Читать книгу House Of Shadows - Jen Christie - Страница 11
ОглавлениеPenrose came to alertness from sleep in an odd rush, as if rising from a fog. Images still swirled in her brain—of Carrick looming above her, the chandelier spinning and spinning out of control, and the glittery windows of the manor watching her with their golden gaze. She knew if she opened her eyes, it would all prove true. So she lingered, stubbornly refusing to be roused. The grip turned harder still and shook her shoulders just firmly enough that she couldn’t ignore it anymore. Finally, she looked up and right into the kaleidoscope eyes of her new employer.
“You overslept.” It sounded like an accusation coming from him. The shadowy light of the afternoon made him appear deathly pale. Anger or some other emotion etched his face in a deep scowl.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice heavy with sleep. She was disoriented, staring hard at him before rubbing her eyes. It was difficult to know if she still slept and he was just a dream. “I must have been very tired,” she managed to say.
He nodded. “Well, then, I’ll leave you to get dressed. Meet me downstairs in the cellar.”
“Fine. I’ll hurry.”
He left. She jumped up and dressed quickly, blood pounding in her veins. She wasn’t sure if it was fear of him or guilt at oversleeping, but she ignored it and moved quickly. She went to the kitchen to take the stairs that led down to the cellar and was surprised to see Carrick standing at the counter, eating.
“Come. Eat,” he said, barely turning to look at her. She went and stood next to him. He held out a steaming cup of coffee for her and she grabbed it greedily and took a sip. He was eating johnnycakes. She lifted one from the basket, smeared it with butter and took a bite. It was warm and buttery.
“Tell me, Miss Heatherton,” he said, between bites, “how it is you came to the agency?”
Her stomach dropped when he mentioned the agency and she spoke quickly, trying to change the subject. “Please, my name is Penrose. But everyone calls me Penny. If you want me to call you Carrick, I’d like the same.”
“Penny it is, then,” he said, and took a swig of his coffee. “Penrose. A prominent name around here. How did you come by that as a given name?”
She froze, johnnycake in midair. She wanted to lie. It was right at the tip of her tongue, yet when she opened her mouth, the truth came tumbling out. “My father was a Penrose.”
“I see. Skeletons in the proverbial closet, then? Since the family name is your first name and not your last, I’ll ask how come he tossed over your mother?”
For some reason, his harsh tone didn’t bother her. Nobody spoke plainly about this subject. It was a refreshing change and she found that more truths came forward. “My mother was an abolitionist.”
He made a strange noise and spit coffee out of his mouth. He laughed, hunched over next to the counter. Finally he regained his composure. “A Penrose and an abolitionist? Now that’s funny. They are the most painfully backward family on God’s good planet Earth. So, was your mother able to sway him to her point of view?”
“No. Then he died in battle right before the end of the Civil War. Just before I was born.”
“Hearts and beliefs are the two hardest things to change. You were born at an interesting time. You were born before or after the Civil War ended?”
“More than that, I was born on the very last day of the war. At midnight, in fact. My mother said that they had to choose what day to pick as my birthday. Obviously, my mother chose after the war.”
He went completely still. “My, my, my. A midnight baby, and on the last day of the war? The very last minute? You’re doubly cursed, Penny. Can’t you see it? One foot on the bright side of freedom and one foot in the shameful past. A suspicious mind might say you’re destined to live two lives.”
There was something sinister about him standing there—easy as you please—talking about curses. “I wouldn’t dare believe in such nonsense. I’m a practical sort.” But her words sounded forced, a bit too high.
“Are you, now?”
She nodded and took a bite of the corn bread. Silence fell over the room.
A few minutes later, he spoke up. “Ready to work?”
They walked down the stairs. This house had so many stairways, she thought to herself. The foyer. The attic. The kitchen. It was as if the house intended for people to get lost in it. Cool air rising from the cellar swirled around her as she followed him the last few steps into the workshop, looked around and struggled to keep her chin from dropping to the floor.
