The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(50)

Just like that, he was stiff as a poker. He was not the only one affected; he noticed Primrose’s high color and rapid respiration. She was also casting curious glances at the wooden slats placed at eye-level along the wall.

“What are those for?” she whispered.

“They’re viewing holes. So I can stay apprised of all that goes on in my club.” He said it matter-of-factly, wondering how she would react.

“Oh.” Her golden lashes fluttered. “Does that mean you can see… um… your patrons?”

He nodded, noting with more than a little interest that the idea of voyeurism didn’t elicit any sign of disgust from her. Rather, her eyes widened, her blush so vivid that he could see it in the dim flicker. When her tongue darted out to wet her lips, he had to bite back a groan.

Sex being his trade, he knew arousal when he saw it. Despite her innocence, Primrose was a hot-blooded thing. The notion of exploring what fanned the flames of her desire tightened his trousers to an excruciating degree.

He had the unholy urge to take her then and there. Up against the wall in this dark corridor, showing her what her lovely body was made to do. He wanted to bury his erection in her tight cunny until she screamed with pleasure—until they both came together.

Instead, he escorted her on. By the time they reached his suite, he was as randy as a sailor on shore leave, his hand shaking a little as he activated the release mechanism. The panel swung open, and he led Primrose into his private domain.

She looked as if she belonged there, her cameo-worthy profile perfectly set off by the blue-grey motif of the décor. Her slippered feet padded softly over the floral border of the Axminster carpet, woven in shades of azure, burgundy, and cream. Removing her gloves, she ran her fingertips along the back of the velvet settee and then his favorite studded leather wingchair, gazing around the room in surprise.

“Oh, but this is lovely,” she breathed.

He smiled at her reverent tone. “Not what you expected of a pimp?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Her brows knitted. “Based on your style, I always assumed you had exquisite taste. I just didn’t expect such lavish private quarters at your place of business.”

“I have other houses,” he said gruffly, “but I work a lot and keep late hours. Sometimes it’s easier to sleep here.”

The reality was he spent more time here than at any of his residences. The club was a demanding mistress—and it wasn’t as if he had a wife or family to return to at the end of the day. While it hadn’t bothered him before that he had only work in his life, now he had to push aside an uncomfortable pang.

A knock heralded the arrival of the refreshment. Dismissing the footman, Andrew rolled in the cart himself. It contained a cold collation and selection of pastries artfully arranged on tiered plates.

Primrose removed her bonnet, peering at the cart’s offerings. “That looks fit for a king.”

“A prince, actually. My pastry chef once worked in an Austrian royal household.” He lifted the silver tongs. “What would you like?”

“Oh, nothing for me, thank you.”

He caught the wistful way she eyed the desserts. Especially the slice of chocolate sponge layered with apricot jam and glazed with dark chocolate icing.

“Not even Chef Franz’s special torte?” he said. “Some of the club members swear they come for it as much as for… the other entertainments.”

He didn’t know why he bothered with the euphemism. She knew the nature of his business. Her lack of aversion to being in a pimp’s company was a constant source of surprise for him.

“I’m sure it is delicious,” she said with a sigh, “but I cannot afford the indulgence.”

He frowned. “You’re as slender as a reed.”

“Because I watch what I eat. At any rate, my dietary habits are inconsequential when disaster,”—her dramatic pause did not bode well—“has struck once again.”

He set down the tongs. “Will I need whiskey for this?”

When her blonde curls bobbed vigorously, he went to pour drinks. He settled next to her on the sofa, his whiskey in one hand and a ratafia for her in the other. She took the glass from him, her gaze narrowing.

“Would you prefer something other than ratafia?” He’d assumed she would want the sweet peach-flavored liqueur, which was generally favored by ladies.

“Ratafia is fine, but as I recall you don’t stock it in your office.” Her mouth had a sulky curve. “Why do you have it here in your private suite?”

He must be nicked in the nob because he found her feminine possessiveness absurdly endearing. He chucked her beneath the chin. “Because I like to keep a well-stocked bar, silly chit. Now what is this matter of life and death you wished to speak about?”

She stopped pouting. Drew in a breath. “Daltry’s will was read yesterday.”

“Indeed.” Andrew took a swallow of whiskey, wondering how on earth she managed to make mourning look so damned sensual. The way the black crepe clung to her nubile curves ought to be a sin. “Did he leave you anything of interest?”

“I suppose. If you would call one hundred thousand pounds interesting.”

He coughed. “Pardon?”

“You heard me. What in heaven’s name am I supposed to do?” she cried.