a silent death threat if he said so much as a word, then said to Gibbins, “No, I bloomin’ well don’t have a husband. I do however have a very healthy bank account. Now are you going to hiver-haver around like a kid in a sweetshop, or will you give me the lease?”
Gibbins was outraged by her plainspeaking, but after a moment he nodded. “It’s very irregular, but I suppose so.” He produced some papers.
Daisy hesitated—she wanted to sign them straight away, secure the shop immediately, but documents like these could contain legal traps for the unwary, and she knew she wouldn’t understand the terminology. She took the documents. “I’ll have Bartlett look through these, then I’ll sign them and send them back. In the meantime I will take the keys.” She held out her hand imperiously.
Gibbins hesitated.
“Big mistake if you don’t,” Flynn murmured.
Gibbins glanced at Flynn, looked at Daisy’s face and meekly handed over the keys.
Daisy’s fist closed over them. She held her breath, looking disdainful and imperious, until the odious little man had gone. She locked the door after him in case he changed his mind, then expelled her breath in a gust of relief. She turned to Flynn. “I got it, Flynn. I got me a shop!”
“You were brilliant, handled him perfectly,” he said and seized her around the waist and twirled her around until she was dizzy and laughing. He let her slide slowly down his body, devouring her with his eyes.
A sudden tension filled the air. He lowered his mouth to hers, but after a brief brush of lips she twisted away, out of his arms, too full of excitement—too nervous and on edge—to let it go any further.
“Come on,” she said, panting a little. “Let’s look at it again.”
“Haven’t you already been over it with a fine-tooth comb?”
“Yes, but I had that horrible little man distracting me, and—I got a shop, Flynn!—I want to go over it all again now it’s mine. Decide what I’m going to do with it.” She was too excited to stand still.
With a rueful smile he followed her through each room again.
The shop—her very own place!—for the next five years, at least—was narrow, but it stood three stories high. The ground floor consisted of two sections, a more formal shop area with a gorgeous bay window, and a back section that was well-lit and spacious but a bit grubby and worn.
“Nothing a bit of paint and elbow grease won’t fix,” she declared. “I’ll get curtains for that bay window—velvet, I reckon. Green. Or maybe ivory. And the same to screen off the back area. And a nice thick carpet on the floor. And some elegant chairs. And a huge big looking glass with gold edging. Maybe two.”
The next floor up had big windows on two sides—the building was set on a corner block—perfect for a working area. Light was crucial for seamstresses. Of course some of them would take their work home, but most would be working here.
The back entrance led straight onto the stairs—there were two sets, one at the rear, that served the entire building, and one that just led to the first floor. “One for toffs and one for the rest of us,” Daisy crowed.
The top floor would be used for storage, and for a place for her to work. She could already see the big table she’d place under the middle window. And a desk in the corner for the accounts and order books.
“I don’t remember seein’ this.” It looked like a cupboard but when she opened it, she found a narrow set of stairs. “Where do you reckon it goes to?”
The stairs led into a long, low attic room that ran the entire length of the building. Six windows were set into the sloping roof. They were dirty and didn’t let in much light, but that was easily fixed. The room was dusty, but dry. Soap and water and a bit of elbow grease would make it a useful addition to their storage area. She glanced at the windows. Maybe even a working area.
> At one end was an old bed, no mattress, just a bed-head, four legs and a frame of sagging ropes. In the middle was a long table that could be used for pattern drafting and cutting out. A couple of broken old chairs lay tumbled in a corner.
“Oh, look at this.” A door at the end led out onto the roof. “You can see half of London from here,” she breathed. “Look, Flynn—that’s my kingdom out there. Ain’t it beautiful?”
“Beautiful,” he murmured and there was something in his tone that made her look around. He wasn’t looking at the view at all. He was looking at Daisy.
“I’m that glad you came with me, Flynn,” she said softly. “Thanks for being here, and for sticking up for me.”
“I’m glad too,” he said. “I needed to see my rival.”
