Suddenly You(23)

Amanda leaned hard against the back of her chair. Devlin’s disarming blue eyes were set in a face of such perfect masculine beauty that it should have come from a painting or a sculpture. Yet there was nothing aristocratic about his looks. He possessed an earthiness, a sensuality, that was impossible to ignore. If he resembled an angel, it was a fallen one.

Her entire body seemed to pulse in response to him. She caught the intoxicating scent of his skin, the male spice that would forever saturate her memory. He made it difficult for her to think clearly, when all she wanted was to push herself up at him and slide her hands beneath his clothes. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized with ironic despair that her encounter with him had done absolutely nothing to silence her own unwanted physical urges.

If she accepted his offer, she would have to see him, talk to him, and somehow conceal her own treacherous response to him. Nothing was more pitiable, more laughable, than a sexually frustrated spinster pursuing a handsome man—the archetype was a standard one in comedic plays and books. She must not place herself in such a position.

“I’m afraid I cannot,” Amanda said, intending to use a firm tone of dismissal. Instead, her voice was infuriatingly breathless. She tried to look away from him, but standing over her as he was, his face and body seemed to fill her vision. “I…I feel a certain loyalty for my current publisher, Mr. Sheffield.”

His soft laugh was not at all complimentary. “Believe me,” he scoffed, “Sheffield knows better than to rely on an author’s loyalty. He won’t be surprised by your defection.”

Amanda scowled at him. “Are you suggesting that I can be bought, Mr. Devlin?”

“Why, yes, Miss Briars, I believe I am.”

She would have loved to show him that he was wrong. But the thought of five thousand pounds was too tantalizing to resist. A frown tugged at the inner corners of her eyebrows. “What will you do if I turn down your offer?” she asked.

“I’ll publish your book anyway, and honor the original royalty agreement you had with Steadman. You’ll still make money, peaches. But not nearly as much.”

“What about your threat of telling everyone about that night we…” The words tangled and gathered into a choking knot in Amanda’s throat. She swallowed hard and continued. “Do you still intend to blackmail me with the fact that you and I—”

“Nearly made love?” he suggested helpfully, staring at her in a way that made her face prickle with heat.

“Love had nothing to do with it,” she shot back.

“Perhaps not,” he acknowledged, laughing softly. “But let us not bring the negotiations down to that level, Miss Briars. Why don’t you simply agree to my offer so that I don’t have to resort to desperate measures?”

Amanda opened her mouth to ask another question when suddenly the door vibrated from the thud of a fist, or perhaps a boot.

“Mr. Devlin,” came Oscar Fretwell’s muffled voice. “Mr. Devlin, I can’t seem to—oof!”

Sounds of scuffling and physical struggle came through the door. Devlin’s smile faded, and he turned away from Amanda with a sudden scowl. “What the hell…?” he muttered, striding toward the door. He stopped short as the mahogany portal burst open, revealing a large, furious-faced gentleman with his fine clothes in disarray and his brown wig askew. A sour waft of spirits accompanied him, strongly evident even from where Amanda sat. She wrinkled her nose in distaste, wondering how a man could have drunk so much at this early hour of the day.

“Devlin,” the man roared, his corpulent jowls jiggling from the force of his wrath, “I have cornered you like a fox, and there will be no escape from me! You will pay for what you have done!”

Just behind him, Fretwell tried to pry himself free of the man’s beefy comrade, who appeared to be some kind of hired thug. “Mr. Devlin,” Fretwell gasped, “take care. This is Lord Tirwitt…the one who…well, he seems to believe that he was slandered in Mrs. Bradshaw’s book—”

Tirwitt slammed the door in Fretwell’s face and turned toward Devlin, brandishing a heavy silver cane. Fumbling a bit, he pressed a hidden catch on the handle, and a double-sided blade sprang from the end, converting the cane to a deadly weapon. “You demon from hell,” he said viciously, his small, dark eyes burning in his red face as he stared at Devlin. “I will have my revenge on you and that malicious bitch Mrs. Bradshaw. For every word you published about me, I will cut a slice from you, and feed it to—”

“Lord Tirwitt, is it?” Devlin’s keen gaze locked on the man’s puffy face. “If you’ll put that damn thing away, we’ll discuss your problem like rational beings. If you hadn’t noticed, there is a lady present. We’ll allow her to leave, and then—”

“Any woman found in your company is no lady,” Tirwitt sneered, gesturing wildly with the knife-tipped cane. “I wouldn’t put her on a level above that whore Gemma Bradshaw.”

A murderous coldness settled on Devlin’s face, and he stepped forward, seeming unconcerned by the threat of the cane.

Amanda intervened hastily. “Mr. Devlin,” she said briskly, “I find this performance remarkable. Is this some sort of farce you’ve arranged in an effort to frighten me into signing a contract? Or are you in the habit of receiving deranged callers in your office?”