Suddenly You(26)

Amanda tried not to stare openly at him, but her dratted curiosity knew no limits. Devlin was as sleek and muscular as the black-and-gold tiger she had seen on exhibition at the park menagerie. Divested of his clothes, he seemed even larger, his broad shoulders and long torso looming before her. The texture of his flesh was heavy and tough, covered with skin that seemed hard but silken at the same time. His midriff was scored with rows of muscle. She had seen statues and illustrations of the male body, but nothing had ever conveyed this sense of warm, living strength, this potent virility.

And for some reason, artistic renderings had omitted a few fascinating details, such as the tufts of black hair beneath his arms, the small, dark points of his ni**les, and the sprinkling of wiry hair that began just below his navel and disappeared behind the top of his trousers.

Amanda remembered the remarkable heat of his flesh, the feeling of pressing her br**sts against that smooth male skin. Before Devlin could detect the sudden trembling of her hands, she moved away from him and went to the cabinet behind his desk. She found a crystal decanter filled with amber liquid and lifted it up.

“Is this the whiskey?” she asked, showing him, and he nodded. Amanda regarded the decanter curiously. The gentlemen of her experience drank port, sherry, Madeira, and brandy, but this particular form of liquor was unknown to her. “What exactly is whiskey?”

“Spirits made from barley malt,” came the quiet rumble of Devlin’s voice. “You might bring me a glass.”

“Isn’t it rather early for that?” Amanda asked skeptically, extracting a handkerchief from her sleeve.

“I’m Irish,” he reminded her. “Besides, it’s been a difficult morning.”

Amanda carefully poured a finger of the liquor into a glass and moistened the handkerchief with a generous splash from the bottle. “Yes, I gather—” she began, then fell silent as she turned toward him. Standing behind the desk, she had an unhindered view of his bare back, and the sight was unexpectedly startling. The broad surface, narrowing to a lean waist, was developed and muscular, rippling with strength. However, the skin was crossed with faint stripes from some long-ago trauma…scars left from brutal thrashings and beatings. There were even a few raised ridges that showed white against the darker skin around them.

Devlin glanced over his shoulder, alerted by her sudden silence. At first his blue eyes were questioning, but almost immediately he seemed to realize what she had seen. His face turned cold and secretive, and the muscles of his shoulders bunched in visible tension. One of his brows arched slightly, and Amanda was startled by the proud, almost aristocratic cast of his features. He silently dared her to comment on a subject that was clearly forbidden. Wearing that particular expression, he could have easily been mistaken for a member of the aristocracy.

Amanda forced her own face to remain blank, and she tried to remember what his last words had been…something about a difficult morning. “Yes,” she said evenly, coming around the desk with the glass of whiskey, “I gather that you are not accustomed to having someone attempt to murder you in your office.”

“Not in the literal sense,” he said wryly. Devlin seemed to relax as he realized that she was not going to ask about the scars. He accepted the whiskey glass and drank the spirits in one swallow.

Amanda was mesmerized by the movement of his long throat. She wanted to touch that warm column, and to press her mouth into the triangular indentation at the base of it. Her free hand balled into a hard fist. Good Lord, she must gain control over these urges!

Setting aside the glass, Devlin fastened his bright gaze on her. “Actually,” he murmured, “the difficult part wasn’t Lord Tirwitt’s interruption. What I am having trouble with this morning is keeping my hands off you.”

The statement was hardly courtly, but it had a certain blunt effectiveness. Amanda blinked in surprise. Carefully she reached out and took the bloodstained shirt away from his side, and dabbed at the bloody cut with the whiskey-moistened handkerchief.

Devlin jumped a little at the first stinging touch, his breath hissing. Gently Amanda dabbed at the slash again. He uttered a foul curse, shrinking back from the spirit-soaked cloth.

Amanda continued to clean the cut. “In my books,” she said conversationally, “the hero would make light of the pain, no matter how great.”

“Well, I’m not a hero,” he growled, “and this hurts like bloody hell! Dammit, woman, could you be a bit more gentle?”

“Physically you are of heroic proportions,” she observed. “However, it appears that the stature of your character is less impressive.”

“Well, we can’t all possess your sterling character, Miss Briars.” His tone was threaded with sarcasm.

Annoyed, Amanda slapped the entire whiskey-dampened handkerchief on the wound, causing a sharp grunt to escape his lips as he struggled to master the sudden blaze of pain. His narrow blue eyes promised her a world of retribution.

They were both distracted by a sudden choking noise from nearby, and glanced in unison to discover that Oscar Fretwell had entered the room. At first Amanda thought that he was distressed by the sight of Devlin’s blood. However, from the stiff quiver of his mouth and the slight watering of his sea-green eyes, it appeared that he was…laughing? What the devil did he find so amusing?

Masterfully the manager struggled to control himself. “I…ah…brought bandages and a fresh shirt for you, Mr. Devlin.”