She couldn’t take even one more step. Not one. The room was simply too much to absorb. She could only stand and stare dumbly. It wasn’t so much the space. Oh, it was impressive—cavernous, cool and dark, with high ceilings and a fireplace big enough to stand it. It was more the feel of the room. Expectation hung in the air, with the sharp smells of woodsmoke and oil. Every inch of the floor was crammed with odds and ends, books, piles of gleaming metal bits, cords, tubes, wires and tools. She felt as though she’d entered a deep and secret mine where magical things could be wrenched free.
Her entire life had been orderly. Downtrodden, perhaps, but orderly. Their little home had been converted to a humble finishing school, the kind the middle-class folks sent their daughters to. She grew up amid books that were neatly shelved and papers that were always stacked neatly. There was the feeling of possibility in the school, too—and it felt wonderfully familiar. But the school had provided an orderly process of discoveries. This room was chaos. She wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“It used to be the kitchen,” Carrick said, walking to the fireplace and tossing a handful of tinder into it. He struck a match and threw it onto the wood. A flame blazed to life. He fanned it, sending a hiss and spray of sparks into the air. “When my project outgrew the library, I moved the kitchen upstairs and took over this room.” He gathered some logs and fed them to the growing blaze. Even though it was high summer, the cellar was chilly, so she welcomed the heat.
Carrick walked about the room lighting lamps and candles. He handed a candle to Penrose, and she helped him with the rest. He continued, “The problem with this room is the lack of light. I have lamps on all the walls, but the large open space where I do my work needs even more light.”
A schematic of the human body hung on one wall. Another had a large calendar. And then she saw what had scared her silly earlier—the wooden beings slumped in their chairs. Her heart stopped, she swore it did, and she brought her hand to her chest to feel its beat before relaxing a bit. What did he do with them?
“Are you coming?” he asked.
“Of course.”
He continued, “Though lamplight is fine, the direct brightness affects my eyes. I prefer candles close by. You’ll be making candles for me. I require special ones.”
“I see,” she said, making a mental note to arrive early and have the workroom lit and ready for him.
He gestured toward the center of the room, where a huge work area made up of many tables pushed together formed a half circle. In the center of the tables, something large bulged from underneath a blanket. Whatever it was, it was larger than a man and twice as wide.
Approaching, she held the candle in the air. “What is it?” she asked, unable to hide the wonder in her voice.
Carrick stood behind her. She neither heard his approach nor felt his presence, so when he spoke, it startled her. He stood inches away. “That is the future. A mechanical man.” He held up his candle. “Go ahead, pull the blanket off.”
She bent down, yanked the blanket away, and the mechanical man stood before her. She blinked and looked up. He was tall, taller than Carrick, taller than any man she’d ever seen. He had a barrel chest, a boxy head and two small lanterns that served as eyes. Wide shoulders sat atop his torso and rivets ran up and down his body like buttons. He resembled a metallic boxer, stout and strong, his skin glistening silver-orange in the firelight.
“What does he do?” she asked in awe. “Can he even move?”
“Anything you want,” Carrick said with pride. “Within reason, of course.”
He seemed to burst with life. He seemed solid. Dependable. But there was something threatening about a heap of metal sculpted into the shape of a human. Some inner part of her recoiled. Not a big part, but enough of a part to steal her words for a few moments as she took in the sight of him. Him. Funny that she thought of it in such familiar terms already.
“Just like in those paperback novels,” she said. She’d once read a scary story about a man who built a steam-powered person and then attached him to a buggy. The man walked across the entire country step by step. When they reached Kansas, the steam-powered man went haywire and killed the man who had created him. That was fiction. She now stood before the real thing, and she wasn’t sure if that made her feel better or worse about it.
“Yes. Just like in those fanciful stories. Except this one is real.” She’d almost forgotten about Carrick. Almost. But the he stood close enough behind her that when he spoke she could feel the air from his breath on the back of her neck.
