A Most Dangerous Profession(16)
He closed and locked the door behind him, his own pistol held steady. “You heard that, hm?”
“Barely, but it was enough.”
He noted that water dripped from her fingers. “Do you think you can fire accurately with a wet hand?”
“I am willing to try. In fact,” she smiled as she lowered the pistol so that it pointed to his crotch, “we could up the stakes a bit just to make it interesting.”
“No, thank you. I prefer not to tempt fate, especially where my, er, parts are concerned.” A faint quiver of amusement crossed her face and to his chagrin, he found himself smiling in return. “It seems we’re at an impasse.”
“Again. It’s getting a bit old. Sooner or later, one of us will have to best the other.”
“One would think.” He crossed to a chair and sat. “Very comfortable.”
“I don’t want you comfortable. Robert, please leave.”
He merely uncocked his pistol and replaced it into his coat pocket.
Moira’s lips tightened, a flash of disappointment crossing her expressive face. Robert hid a grin. By putting his gun away and sitting so innocuously in a chair a good distance from her, he’d removed himself as an immediate threat. For all of her faults, Moira would never shoot someone without a damn good reason.
Of course, if she had perceived him as a danger, she’d have shot him without a qualm and with deadly accuracy.
She sighed and set her own pistol on the small chair beside the tub. “Stay if you must. I’m going to finish my bath.”
“Feel free.”
“You are too kind.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “I can’t think of how to thank you.”
“Oh, I can think of a way.” His gaze traveled over her. She was indeed now a brunette, though the tub reflected the copper light of her hair through the dyed strands. She’d piled her waist-length hair on her head and pinned it there, but there was no containing the wealth of silken tendrils, and several had found their way to her creamy shoulders, where they clung as if afraid to let go.
Robert realized he was staring, and dropped his gaze to her pistol. “Still armed everywhere you go? That must be a weighty habit.”
“It serves.” She soaped a large sponge. “So why are you here?”
Robert stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankle. “I came to tell you that your journey tomorrow has been canceled.”
Her green gaze locked on his. “How did you know I was going on a journey?”
“I know many things.”
“Oh, for the love of Saint Christopher, stop being so damn mysterious.” She rubbed the sponge along one elegant arm. “It’s annoying.”
He chuckled. “I knew you were leaving because I discovered George Aniston’s lair yesterday and I’ve been having him watched. One of my men overheard him instruct his groom to bring a coach to you in the morning.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, indeed. Why are you still working for George Aniston?”
She placed her slender foot on the edge of the tub and began to wash her leg.
She had wonderfully long legs. They were outstanding, too—curved just so, exquisitely feminine and made for wrapping about a man’s waist.
Robert shifted and forced his gaze back to her face. What were they talking about? Oh, yes. “Moira, enough of this. Tell me about Aniston.”
“Why should I? I don’t owe you anything, and you don’t owe me.”
“I would agree, except for one little fact: you tricked me into marriage.”
She sighed. “That was years ago. And I’ve never asked for a penny in support.”
“That’s the curious part. It made me wonder why you even went to all of that trouble.”
She hesitated. “I had my reasons.”
“Which are?”
She slanted him a look before rinsing the soap from her legs.
It was all Robert could do not to react to the way she was slowly pouring water over her smooth, silken skin. He’d forgotten that it was almost impossible to keep a sane thought in his head when she was naked. Thank God the deep tub covered more than it revealed. All he could see were her head, shoulders, one arm, and one long leg. But even that was distracting in the extreme.
He collected his thoughts. “I’ve been looking for you all these years. The least you can do is answer a few simple questions.”