Olivia Twist(10)

CHAPTER 3


Heat flooded Olivia’s veins, and her vision dimmed, causing her to grip the rough brick wall at her back. Jack hovered over her. Too close. She caught the sweetness of apples on his breath as he leaned in, and her skin tingled in response to the movement. All they would need to do was turn their heads a fraction and their lips would meet. Anticipation sparked down her spine. But when several moments passed and he didn’t move to touch her, a realization hit Olivia like a bucket full of icy water.

He’s playing with me!

He hovered, waiting and ready to pounce as soon as she took the bait. As soon as she made the first move. Just like one of his marks.

Steeling her spine, Olivia turned her head toward him and moved a hand beneath his coat with deliberate slowness. She grasped the solid heat of his waist. “Perhaps . . .” she breathed into his ear.

He cocked his head, and when their eyes met, the ferocity in his blue gaze almost caused her to lose her nerve. Ignoring the twisting in her gut, she leaned in close, her mouth a hairs-breadth from his as she dipped her hand into the warmth of his pocket. “. . . I could refresh your memory.”

He drew in a sharp breath and lowered his mouth to hers. But in that moment, Olivia ducked under his arm. She skipped away, waving the thick roll of pound notes she’d just pulled from his waistcoat.

Jack’s eyes flared. “What the devil—” His expression turned dark, and he stalked toward her.

Olivia’s fingers numbed, and she almost dropped her prize. She hadn’t thought her plan through. There was no way she could outrun him in her blasted skirts. Jack advanced, his face set in hard, angry lines. She backed away, searching the alley for some kind of weapon. With a snarl, Brom leapt forward and sank his teeth into Jack’s thigh.

He yelped and grabbed Brom’s muzzle, trying to pry the animal off his flesh. “Call off your beast, or I swear I’ll . . .”

“Brom, come!” The dog unclamped his jaws, narrowly avoiding a swipe of Jack’s fist, and ran to her side.

Olivia glanced around the corner. Her path clear, she backed up several quick steps.

“Stop!” He tried to follow, but only succeeded in limping forward before reaching down to clutch his injured leg. “Dammit!”

Olivia shot Jack a triumphant grin, spun on her heel, and ran down the alley before she changed her mind and helped the bloomin’ git.



Jack slammed into the townhouse, the door banging against the jam so hard a china plate slid from the wall and crashed to the floor.

“Mister MacCarron.” Clyde, the March family’s butler, hobbled into the room, his stiff legs only able to carry him a few inches at a time. “Are you quite all right, sir?”

Remorse flared in Jack’s chest, and he turned to gather the pieces of the shattered plate. “I’ve got it, Clyde.” Jack bit the inside of his cheek, the pain in his leg flaring as he straightened and turned to face the old man. “But Lois won’t be too pleased, eh?”

Clyde returned Jack’s smile with a gap-toothed one of his own. “No worries, Mister MacCarron. I’ll replace it straight away with another plate.” He leaned in, and said in conspiracy, “She’ll be none the wiser.”

“That’s a good man.” Jack gave the butler’s rail-thin arm a pat as he moved toward the stairs, concentrating hard on not limping. “And for the last time, call me Jack,” he instructed over his shoulder before he mounted the first step.

“Yes, sir, Mister Jack.”

Jack shook his head in bewilderment as he watched the butler shuffle out of the foyer. Upon his death, Lois March’s husband left her with nothing but a household to run and debilitating gambling debts; and when the funds inevitably dried up, Clyde had been the only servant to stick around. As a result, the butler had witnessed Jack’s transformation from street urchin to gentleman, making him very well aware Jack possessed no lineage, and that, in fact, he was no better than Clyde himself. Nevertheless, the old man insisted on treating him like bloomin’ royalty—which only confirmed Jack’s theory that people see what they choose to see.

And it would seem quite a few people wish to see you.

The words echoed in his head as he leaned heavily on the banister, ascending one slow step at a time. What did Olivia Brownlow want from him, anyway? Just the thought of the girl made his blood boil. He never lost control. It was the first rule one learned on the streets—fail to restrain your emotions, and the desperation takes over. But, blast, if he hadn’t almost kissed her on one of those same streets, his muscles shaking with the effort not to touch her.

Jack paused on the stairs, took a deep, mind-clearing breath, and dug his hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out the lacy bit of fluff and ribbons he’d taken off her head. Suppressing a growl, he shoved the delicate cap back into his pocket. He couldn’t allow himself to care about the girl. She knew too much, and he needed to find out what she planned to do about it.

“Well, if it isn’t the favored nephew. Been hitting the bottle early today, Jack?”

Oh, good grief. Jack resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he gripped the newel post and pulled himself up the last step, meeting the calculating gaze of Christopher March, Lois’s grandson. Also known as a royal pain in his bum.

Crossing the few feet that separated them, Jack ignored the sharp ache in his leg and stopped in front of the tall, thin gentleman. “When did ye get into town, Topher?” Jack crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the banister, just remembering to turn on his Irish brogue. “And more importantly, when do ye plan to leave?” Topher divided his time between Oxford and his mother’s home in Hampshire, with the occasional perfunctory visit with his grandmother. But now that he’d finished his university studies, Jack feared the prat would become a more permanent fixture in his life.