“How do you give him life?” she asked. “How do you do that?” It was the thousand-dollar question in her mind. She whispered the next word. “Magic?”
He laughed harshly. “Is that what you heard?”
“Perhaps.”
“And what do you think of the things you’ve heard?”
“You’re not paying me to think about what I’ve heard.” She turned, forcing her eyes to meet his and hold his gaze. “That’s what I think.”
“You’re either very clever or very hungry.”
“Or both.”
“Are you as prim and proper as you look?” The tone of his voice changed in that instant. It grew deep and mellow, almost dreamy. But not soothing. Not by a Georgia mile.
She stood stiff, aware of the length of his body right behind hers. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t need to. She could feel the heat from his body as surely as she could from the fire in front of her. “Now, you tell me. Do you like to be judged by the way you look?”
“Touché, Miss Heatherton.”
“Penny. Call me Penny.”
His lips graced the tender spot behind her ear. “Penny,” he whispered, saying the name so low that it came not as a sound but as a rumble against her skin. Then he was gone, the hard strike of his boots ringing out on the stone. She was left with a wave of cool air. He strode in front of her to the mechanical man. “Does he scare you?”
“Yes. He makes me nervous. It’s a feeling I can’t describe. But I’m drawn to him,” she answered, unsure if she was referring to the mechanical man or to him.
He was quiet. “Some quake in their shoes when they see him,” he finally said.
“What’s his name?”
“Name?” He laughed, a mellow, rolling, velvety sound. “He doesn’t have one, of course.”
“But he has to have a name. How can you create something that looks so, well, humanlike—and not give it a name?”
“You can name him. It makes no difference to me.”
“Harris.” The name came to her instantly and once she spoke it, it fit nicely. “We’ll call him Harris.”
“Harris,” he said thoughtfully, walking to Harris and running a finger along his steely arm. “That sounds fine. And yes, to answer your question, he can move. When he’s functioning. But that’s part of the problem. Somewhere inside of him, a gear is tooled wrong. The timing is off, so he can’t walk. I’ve altered the design a million times. It seems there’s always a fatal flaw, and I always discover the flaw too late to correct it. Then I’m forced to destroy my creation and start again. I’m hoping that I’ve discovered the flaw in time.”
She looked up. “How do you know that all flaws are fatal? Perhaps you shouldn’t design them with one goal in mind but rather an open idea of their potential.”
He turned. “You’re sharper than I gave you credit for, Penny.”
“Thank you.” She felt a rush of pleasure at his compliment.
The heat from the fire filled the room, making sweat break out on her forehead.
“You grasp the fundamental concept. One that I’m aware of. The earlier types I created were simply too crude. It’s been an agony just to get to this most basic creation. And even though I love doing it, I rue the day I first got the idea.” He sighed and went to the windows, opening them first before going to the doors and propping them open, too.
“My apologies. I get too wrapped up in it.” Sweet night air filled the room. A pleasant, earthy smell filled the room, carried up from the river by the wind.
He walked over to a wall where a poster of the human anatomy hung. Pencil marks and notes covered the simple drawing of the human being. “I have a question for you. What do you think is more important, form or function?”
Penrose thought for a moment about whether beauty or purpose should be held in higher regard. “Well, I think the function should be the guiding principle.”
“Agreed.”
“Whenever possible, the form should be pleasing, as well.”
His eyes moved from the picture to Penrose. “Very good. I’m pleased. Ideally there would be a balance between the two.”
He went to the wall and placed his hand over the image of the human hand. He was a big man, tall, and his hands eclipsed the one on the diagram. “The real key to designing a mechanical man is to decide where form and function join. Where they come together.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I need to reduce form to its barest minimum. Man will never be able to reproduce the complexity of the human body. It’s up to me to decide what’s essential and what I can leave out to save on engineering costs and time.” He looked back to the poster. “What is the most basic element of being human? If you can answer that, then my instinct says you’ll also have perfect form.”