“Rival?” she frowned, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“This.” He gestured to the shop, his gaze not leaving her face. “This is what’s keeping us apart, isn’t it? What you want instead of me.”
There was a long silence. The breeze picked up. Below her she could hear the rumble of the city, the cooing of pigeons. “It’s not like that,” she said at last.
“Isn’t it?” There was a thread of bitterness in his voice.
And it was partly true, she couldn’t deny it—but only partly. Gazing up into those blue, blue eyes, for once not gleaming with wickedness and laughter and arrogance, all her resolutions fell away.
It was marriage she was rejecting, not Flynn. Flynn she wanted with a burning hunger. And right now, with excitement coursing through her veins, on the doorstep of her dream coming true, she needed to show him, share this moment with him. Love him.
She stepped forward and placed her palms on his chest, feeling the strength and the warmth beneath her fingers. “I do want you, Flynn. I want you something fierce.” And she pulled his head down to show him exactly how much.
Chapter Fifteen
“Do come now,” said he . . . , “pray come, you must come, I declare you shall come.”
—JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
The moment she tasted him she realized how much she’d craved the taste of him, hot, masculine, dark and addictive. Her dreams were nothing to this.
Lord, but the man could kiss. The slow, deliberate slide of his tongue over hers melted her bones, stole the breath from her body.
She thrust her fingers into the thickness of his black hair and held him close, angling her mouth to explore him deeper. He moaned and his arms tightened around her.
Without breaking the kiss he lifted her and carried her to the table, setting her on it. Her legs opened and she wrapped them around his hips, pulling him hard against her.
She released his mouth and, panting, leaned back a moment just to look at him. His eyes were dark as the darkest night, midnight blue and yet somehow . . . hot. She reached for the buttons of his waistcoat just as he reached for the fastenings of her dress.
Their hands clashed and they laughed, and then the laughter died and she was feverishly undoing his waistcoat, undoing his elegantly knotted neckcloth and dropping it to one side. She reached into the opening of his shirt, desperate to feel him, skin to skin. Best quality linen but the neck was too narrow.
She ran her hands over him, enjoying the feel of his hard strength beneath the smooth fabric. Her fingers encountered his small masculine nipples, raised hard and wanting. She lowered her head and sucked one through the fabric of his shirt.
“God, lass, you’re killin’ me,” he moaned. “Don’t stop.”
She shifted her attention to the other one, biting it gently and smiled as he groaned again, throwing his head back. He pulled away from her a little, and without thought her thighs tightened around him. She wasn’t ready to let him go yet.
He felt it and gave her a swift smile. “Don’t worry, I’m not goin’ anywhere.” He pulled the shirt off over his head and tossed it aside. It floated to the dusty floor unnoticed.
Daisy couldn’t drag her eyes from him. Golden skinned with a sprinkling of dark hair across his broad chest, he was all hard, muscular man. “Gawd, Flynn, you’re gorgeous.” She traced the line of his chest with a finger.
“Men aren’t gorgeous,” he said but she could see he was pleased by the compliment.
“You are.” She lifted her bum and wriggled and squirmed, tugging at her skirts.
“What are you doin’?” he moaned, his hips still locked between her thighs. “God, but you’re killin’ me, Daisy-girl.”
“Sauce for the gander,” she muttered.
“Callin’ me a gand—” His words died as she pulled her dress up and over her head and dropped it on the table beside her. His gaze burned into her.
Her chemise was thin, fine cambric, perfectly plain and unadorned, but delicate enough to see through. She wore nothing underneath; her nipples would be visible. She could feel them hard and throbbing, eager for his touch.
“Now if we’re talkin’ beauty here . . .” He bent and, cupping her breast in one hand, he took one aching nipple in his mouth, sucking it through the fabric, and it was her turn to arch and moan. She clutched at his hair, kissing whatever part of him she could, her hands roaming over him, learning the feel of him.
Now her hands moved lower.
