“Eve,” he moaned, and his hands settled atop the crown of her head. The pins slipped free, and her hair tumbled about them. She gasped as he dragged her to the vee of his thighs. His shaft thrust hard against her belly. Then he reached between them and slipped a finger inside her wet center. “You are so beautiful,” he said on an agonized groan.
Her legs buckled, and she cried out. “I’m not.” Her head lolled against his shoulder as he slid that long digit forward and out, mercilessly teasing the swollen nub. “B-but when I’m in your arms, I feel as though I am.”
“There is no one like you,” he countered, and slipped another finger inside her tight channel.
Eve bit her lower lip and arched into his expert caress. Their bodies moved in a harmonious rhythm until logic and reason ceased to exist and there was only feeling. A steady pressure built at her center, and she quickened her own thrusts. “Calum?” she asked, his name a shaky plea. She was so close. So incredibly close to some magical precipice. Then he withdrew his fingers.
Her legs buckled, and she cried out at the gaping loss left.
Calum tugged free his boots and then, shoving his breeches down, stood before her in all his naked splendor. The sight of him would surely shame a proper lady, but instead the length of his throbbing shaft, pressed hard against his flat belly, liquefied her.
She held her arms open, and with a groan he covered her body with his own. His lips came down over hers again and again, and he lay between her legs. The feel of his manhood against her downy curls fueled her ardor. “Please,” she begged, not knowing what she needed, only knowing she’d been so close before and needed to make that climb again.
Calum responded by slipping inside her honeyed channel.
A long, shuddery, unending moan spilled from her lips as in a dual torture, he toyed with her swollen nub. She lifted her hips, needing more of what he promised. “I’ve never felt anything like this,” she rasped.
“Eve,” he begged, “I’m trying to go slow. I don’t want to hurt you.” He slid in another inch.
With fingers that shook, she brushed back an errant brown curl from his damp brow. “You could never hurt me.”
He captured her wrist and dragged it to his mouth, kissing the sensitive inseam where her palm met her arm. Little shivers of warmth radiated at the point of contact and raced a path up her arm. “Forgive me.” He swallowed her sharp cry with a kiss.
Pain burned where there’d previously only been numbing pleasure. She went absolutely still, afraid to move. His shaft, impossibly long and hard, throbbed. Well, drat. He’d been correct. Clenching her eyes shut, she concentrated on breathing. “Th-that d-did not feel as good as th-the other preceding parts,” she managed on a shuddery smile.
“Oh, Eve,” he whispered. He touched his lips to her brow, and the tenderness of that caress brought her eyes closed. Calum slipped his hand between them and found her once more.
Eve gasped as he teased her nub, and a forgotten hungering stirred to life. Her breath came in shallow spurts, and all her senses became attuned to that back-and-forth glide of his fingers.
Then he began to move. Eve stiffened, braced for the agony of when he’d thrust inside. Only—a low moan filtered past her lips—a searing pleasure remained. He filled her, the slow drag of him inside her sheath, teasing. Tempting. Eve lifted her hips, matching his thrusts, and as he quickened, all pain fled. She closed her eyes and gave herself completely over to him.
Lifting her hips in wild abandon, Eve wrapped her legs about Calum, urging him on. “Calum,” she pleaded as he brought her up again, higher and higher. The sound of his name seemed to fuel him. His movements increased with a franticness that had them panting.
Perspiration glistened on his brow as he deepened his thrusts. “Eve,” he groaned. “Come for me, love.” He captured her mouth. Desire swarmed her senses as she pressed herself close, scorched by the feel of his bare skin against hers.
He plunged once more, and with a piercing scream, she exploded in a burst of white light. Calum’s hoarse shout mingled with hers, and he stiffened, then came inside her in long, rippling waves. Then, on a primal groan, he collapsed atop her.
Eve’s heart pounded loudly in her ears, and she held him, not wanting to lose the feel of him in her arms. She struggled to draw air into her lungs. Even if it was a struggle to breathe.
“Forgive me, love,” he murmured against her temple.
