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A triangle of light gilded the flushed crest of her cheek.
He leaned back on the love seat so he wouldn’t be tempted to rub his thumb across that rose-gold wedge, the sun-warmed satin of her skin.
It helped that his dominant hand was wrapped up like a mummy.
“Fyodor won’t be welcome where we’re going,” he said. “You can leave him with Kuznetsov, in the butler’s pantry. But—where is Fyodor?”
He scanned the room.
“Fritz,” said Miss Finch. “His name is Fritz. He’s dozing behind that curtain.” Her voice held a touch of uncertainty. “He’s like a cat, but . . . lazier.”
“Lazy, you say?” Alan caught the motion out of the corner of his eye a moment before she did.
“A lump of a thing,” she affirmed. “Just lies around and . . .”
Fyodor—or Fritz—flashed out from behind a pillar, head crowned with tufted white fur, mouth opened wide to emit an ear-splitting yowl.
“Oh, damn bugger blast!” Miss Finch was up in an instant, darting this way and that, trying to block each objet d’art as Fritz careened on his zigzag course. She made a futile grab, then another. He leapt onto a table, then to a chair, then to her shoulder, then launched himself into space. She gasped, spun on her heel, and gave chase, thundering back in Alan’s direction.
Before he could blink, Fritz was flying toward him, truly as though he did have wings. A furry gargoyle in flight. Screaming like a banshee.
Alan grunted a laugh as the monkey struck his chest, scrabbling up his jacket to his shoulder, twisting its claws into his hair. Miss Finch was only a second behind.
“Get off!” she cried. “Don’t be a beast!” She made a final grab and tripped over Alan’s cane.
All that rounded softness.
She came down on him like a sledge.
Chapter Six
Dear God. If this wasn’t grounds for a sacking . . .
Nina found herself half on the floor, half on De’Ath, gripping his lapels for dear life. His face was very close. And looked rather green.
She’d injured him. Pardon. She’d say pardon.
She couldn’t say it. She had no air in her lungs. And yet—air abounded, fathoms and fathoms of it, now as always. Dumbfounded, she stared into De’Ath’s eyes.
“Miss Finch,” he said coolly, despite his clenched teeth, “has anyone ever told you that you’re an exceedingly memorable woman?”
All at once, her lungs filled, painfully. She heard herself make an odd moan.
“Blow to the solar plexus.” His face drew closer still. “Take slow breaths.”
His throat was thick, a column of muscle. Her eyes latched to it, to the segment of exposed skin above the fussy folds of his cravat. She breathed. He used Brown Windsor soap. The bergamot—the soap’s signature note—made her nostrils flare. The blend of spices seemed subtly altered. Darker, headier. More enticing.
His face dropped another half inch. She let her own head fall back, dragged her eyes up, to his mouth.
He was going to kiss her.
His lips parted.
“And when you’re quite recovered,” he said, “release my coat.”
She gasped and opened her fists. He straightened instantly, rubbing the back of his neck.
Blood boiled up to her cheeks.