He saw the confused look on her face and approached her. “Here, I’ll show you. Hold out your arm.”
She lifted her arm and held it straight out to the side. He put one hand on her waist. “May I?” he asked.
Nodding, she felt strangely giddy.
He lifted his other hand to her shoulder. Using two fingers, he traced a path down her extended arm. Fire followed his touch. She wrenched her lips closed to contain a gasp.
He whispered, “I need to decide what part of this arm is inconsequential. Of course, it’s all perfect in the flesh, but I eliminate what’s not necessary, and decide what is essential.”
His hand stretched out to grasp hers. He lifted her arm high above her head and stepped closer, bringing the scent of pinewood shavings with him. “The question is, what is it that allows you to raise your arm like this?”
“Muscles,” she replied in a whisper.
“Of course. And tendons, too. The delicate interplay between them, when to pull and when to push, that’s what matters most. That’s what fascinates me.” He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. “The real question, the one we’re not asking, is what gives the signal to these muscles, what tells them to move?”
He let go of her arm and tapped her temple. “This does. Right in here. That is something we’ll never, ever be able to replicate. But I want to.”
He was so close she could count his eyelashes. He kept speaking, but she heard nothing save for the pounding in her heart. Her nipples tightened, and the sensation unnerved her. Her cheeks burned, and she tried to step back to gather her wits. She felt fear and excitement, a potent combination. He was unlike any man she’d ever known and she wasn’t sure what to say.
He pulled away, a cold look settling over his features. “Did the agency tell you what your duties would be?”
“A little bit,” she said, turning away, trying to hide the flash of shame because there was no agency. Mrs. Capshaw would be the end of her, she just knew it.
He pointed out a simple desk, off to the side. “Part of the time, you’ll work there. Taking notes. Sketching for me. The rest of your time will be spent helping me tool the components. I struggle to see those small details, which is what caused the problem I have to begin with.”
“That sounds fine,” she said. She looked again at the wooden figures, remembering how mysterious and lifelike they looked from outside the window. There was no life in them now. They looked defeated, slumped. Ropes bound them to the chairs and held them upright. They had no faces, no features. The wood had been whittled and etched away to reveal the essence of a human body. Arms, legs, hands.
Yet they were beautiful. It was as if whittling them down hadn’t made them less—it made them more. It brought out their essence. She walked toward them and gingerly touched one on the shoulder, half expecting it to turn and look at her. “What are they?” she asked in a hushed tone, afraid of his answer, knowing full well how silly she was being. But there was definitely something curious about this man.
“Mannequins. My earliest attempts. I keep them because I have a fondness for them. They remind me that progress is possible. Why? Did you think I used them for another purpose?”
“I wasn’t sure.”
* * *
It was too hot. Carrick stood at the door, lingering and scraping his boot absentmindedly back and forth over the gravel. Her hands didn’t flutter. That was the first thing he noticed. Some of the others that came here stood trembling, their hands fluttering like trapped butterflies as they stared up at the mechanical man—Harris. Hell, even he thought of him as Harris now.
But her? He saw it. Interest. She looked afraid, yes. But for one brief instant, he saw the spark of wonder. Plus, she named him. That had to be a good sign. She might be the one to help him for the long, hard haul that he knew lay ahead.
Her gasp when she first saw the mechanical man was the single most heavenly sound he’d ever heard. They both saw the same thing in his invention—potential—he knew it in his bones. Of course, he’d become too excited, got too close and scared her. Scared her. Scaring people was something he was far too good at.
Even with that painful disappointment, his spirits were still riding high because she just might work out. Her intellect was apparent. Other assistants worked methodically but without vigor, and he felt the burden of constantly explaining task after task to someone who didn’t care to learn the concepts or take leaps of initiative. He held out hope that she might work out just fine.
“How long have you been designing the mechanical man?” she asked, turning to look at him with those blue, blue eyes, and he found himself struggling to pay attention to her words.
“Six years.”