Calum rolled them over so she lay draped atop him in a tangle of limbs. Then he began smoothing his palm in small circles over her back. Her lashes fluttered, and she burrowed against him. “Mmm.”
“You are a siren, Eve,” he whispered, moving his hands lower.
“Do you know sirens are—”
“Dangerous creatures?” he interrupted, his eyes closed, those beautifully thick, dark lashes concealing his eyes. “I do.”
Her heart had slowed to its natural beat, but now it picked up a cadence, and she propped her chin on her hands. “You are so familiar with the sirens?”
Pfft, I’d never be foolish enough to be lured by a woman that I’d smash myself against rocks . . .
His cocksure voice of long ago whispered forward. He remembered.
“I know enough to know that they were tempting creatures who made a man forget logic,” he supplied, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from asking him more, from seeking answers about the time they’d shared together and whether it had mattered to him as it had her.
“And is that what I’ve done?” she asked, searching her eyes over the relaxed planes of his scarred face. “Made you forget logic?”
His lips broadened in an endearing, boyish grin that wrought havoc on her heart and senses. “Not enough to forget the appointments we have tomorrow with our vendors.” He softened that with a gentle kiss.
She laughed and laid her cheek against his chest, so she might hear that steady beat of his heart. “Are you attempting to talk business with me, Calum?”
He leaned his head up. “Unpardonable?”
“Hardly.” For in this moment, they were more than just lovers . . . they were again friends and partners, and after years of being alone, joy filled her. And while he discussed their plans for the coming week, she smiled.
Chapter 15
Eve should have been thinking about her upcoming meetings on Lambeth Street. She should have been filled with a deserved terror at being outside the Hell and Sin. The only news now written in the newspapers pertained to the Missing Heiress. The tale of a devoted brother, a powerful duke, doing all within his power to locate his cherished sister, had fed the ton’s need for gossip. According to those columns, Gerald had also taken to hiring Bow Street Runners to have her found.
And yet, the following morning, seated on the bench of Calum’s well-sprigged coach, Eve sat in breathless anticipation thinking of only Calum Dabney.
As a young girl, she’d had a reverent awe for Calum. He’d been fierce and unafraid, despite the peril he faced every day, but he’d never treated her with unkindness for her birthright. He’d treated her with more kindness than even Gerald, her own brother, had ever shown her. More, he’d treated her not as a duke’s daughter, not a wealthy heiress . . . just a girl. And for it, he’d captured a sliver of her heart.
Years later, Calum Dabney held her in thrall for altogether different reasons: for the future he’d built himself and for so many others who found employment at the Hell and Sin, for giving her and other women the opportunity to take on honest work, when most men of any station were content to relegate ladies to the role of dutiful wife and broodmare.
To Calum, she was not simply the Ugly Heiress, valuable only because of the fortune her father had attached to her. Instead, she was a woman he’d found capable, whose judgment he trusted enough to have her visit the men whom he conducted business with. Yet, unlike her ruthless brother and late father, he didn’t see her strictly as the keeper of his books. He asked about her interests and her past, as one who seemed to g
enuinely care about the person she was and had been.
And he desires me . . .
She touched gloved fingertips to lips that tingled with the remembrance of Calum’s embrace. His kisses. His arms wrapped about her.
Eve slid her eyes closed. Perhaps she had traces of Gerald’s wickedness in her soul, after all.
The click of the door latch filled the carriage. Heart thudding, she looked over in breathless anticipation. Disappointment assailed her. “Oh,” she blurted as Mr. Thorne’s tall, slender frame filled the entrance. You nitwit with your loose, runaway tongue.
Mr. Thorne gave her a long look.
“Good afternoon,” she said quickly as he hauled himself inside. Perhaps he’d not heard her overall disappointment at finding Calum’s company unexpectedly replaced.
Calum’s partner settled himself onto the opposite bench and recoiled. He sniffed the air before settling his gaze on her. But not before she detected the manner in which he wrinkled his nose.
