The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(6)
“Let me go, or I’ll scream,” she hissed.
“You won’t. You can’t risk getting caught with a man like me.”
Damn his eyes. “You’re a bastard!” she said in a furious whisper.
“I am,” he acknowledged. “Now do we have an understanding, Miss Kent? Promise me you’ll leave off Daltry. He’s a libertine, and you deserve far better.”
“Botheration, why do you care what I do?” she cried.
She renewed her struggles; he stepped forward at the same time. They collided, and she froze at the full-on contact with unyielding male power. She’d never been this close to any man—and definitely not one with such virile proportions. Each breath pushed her bosom against his hard chest, each heartbeat made her more aware of his muscular thigh wedged between hers. A strange heat unfurled in her belly, and her vision blurred… until he plucked away the feather drooping into her right eye.
“I just do, little chick,” he said huskily.
Something stirred in the deepest recesses of her mind…
“Wh-what did you call me?” she stammered.
His eyes shuttered; he stepped back.
“’Twas nothing.” His words were clipped. “Now do I have your word that you’ll steer clear of Daltry and his ilk and behave in a fashion that is worthy of you?”
His high-handedness snapped the gossamer connection, the uncanny awareness fading like a dream. Freed from his hold, she jerked away from the piano, dashing for the door and throwing it open.
Pivoting in the doorway, she saw that he hadn’t chased after her. He remained where he was: an elegant masked stranger whose gaze seemed to see all too clearly through her.
“I’ll do as I please.” She lifted her chin. “And neither you nor anyone can stop me.”
Having issued that bold decree, she fled on limbs that shook.
Chapter Two
The sudden silence in the office percolated into Andrew’s awareness, making him aware that he’d lost track of the conversation… yet again, devil take it.
He straightened in his chair. On the other side of the desk, the woman attired in grey silk was regarding him, her gaze slitting. Framed against the striped green walls of his office, she more resembled a proper matron on an afternoon call than a madam delivering a weekly report to her employer in his infamous pleasure house.
“Beg pardon, Fanny,” he said curtly. “What were you saying?”
Fanny Argent’s assessing gaze didn’t waver. “It’s not like you to woolgather, Corbett. Particularly when we are discussing profits.”
That was Fanny: too perceptive by far. Then again, her keen mind was the reason Andrew had hired her on six years ago. At the time, his business had been undergoing rapid growth as he’d parlayed one brothel into a string of them—with Corbett’s, his eponymous and exclusive club, being the jewel in his crown. Fanny had impressed him with her intuition and toughness, the core of steel beneath her petite brunette exterior.
It was rare to find a bawd who shared Andrew’s own business philosophy: happy employees made for happy customers. Abbess Fanny (as she was known) managed five of his smaller clubs, and whilst she ruled with an iron fist, she also took care of her nuns. She, like he, had first-hand knowledge of working in the flesh trade, and they both understood its hardships. Thus, they took the welfare of their workers seriously.
That philosophy had allowed Andrew to attract the best in the business to work for him. He’d done that not through money alone, but through his commitment to the well-being of his employees from the wenches down to the chambermaids. Every employee of Corbett’s could expect three square meals a day, medical attention when needed, and generous allowances for time off work. His novel approach had riled up his competitors, who raged against the “outlandish” wages and other benefits he offered—and he didn’t give a damn.
Success allowed him to do things his way.
“I apologize, Fanny.” He waved a hand. “Carry on.”
Andrew set down the feather he’d been fiddling with and listened as the other continued reporting on revenue. Against the leather blotter, the white plume appeared feminine and fragile—reminding him of its owner. Primrose Kent seemed to have no idea about her own vulnerability.
He mused that his little chick had undoubtedly grown into a swan. His profession had made him a connoisseur of the opposite sex, and, by any objective standard, Primrose was a stunning beauty. She’d inherited her classic blond perfection from her mama, Marianne Kent, although her eyes—a rare shade of jade flecked with gold—were uniquely her own.
Andrew had met Mrs. Kent fourteen years ago, during the other’s quest to find her daughter. Recalling Mrs. Kent’s fierce determination, he surmised that strength of will must run in the bloodline. Despite Primrose’s vulnerability, she was as headstrong as they came. If last night’s fiasco was any indication, it was going to take more effort than he’d bargained for to protect the girl—no, not girl any longer, he reminded himself.
At the memory of her soft, womanly curves, his loins stirred… and he frowned. Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? Primrose was like his little sister. His reaction last night must have been a purely animal response—the result of not bedding a woman in… God, how many months had it been?