“We ought to—” The words died, strangled in his throat as her palm settled over the fall of his breeches, cupping him. Hard as he was, he hardened more under her touch. She rubbed her hand over his thrusting cock-stand, exploring the shape of him through the soft, supple doeskin.
“Don’t,” he groaned, pulling back. “I’ll explode.”
She made a sound, half laughter, half gasp. “That’s the idea, ain’t it?”
There was no breath of hesitation in her. She unfastened the fall of his breeches with fingers that were oddly clumsy. She wanted him—now.
She released him—he was a big boy, her Flynn. Her hand closed around the thickness of him.
He made a harsh sound, and she glanced at his face.
She could feel the tension in him—he was straining for control. She stroked down the length of him, light and delicate like thistledown, and he hardened even more beneath her touch. He was hard and soft—the skin softer than the finest doeskin, hard and hot beneath. She stroked him again, firmer this time, and watched as his eyes burned blacker and the tension in him mounted.
In both of them.
He was playing the gentleman, she realized dimly—letting her control how far and how fast. His body was shaking with the tension of it.
“It’s you who’s killin’ me, Flynn,” she whispered against the hot skin of his chest, because how could you not love a man like this? And yet she couldn’t let herself. It could only ever be this. It had to be.
Enough waiting. He was drawn as tight as a bowstring, she was wet and throbbing, aching for him. Her thighs trembled with the wanting. And she was drowning in his sea-dark eyes.
She positioned him, feeling the hot, blunt tip nudging at her entrance. He needed no further sign. He surged into her, a long smooth possession that shuddered through her gloriously and she arched her back, thrusting her hips up to receive him.
He moved, thrusting, pulling back, thrusting . . . over and over . . . Her body welcomed him, hot and tight, gripping him like a glove, feeling so right, so good. Shudders started deep within her as she arched and clenched around him.
His fingers touched her where they were joined and she screamed and bit down on his shoulder. And shattered around him. Dimly she felt him come, as she floated away in a hot gush of ecstasy . . . and oblivion.
* * *
Daisy lay back across the table, one arm behind her head, the other resting on Flynn’s bare chest. He was sprawled beside her.
She stretched and winced. “Ooh, we got to stop making love on tables.”
He rolled over and stroked a finger up her bare th
igh. “They have their charms—chiefly convenience—but you’re right. From now on we’ll make love in our bed. Comfort and convenience.”
She sat up and looked at him. “‘Our bed’? There is no our bed.”
“When we’re married, I mean.”
She sighed. “We’re not gettin’ married, Flynn.”
He sat up, frowning. “We damn well are.”
“No, we’re not.”
He gave her a baffled, angry look. “What the hell was this about then?” He gestured to the table, their scattered clothes.
“Not marriage, that’s for sure.” She jumped off the table, straightened her chemise and picked up her dress.
He grabbed her and pulled her around to face him. “You said you wanted me—wanted me ‘something fierce.’ So what the hell are you playin’ at—blowin’ hot and cold?”
She shook off his grip and started pulling her clothes back on. “I do want you, you big Irish lout—haven’t I just proved it?”
“Then—”
“I just don’t want to get married. Especially now.” She picked his shirt up off the floor, shook it out and handed it to him. “Put your shirt on. It’s distracting.”
He ignored her. “Why especially now?”
“I’ve got even more to lose.” She gestured to her surroundings.
“What the hell are you on about? What have you got to lose? If you marry me, you’ll be a rich woman.”
She shook her head. “Nope. If I marry you, everything I own will belong to you. That’s the law.”
“So? What difference would that make?”
Daisy gave him an exasperated look. Could he really not see? One of the girls at the brothel had been born rich. She married a handsome feller, but it turned out he was only after her money. He sold her home, took the lot and dumped her, leaving her penniless.
There was nothing she could do about it. It was the law: the moment she was married, her husband owned everything. She’d even gone to a magistrate. He’d tut-tutted and been very sympathetic, but the law was the law he’d told her, and there was nothing he could do.
