No Good Duke Goes Unpunished (The Rules of Scoundrels #3)(42)

She lifted her chin. “It’s not—” She cleared her throat. “It’s not your concern.”

There was a pause, a hitch in his breathing, as though she’d surprised him. “Did we, or did we not, make a wager?”

“We did.”

He reached out, placing one hand on the wall behind her head, that forearm, clad only in shirtsleeves, more than a little distracting. “And am I wrong in recalling that it involved your commitment to stay away from men who are not your fiancé?”

She did not care for his tone. “You are not wrong.”

He leaned in, so close. Her eyes fell to the open collar of his shirt, where he should have been wearing a cravat but wasn’t. She was irrationally drawn to the triangle of skin there, dusted with hair. She wanted to touch it.

“Explain to me, then, what in hell you are doing with Temple?” His anger pulled her back to the moment at hand. She could hear it in his voice, low and unsettling.

She tried to get her bearings—nearly impossible in this dark space with him so very close. “He let me in.”

“If you even dream of reneging on our wager, I will send God, Bourne, and your father to keep you in check. In that order.”

“I should not be surprised that you believe you have some control over the Almighty,” she retorted.

He looked like he might like to murder someone.

“Cross.” From beyond the curtain, Temple came to her aid.

Rescued. Pippa released the breath she had not known she had been holding.

Cross turned his head but did not move from where he crowded her. “Leave us.”

Temple yanked the curtains back, letting light into the small space. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. The lady is not here for you.”

Cross was across the alcove in seconds. “She sure as hell isn’t here for you.”

A jolt of excitement threaded through her at the words. As though he were defending her. As though he were willing to fight for her.

How fascinating. She caught her breath at the way he moved, quick and economical. They were inches from each other now—Cross tall and lean, all corded muscle and tension, Temple a few inches shorter, but wider by half . . . and smirking.

“No. She’s not,” Temple said. “She’s here for something else.”

Cross looked back to her, over his shoulder, grey eyes flashing.

“I only have eleven days,” she said, ready to explain her purpose. Surely he’d understand, she was in a critical situation.

Temple interjected, “Perhaps you’d like to give her escort?”

At the light words, Cross’s eyes went blank, and she had the instant and irrational desire to reach out to him, as though he could bring back his emotion. Not that she wanted to. Emotion was not her goal.

Knowledge was.

But she couldn’t have, anyway, as he had already turned away, pushing past Temple and making his way to his office.

She followed, as though on a lead. “Is that all?”

When he arrived at the door to his office, he turned back to her. “You are not my concern.”

A sharp pulse of something akin to pain threaded through her at the words. She rubbed absently at her chest. “You are correct. I am not.”

He ignored the last. “I will not be your keeper. Indeed, I’ve more important matters at hand.”

He opened the door to his office, not attempting to conceal the woman inside.

The beautiful, raven-haired woman with dark eyes and red lips and a smile that seemed like a scandal in itself. Pippa took a step back, her gaze riveted to the other woman as she replayed the events of the last few minutes in her head—his unshaven jaw and wrinkled shirtsleeves, the way he’d opened the door with irritation, as though the cook had interrupted something very important.

He’d been inside his office with this woman, this woman who smiled as though he were the only man in the world. As though she were the only woman.

As though they were tasked with repopulation.

Pippa swallowed. “I see.”

He smirked. “I’m sure you do.”

She took another step back as he closed the door.

I’ve never seen you treat a woman so,” Sally Tasser said, pulling her legs up beneath her in the large wing chair to allow Cross room to pace.

Cross ignored the words and the pang of guilt that came with them. “Where were we?”

Why was she here? How had she twisted their wager—one afternoon together—into a welcome for her to invade his space anytime she liked?

The prostitute raised raven brows in silent disbelief and consulted her notes. “I’ve thirteen girls, all working on the list.” She paused. “Who is she?”

She is temptation incarnate. Sent to destroy him.

“Can they be trusted?”

And what the hell was she doing with Temple?

“They know you deliver on promises.” Another pause. “At least, promises made to whores.”

He spun to face her. “What does that mean?”

“Only that you’ve never been anything but a gentleman to my women. And yet this afternoon you appear to have gravely mistreated a lady.”

He resisted the truth in the words. “And since when have you had sympathy for aristocrats?”

“Since that one looked as though you’d kicked her dog.”