Suddenly You(28)

Amanda hesitated, then nodded, her forehead puckering in a little frown. “It seems you were correct, Mr. Devlin. I can indeed be bought.”

“Ah, well…” He laughed quietly. “You might console yourself with the fact that you’re more expensive than most.”

“Besides, I have no wish to discover if you would really sink to the level of blackmailing an unwilling author to write for you.”

“Usually I wouldn’t,” he assured her with a rascally gleam in his eyes. “However, I’ve never wanted an author this much.”

Amanda gripped the book a little more tightly as he approached her. Stalked her, actually, moving with a stealthy slowness that made her nerves spark in sudden alarm. “The fact that I have decided to work with you does not give you the right to take liberties, Mr. Devlin.”

“Of course.” Devlin cornered her easily, not stopping until she had wedged herself against the bookshelves, the back of her head pressing against the leather spines of a row of volumes. “I was merely hoping to crown the deal with a handshake.”

“A handshake,” she said unsteadily. “I suppose I could allow—” She gasped and bit her lip as she felt his huge hand close over hers. Her short fingers, always so cold, were engulfed in heat. Once he had taken hold, he did not let go. It was not a handshake, it was a possession. The difference in their height was so extreme that she was forced to incline her head at an uncomfortable angle to look up into his face. Despite her sturdy and substantial figure, he made her feel almost doll-like.

There was something wrong with her breathing, a sudden wont of her lungs to take in too much air. Her senses dilated and quickened from an overabundance of oxygen.

“Mr. Devlin,” she managed, her hand still caught in his, “why do you insist on publishing my novel as a serial?”

“Because owning books shouldn’t be a privilege of the rich. I want to print good books in a way that the masses can afford them. A poor man needs the escape far more than a wealthy man does.”

“Escape,” Amanda repeated, having never heard a book described in such a way.

“Yes, something to transport your mind from where and who and what you are. Everyone needs that. A time or two in my past, it seemed that a book was the only thing that stood between me and near insanity. I—”

He stopped suddenly, and Amanda realized that he had not meant to make such a confession. The room became uncomfortably quiet, with only the jaunty snap of the fire to intrude on the silence. Amanda felt as if the air were throbbing with some unexpressed emotion. She wanted to tell him that she understood exactly what he meant, that she, too, had experienced the utter deliverance that words on a page could provide. There had been times of desolation in her own life, and books had been her only pleasure.

They were standing so close that she could almost feel the heat of his body against hers. Amanda had to bite her lower lip to keep from asking him about his mysterious past, and what he had needed to escape from, if it had something to do with the scars on his back.

“Amanda,” he whispered. Although there was nothing lurid in his gaze or voice, she couldn’t help remembering her birthday evening…how gently he had touched her skin…how sweet his mouth had tasted, how smooth and thick his black hair had felt against her fingertips.

She fumbled for the right words to break the spell between them; she had to extricate herself from this situation at once. But she was afraid that if she said anything, she might stutter and stammer like a nervous girl. The effect that this man had on her was appalling.

Mercifully, they were interrupted by the entrance of Oscar Fretwell, who knocked perfunctorily and came into the room without waiting for a reply. In his cheerful vigor, he seemed not to notice the way Amanda hopped away from Devlin, a guilty flush rising to the surface of her skin.

“Pardon, sir,” Fretwell said to Devlin, “but the runner, Mr. Jacob Romley, has just arrived. He has taken Lord Tirwitt into custody, and wishes to interview you as to the particulars of this morning’s hullabub.”

Devlin did not reply, only stared at Amanda like a hungry cat that had just been eluded by an appetizing mouse.

“I must be going,” she murmured, retrieving her gloves from the fireside chair and donning them hurriedly. “I’ll leave you to your business, Mr. Devlin. And I will thank you not to mention my name to Mr. Romley—I have no wish to be spoken of in Hue and Cry, or in any other publication. You may have the credit for felling Lord Tirwitt all on your own.”

“The publicity would sell more of your books,” Devlin pointed out.

“I want my books to sell because of their quality, Mr. Devlin, not because of some vulgar piece of publicity.”

He turned a genuinely perplexed frown on her. “What does it matter, as long as they sell?”

She laughed suddenly and addressed the manager, who waited nearby. “Mr. Fretwell, will you see me out?”

“It would be my pleasure.” Fretwell gallantly presented an arm to her, and she took it as they exited the room.

Jack had always liked Gemma Bradshaw, recognizing their likeness as two hardened souls who had made something of themselves in a world that offered little opportunity for the lowly born. Each had discovered early in life that opportunity was something one had to make for oneself. This realization, combined with a bit of luck here and there, had allowed them to achieve success in their chosen fields, his of publishing and hers of prostitution.