“Six years?” Her perfect lips made an O of surprise. “That’s a long time to remain committed to something that still hasn’t born results.”
“The results? The end?” He laughed. “What’s that? Every morning when I go to bed, I have to restrain my mind from dwelling on my project. I would think of it all day, every single moment, if I could.”
* * *
Penrose returned to her desk and began working again, but the uneasy, flighty feeling in her chest lingered. The feeling was strange, excitement and fear mingled together. He was exciting to be around, but he was a volatile person. And mysterious. Her stomach twisted at the memory of his hand on her shoulder.
He paced the room while he spoke. She took notes. Scribbling furiously, she did her best to keep up with him. His ideas were explosions of brilliance, and as he spoke, she slipped into a kind of trance, channeling his words directly onto the paper.
He spoke of the function of the mechanical man, of ways to solve the dilemma with the gears, of the possible need to retool some of them and the supreme need for flexibility of design.
It was revealing to hear his thoughts aloud and easy to take measure of his mind. He had an organized way of thinking, linear and clear. His ideas were concise and simple to understand, and her pen flew across the paper. At times, he paced the floor or hesitated before speaking. She waited, pen in the air, and as soon as his words began to flow once again her scratchings on the paper renewed.
He came and stood behind her. After discussing the particularly difficult redesign of a gear, he put his hand on her shoulder and asked, “Did that make sense? I think if we change the ratio, the output will be stronger.”
A twist of nervousness tightened within her. She looked up at him, her eyes wide. The sight of him—tall and regal, with his white hair framing his handsome face—affected her, making her breath heavy.
“Yes,” she said, nodding as if she understood perfectly. But the only thing she understood was his hand and those long elegant fingers resting on her shoulder.
She couldn’t breathe. More than anything she wanted to rest her cheek on that hand, to feel it caress her skin. Never before had she reacted in such a way. Something strange was happening.
Somehow, her pen kept moving, danced across the paper and finished the last sentence. The realization that she wanted more of that touch made her hand shake and her script wobbly.
He had such passion. A singular-minded obsession. She wondered what it would it be like if he lavished that passion on her.
The thought flamed her cheeks, and she pulled away from him, turning her head. Instantly, his hand disappeared from her shoulder. She wanted to face him and say something, but what could she say? Nothing at all.
Stepping away, he continued speaking, pacing the floor. And she continued writing as if nothing had passed between them.
She wrote so much her fingers hurt, and the tips of them became stained with ink. It felt like an instant later the grandfather clock tolled the midnight hour. Time seemed to speed up when she was with him.
She stretched her tired, achy fingers, waiting for the chimes to stop and Carrick to start lecturing again. But as soon as the clock fell silent, another sound rang out.
It was the sound of crashing noises coming from outside, and the second she heard them, a terrible sense of foreboding settled over her.
* * *
As soon as Carrick heard the crashing sounds coming from outside the workshop he was up and out the door. He didn’t know what he was expecting—C.J. maybe, up to some antics—but when he went outside only the summer breeze greeted him. He looked around. Nothing.
He heard the faint sound of a woman’s gasp. It was light and breathy with an air of surprise and something else, something he couldn’t name.
He looked in the direction of the sound and saw a woman standing just outside the circle of light that came from the window. She wore all white and had a sheen of yellow hair that trailed just below her shoulders.
An angel. That was his first thought. She floated out there in the darkness, hovering with a strange look of fear and longing on her face. Such longing.
She couldn’t be a ghost. No such thing. “Hey,” said Carrick sharply. “What are you doing out here?”
Instead of replying, she shook her head slowly and began to back away.
“Hey!” he called again, louder now.
The woman began backing away, the shadows swallowing her. “Stop!” he said, “Don’t go. Tell me who you are.”
Penrose came and stood right behind him, her body pressed against his.
“What is it?” she asked, craning to see outside. “No!” she shouted, surprising him so much that he startled. “Go away!” The tone of her voice was frightened. More than frightened.
