Grim Shadows (Roaring Twenties #2)(15)

“I do believe that’s the first honest thing you’ve ever told me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“The only thing in my head right now is that cock,” she said, nodding toward the wall.

Lowe paused. “Pardon?”

“I’m in a hurry.”

Another pause. Lowe looked where she’d gestured. “You mean . . . the clock?”

“That’s what I said.” But it wasn’t, and her gaze flicked to his crotch—so fast he almost wasn’t sure he saw it until a furious strawberry blush spilled over her cheeks and neck. “Th-that’s what I meant,” she stuttered, then whispered to herself, “Oh, God.”

Well, well, well. When was the last time he’d heard that from a woman’s mouth? Had he ever? Hadley Bacall, overflowing with desire for . . . clock.

He didn’t think she could redden any more, which made him feel a little pity for her. Best to let it go, as much as he hated to. So he gathered paperwork while she gathered her wits.

“Here, this one’s intact.” The fingers of his disfigured hand brushed hers as he passed a folder. She snatched her hand back like he was carrying the Black Death.

The sting of the rejection took him by surprise. He’d become accustomed to people staring, but did his injury disgust her, too?

She cleared her throat and gestured to his hand. “Believe me, it’s not that—not at all,” she said in a low voice and looked into his eyes with startling sincerity. “Please . . .”

Her candid acknowledgment made him feel exposed, and for some bizarre reason, this also thrilled him. Why? It was as if the moment stretched between them and built a bridge. A rickety bridge, unsafe to cross, but he attempted anyway, irrational excitement urging him to lean closer. “‘Please’ what?” he whispered, his breath fluttering a glossy strand of raven hair near her ear. “What do you want, Hadley?”

“What I want,” she said in a controlled voice, “is for you to please shut up and sit down.”

Well.

Can’t cross a bridge when someone’s shoving you off the side. He left her on the floor with the files and plopped back down in his chair, unsure why he even cared. Bacall was still on the telephone.

While one of his knees bounced out an anxious rhythm, Lowe attempted to divert his attention elsewhere. Lots of books on the shelves, but the titles were drier than the Sahara. He watched a bird alight on a branch outside the window . . . noted a frayed section of telephone cord. But a hushed whisper—one, two, three—brought his attention back to the conference table, where Hadley was counting under her breath while bending to pick up the folders.

He sucked in a sharp breath.

There it was, only a few feet away. How could he have forgotten? When she bent down, it tilted up to greet him. When she stood, it hiked up the hem of her pencil skirt by an inch or two.

If a salacious portrait of Hadley were painted on a carnival sideshow banner, it would read Come See the Woman with the Roundest, Most Voluptuous Ass in the World! Carnies would be able to charge whatever they wanted for a peek inside a dark tent, and Lowe would cash every penny he’d ever earned for five minutes alone with her in that tent.

Bend down. Pick up file. Stand up. Set file down.

All for his amusement, right there in front of him! Like watching a restaurant waiter flambé cherries jubilee at your table. Only, instead of making his mouth water, it was making his pants uncomfortable. He shifted in his seat and darted a glance at her father. Please God, let the man be totally and utterly blind.

Bend down. Stand up.

Oh, what he would give to angle her over that conference table, yank up that skirt, and find out if she was wearing more colorful lingerie today. Instead of peacock feathers, he imagined flaming cherries. And he imagined kneeling behind her and sinking his teeth into one of those oh-so-round cheeks.

Sweat beaded at his hairline. This was wrong, nursing an erection right in front of the woman’s father. Wrong, wrong, wrong. He moved his cap further up his lap to cover himself and focused on book titles again. Dry, boring, academic titles about ancient pottery glazes and fourteenth-century crop rotation. Oh, look—her father’s phone conversation was over.

Thank God.

“My apologies for the interruption,” Dr. Bacall said as he groped the candlestick base of the telephone, seeking the hook for the earpiece by feel. “Is that you, Hadley?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Everything okay?”

“I dropped some of the exhibit files, sorry.”

“No reason to be upset.” Her father said this in an odd manner, as if he were scolding her.

“It wasn’t . . . it was—never mind. I’m fine.”

“Good, good. That’s my good girl,” he said, speaking to her like she was a spooked horse.

Lowe glanced between the two Bacalls, feeling as if he were missing something.

“I have work to do,” she said suddenly, and hurried out the way she came in.

“Nice seeing you again, Miss Bacall,” Lowe called out. “A pleasure to watch you work. Hope you don’t find yourself watching the clock for the remainder of the day.” Because, really, he should be awarded a medal for his earlier restraint.

A momentary look of horror crossed her face but she didn’t blush or comment. Instead, she addressed her father. “He has the djed amulet base with him.”