She sighed. Having applied some of the mixture she’d made late last evening, she had her noxious odor back.
“Did you expect someone else, Mrs. Swindell?” He shot a hand up, and the carriage rolled onward.
If it were possible to die by blushing, the heat scorching Eve’s entire being was sure to swallow her up. “Yes. No. No,” she repeated more calmly. “Forgive me. I was merely”—disappointed—“surprised. I thought Cal . . . Mr. Dabney,” she hurried to correct, but not before she saw the astute glint in his eyes, “might accompany me.” Stop. Talking. She curled her toes into the soles of her boots. What indication had Calum given that he’d join her? You simply expected it—hoped for it.
Unnerved by Adair’s probing stare, but grateful he didn’t pursue her erroneously drawn conclusion, Eve shifted her focus to the slight crack in the curtains. She took in the passing streets—dangerous ones that would send her father rolling in his final resting place if he’d seen just where Eve had ended up. Yet, how much greater the danger was for her in Grosvenor Square than this end of London that Calum had, and still did, call home. Despite logic and reason battling for control, her attention was drawn back to the proprietor unapologetically eyeing her in silence.
“Have you known Mr. Dabney long?” What was the story of their connection? Had he been a loyal friend in every sense, when Eve had failed him?
“A person asking questions is a soign of danger,” Adair retorted, slipping into a coarse Cockney that revealed the truth of his roots.
“Only if the person asking them intends harm.” Which she didn’t. Long ago, she’d brought Calum pain, and coward that she was, she feared ever learning the details about what had happened to him after Gerald’s interference. Her solemn rejoinder froze the proprietor on his seat.
“’e’s my brother,” he finally said, reluctantly, in graveled tones.
She scrambled forward on the bench. “His brother?” As a boy he’d spoken of kin, but never given her any specifics. Now she knew that had been a wise bid to protect them.
“Met on the streets,” he clarified. “Became family.” His eyes dared her to question that connection.
Eve fiddled with the faded satin strings of her Swedish bonnet. “Blood does not family make,” she said softly. Kit had spent more time away than with her. Gerald would have sold her to Satan for thirty pieces of silver if it suited him in a given moment. She was not one who’d ever question familial bonds.
Silence fell between them, with the distant shouts of street vendors and the rumbling wheels filling the otherwise quiet. Capturing her chin in hand, Eve reshifted her attention to the narrow crack in the red velvet curtains.
“’e’s loyal.”
She stilled.
“Not a more loyal person in the whole of England. Most men and women become jaded and broken from doing the things Calum did, and seeing what he saw . . .” Newgate. A spasm racked her chest, squeezing the muscles in a vise. “. . . but ’e’s never been bitter. Still manages to smile and care. And Oi’ll not see him hurt because of that kindness.”
“He is fortunate to have you.” She spoke around a ball of emotion clogging her throat.
“We’re fortunate to ’ave one another,” he said gruffly, shifting on his bench.
The carriage drew to a stop as they arrived at their destination on Lambeth. With the words and warnings shared by Calum’s brother ringing in her head, her books held in one arm, she allowed him to help her down. No doubt, were he to learn the truth of her identity, he’d gladly leave her on the streets of Lambeth without another glance. And with good reason. Her family had wronged Calum, and having enlisted Gerald’s help against Calum’s protestations that day, Eve was very much guilty of those crimes.
“Mr. Bowen is a mean bastard,” he shared as they started along the pavement. They moved through throngs of passersby, while raucous calls filtered around the busy streets. “Wouldn’t give a pence off a shipment if the king ordered it.”
“Why would you remain with him?” she puzzled aloud, comfortable with this safe talk away from mention of Calum and into matters of business.
“Because his brew is the best, and we’ve had two others before him sending us broken shipments, paid off by our rival.”
Ahh. “So, it’s made you wary to trust another merchant,” she pieced together.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Thorne frown. “Sometimes familiarity is safe.”
“And sometimes it’s costly.” As it had, according to the records she’d reviewed of past and present liquor suppliers used by the club, proved to be. Given the current state of their finances, every penny mattered.