“Do you know that woman?” Carrick asked.
The woman turned to Penrose, and something passed between them. He felt it like a bolt of lightning.
The woman outside looked angry, beyond angry. Her posture was rigid. She lifted her hand and pointed at Penrose. For a moment, it looked as if the blonde were about to speak, but she shook her head again and, in a swirl of white skirts, turned and fled.
Some primal instinct flared inside of him, and he took off running after her. No one should be on the property. He didn’t know what she was up to, but he fully intended to find out.
“No, Carrick!” screamed Penrose. “Don’t follow her!”
He paid Penrose no attention. “Stop!” he shouted to the woman. It was dark. He had trouble enough seeing at night, let alone running through the trees.
He heard her crashing through the woods, and this made her easier to follow. He loped along behind her, his long legs closing the distance between them. Her crashing sounds were getting louder by the second. Once he caught her, he would get to the bottom of this little mystery.
* * *
A heavy, oppressive feeling settled in Penrose’s chest. As soon as she saw the woman, she knew her ruse was up. Her breath died in her chest at that moment. So did the little feeling of hope that finally she had started to feel. She should’ve known the scheme would end badly.
Anytime she tried to get ahead, something came along and set her back. Now Carrick was out there, chasing that woman, that beautiful, perfect woman who by all rights should be standing right where Penrose stood.
Now alone in the quiet workshop, feeling numb, Penrose looked around her. The budding hope that had begun to grow inside of her was already dying. She looked around, trying to memorize everything in the room because she knew she would be leaving. Carrick would show up any minute, yell at her and kick her out. She’d never see the workshop or Harris again. Or Carrick. Her reaction surprised her.
In one quick fix, she had thought she could solve her problems. But she’d only made them worse.
She noticed that her fingers were stained with ink, and she went to the table, picked up a rag and began wiping the stains away. Minutes dragged by, and when the clock gonged again—one in the morning—the door swung open.
Carrick filled the doorway. He looked wild. His white hair stood on edge.
Penrose’s hands stilled and fell to her side. The rag dropped to the floor.
He stared at her long and hard, his shoulders squared, and he took great, heaving breaths.
She wasn’t sure how to react. She was too afraid to say anything, to reveal anything at all. Perhaps he hadn’t caught up with her.
But one look at his face told her he had, indeed. More than caught up with her, she realized, noticing the angry set of his lips. He’d spoken with her.
In three strides, he crossed the room. She barely had time to gather her breath before he loomed over her, his beautiful, angry features hovering right above her face. “What trickery are you up to, Penny?”
He knew. It was over. A horrid wrenching twisted in her gut, but something else was there, too, some wild, fluttery, panicked sensation. A painful feeling of loss and shame. She didn’t want him to think badly of her. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I never intended...”
He shook his head slowly. “The conversation I just had with that woman,” he said, walking around her. “And the things I’ve learned about you.” He stopped, leaned forward and took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look into his strange eyes. Angry eyes that seemed to swirl with dark colors. “It seems you weren’t honest with me, were you?”
“No,” she whispered, too flustered to come to any self-defense of her behavior. She felt the hole that she’d dug widening beneath her feet, and the blackness threatening to swallow her up. If only she could look away from his eyes, but his hand at her chin was no longer gentle. It held her tight.
“What game you play, I don’t know,” he said. “But you will not win it. This I guarantee you—you will not win it. You came and looked me in the eyes, and deceived me.” He leaned close. She smelled the woods on him and the scent of summer blooms. “I know your secret. And I wager there are even more to find out, and, trust me, I’ll find every single one.”
Penrose knew what he was talking about. He was talking about her. About the blonde. “Please, you’re scaring me,” she said. Her words came out too soft, too weak. “Where did she go?” she asked him.
His chest pressed against hers, and he made no accommodation for her at all. She was forced to hold her breath. He said, “Do you care where she went? Do you really care as long as she’s not here?” He stepped even closer, forcing her tighter against the table. “And why is she here, Penny? Do you know that?”
