The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(63)

“Go to hell,” he groused, reluctantly shifting his attention away from Cleopatra. Damn. Couldn’t it have been Niall or Ryker to stumble upon him? Always laconic, they, too, never spoke about personal matters . . . unless it related to the Hell and Sin. Calum, on the other hand . . .

“Well? What held you so engrossed?”

“No one,” Adair said quickly.

Calum arched a dark brow. “I didn’t say who.”

He creased his brow. What in hell was he talking about?

“I asked what, not who.”

Bloody, bloody hell. Damning himself for that telling slip, Adair made a show of motioning over a servant, taking a diversionary tactic where he could. “No one, and nothing, has distracted me,” he said after he’d collected another glass and the servant had gone off. Liar.

“Ryker mentioned there was a . . . disagreement this afternoon between you.”

Adair continued to underestimate the changes that had overtaken Ryker—nay, all of his brothers, since their marriage. Gossiping had never been part of his way. Except where the Hell and Sin had been concerned, everything had always gone . . . “Oh?” he asked vaguely, swirling the contents of his drink. He’d called it a disagreement, had he? Neatly sidestepping what it, in fact, had been—a bloody fight, with everything except fists exchanged. “What did he say precisely?” That Adair was captivated by Cleopatra Killoran? He curled his fingers tight around his champagne glass with a force to snap the stem.

“You showed the gaming hell plans to Killoran.”

Cleopatra. I showed them to Cleopatra. “Miss Killoran isn’t her brother,” he said, finishing off his drink.

“You didn’t trust her a few weeks ago,” Calum accurately pointed out. “Now you do?” he asked with his usual Calum calm and stoicism.

Adair looked him squarely in the eyes. “Despite Ryker’s doubts, I do.” He anticipated a like battle from Calum. “Nothing to say?” he asked gruffly when Calum remained silent. After all, hadn’t he wanted to turn out the other man’s wife because of her birthright?

Calum did a sweep of the ballroom, always alert, as he’d always been. “The young woman helped Paisley and made some wise recommendations for the club. Given all that and the fact that she single-handedly saw Diana rescued from Diggory’s wife’s clutches, I venture she’s proven herself enough.”

Both humbled and ashamed by that magnanimity, when he’d been anything but supportive of the union between Calum and his wife, Adair stared blankly into his empty glass. The lone drop clinging to the side spiraled down and hit the bottom of the crystal. By God, what a small-minded bastard he’d been.

Calum slapped him on the back. “Trust your instincts where the young woman is concerned.”

It had been the rule Calum had set forth in the guidelines they’d all crafted in their bid to survive: trust your instincts.

“If you’ll excuse me?” Giving him another pat, his brother took his leave.

Trust his instincts. What Calum couldn’t see, didn’t know, was that Adair’s conflict didn’t stem from Cleopatra’s connection to Broderick Killoran. Rather it was her hold over Adair.

“You look as miserable as I feel,” Cleopatra observed on a hushed whisper.

He whipped his head about, searching for the diminutive but strong owner of that droll pronouncement.

“It’s a wonder you survived a day in the streets, Adair Thorne,” she said without inflection. “I’m here.”

He instantly located her behind a nearby pillar.

The bespectacled spitfire gave a jaunty wave but remained in her hiding place, out of view.

Adair folded his arms at his chest, letting the glass dangle from between his fingers.

“Are you also upset about the whole dancing business?” she teased.

The earlier restlessness his brother had left him with lifted. He fought back a grin. “I assure you not.”

“Boredom?”

Ennui was safer. “Need you ask?”

“Do you want to escape?”

Escape. With her . . . ? It was a dangerously tantalizing prospect suggested.

“What do you have in mind?” he asked from the corner of his mouth.

“Lord Beaufort’s office.”

He’d been part of any number of underhanded acts in the whole of his life. The moment he’d established a foothold in the world and secured his future, he’d reshaped himself from a common thief . . . into a man of honor. As such—“I don’t invade other men’s business space,” he said in hushed tones.

She let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re disappointingly staid. The roof.”

“No.” The last roof he’d climbed would remain his brother’s when he’d gone after this woman. “Lord Beaufort’s billiards room?”

“The billiards room,” she echoed on a husky whisper that stirred the wicked hungering she’d roused in him since their first meeting.

“Fine. First one to find it is most resourceful in St. Giles. Last one there . . . You all right, Thorne? You look queer.”

“I’m fine,” he said hoarsely.

“’ow’s about a competition, then? Between you and I.”

Did the young woman work at piquing a person’s curiosity? Or was it a skill that came natural to her?