They arrived at a small establishment sandwiched between two taller shops. The carved wood sign featured gold lettering of far greater quality than any of the others on the street. It was a telling mark of the proprietor’s self-importance—and his success. Mr. Thorne reached past and pressed the handle, admitting Eve ahead of him.
He closed the door with a soft click behind her. Tugging off her gloves, Eve glanced around, taking in her surroundings. The tidy inside with its neatly arranged desks and seating served as evidence of Mr. Bowen’s wealth.
A graying gentleman, elegantly attired in sapphire breeches and a fawn jacket, entered through the back of the shop. “Mr. Thorne,” he welcomed; his slight singsong tones spoke of his Welsh origins. “How very good to see you, sir.”
Returning the greeting, Calum’s brother motioned to Eve. “May I present our new bookkeeper, Mrs. Swindell.”
The slight tensing of the shopkeeper’s mouth indicated precisely what he thought of dealing with a female on matters of business. Another wave of appreciation for Calum, who freely hired women on his staff, filled her. Bringing her shoulders back, Eve drew on every lesson handed her as a duke’s daughter. “Mr. Thorne, if you’ll excuse us while we meet?” She leveled a hard stare on Mr. Bowen. “Given my review of the books, and your exorbitant rates, I expect we have much to discuss.”
The liquor distributor scowled and looked to the man just beyond her shoulder. “What’s this about, Thorne?”
Eve slapped her worn leather gloves together, answering for him. “This is about your escalating prices, without consideration for the value of our business, and a lack of any noticeable benefits.”
The graying man sputtered, “I provide some of the finest brandy in England, and you’d come here and question my product?”
She took a step closer. “By your own words . . . some of the finest. Not the finest,” she pointed out with her most winning smile. “Therefore, there is room for negotiation.”
Her bold rebuttal was met with silence from the two men.
If Calum’s brother countered her here, he’d cut off her legs with which to negotiate.
After several moments, Adair tipped his hat. “I believe I’ll leave you to Mrs. Swindell, then.” With that, he claimed a spot over by the door, his meaning powerfully clear—Eve was in charge.
“Well, Mrs. Swindell”—th
e shopkeeper folded his arms at his chest—“what do you want?” he asked, all earlier traces of good humor and politeness now gone.
Eve stalked over to a nearby desk and, uninvited, took a seat. From too many precarious dealings with Gerald, she’d come to appreciate the need to lay command to a situation where you can. “I’ll keep this brief.” She set her gloves down and drew out her journal. Opening the leather volume, she flipped through her notes. “Your rates have increased on an average of five pounds each month.”
“Depends on what Mr. Black orders,” he sputtered, stomping around the other side and sitting down hard.
“Then why, with last month’s shipment reduced by five cases, did the rate remain the same?” she demanded, turning her notes around for his perusal.
Cheeks flushed, he didn’t even glance at it. “What do you want?” he repeated in whiny tones.
She dropped her elbows on the edge of the table. “I want a set delivery rate on a contracted basis for the year, subject to our breaking the agreement without penalty. All the additional payments from the months you’ve overcharged the club will go toward future bills.” She paused. “And I want reduced rates made on purchase orders over fifty cases.”
The proprietor seethed. Fury and outrage burning bright in his eyes. “Who do you think you are, setting out to change the terms laid out by Mr. Dabney and Mr. Black? If they’ve been content, then I’ll not answer to changes laid out by”—he paused and scraped an icy stare over her—“you.”
She tipped her lips up in an aloof smile. “Ah, but you see, Mr. Bowen. I’ve been placed in charge of the liquor expenditures, and unlike the proprietors, I am a new member of the staff with no allegiance to you. I doubt I shall have any problems finding another liquor producer willing to meet my terms.” On that, she grabbed her things and shoved to her feet.
She made it no farther than five feet.
“Wait,” he called in beleaguered tones. “Fine,” he gritted out. “But not every fifty cases. Every fifty-fifth.”
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