“I needed a job,” she whispered her confession. Her eyes met his, imploring him to have sympathy. “I was hungry. I didn’t know...” Her voice trailed off.
“She gave me the impression you knew a great many things, Penny. And that you weren’t so innocent, that you committed a crime against her, and now she suffers for it,” he said. “Her words, not mine.”
His demeanor was decidedly very, very different, and she didn’t know what to make of it. Mrs. Capshaw be damned to hell. “I’ll leave,” she whispered.
He chuckled, and the threat behind it gave her shivers. “You’ll do no such thing. You made your bed—now you’ll lie in it.” Lifting her chin higher, he leaned closer until his lips touched her ear. “Or you can lie in mine, if you prefer,” he said. “In fact, she mentioned something of the sort.”
Not one word came to her lips. Not one. She could only breathe, but even that was a struggle—little gasps that caused her breasts to push against his chest. “I’m sorry,” she finally whispered.
“Are you?” With his other hand, he traced up the side of her torso. Higher and higher, skimming over her breast, her shoulders, until his long fingers caressed the back of her neck and edged into her upswept hair.
Yes, his demeanor had changed so very much. Whatever the woman had said, she unleashed a new man in Carrick.
Penrose closed her eyes, unsure if this was even real. But her body told her it was real, very real, for it throbbed with life and feeling.
With his other hand, he traced a thumb over her lips, and she whimpered.
“Perhaps she wasn’t lying.” His voice, now at her ear, smooth and cajoling, seemed to be speaking right into her soul. “Are you afraid of me?” His voice was so, so low.
With his thumb on her lips, she couldn’t speak. She shook her head no. But she was trapped and could only stand there, enduring the feel of him.
He removed his thumb. “Let me repeat my question. Are you afraid?”
She couldn’t keep lying to him. Oh, she wanted to, but her pounding heart wouldn’t let her think of an excuse. “Yes,” she said, nodding. It was everything about him. His sharp, strange beauty. His odd ways. The way he frightened her.
But it was too late to say anything. His fingers guided her to look at him and then his mouth descended onto hers, deceptively soft.
She stilled, hardly believing what was happening. But it was happening.
He drew her closer, enveloping her, holding her against him. His kiss turned hard and demanding. Anger lurked underneath. She knew it from the way his lips slashed, hot and accusing, over hers.
It wasn’t merely anger. It was more than that. Something almost dangerous. Seductive.
Sinking, melting, she surrendered to the feeling. He tugged at her lips, coaxing her mouth to open and then his tongue thrust inside, claiming her. Triumphant.
Heat spread between her legs. An odd sound escaped her mouth, and a shiver swept over her. Her whole body shook from it, surprising her.
Her reaction seemed to inflame Carrick. A rumble came from his throat, and his kiss grew bolder, hungrier. All night long, his touch had been measured and precise. Incremental. Now it turned wild. Uncontrolled. His hands swept up her skirt hungrily, grabbing fistfuls of fabric, digging for her body beneath. When he found it, he growled and pressed against her, and she felt his hardness through the folds of her skirt. It made a pulse of pleasure beat between her legs.
From deep inside, an unrestrained, breathy shudder swept over her body. She whimpered and pressed farther into his kiss, overwhelmed with wanting him.
He stilled. Through her dress, she felt his hands clench angrily. “Dammit,” he said harshly. “I can’t do this.” He stepped away from her. “I’m sorry,” he said, avoiding her gaze, already turning away from her. “It’s too damned complicated. More than that. God, it’s so much more than that.”
Reaching out and putting a hand on his chest, she leaned up and tried to kiss him. “Please.” She didn’t want it to stop.
“You are young and foolish,” he said in a measured voice.
Taken aback, she stared at him hard before she said, “And you have no heart.”
“Now you know the truth of it. My real affliction. Let’s get back to work and forget this ever happened.”
