Page 4

Damn.

The man was too absorbed with the body of a dead man to notice hers. Perhaps she needed to use a different technique.

“That is a terrible gash,” she said. “How do you think he was killed?” She hoped to stir the thief-taker’s pride, his need to explain to a foolish harlot how his investigative mind worked. To distract him from the distant suspicious sounds within the walls.

It didn’t work, at least, not the way she had intended.

“I shall be the one to ask questions, Madame,” he said tartly. “Did you see anyone leave the room before you entered?” He froze for a moment and cocked his head as if trying to decipher the sounds.

“Non, Monsieur. I have seen nothing, heard nothing, and done nothing. Can I go?”

“I am afraid not. You—” He stopped abruptly as something caught his eye. He squinted, his gaze traveling from the dead man’s abdomen up to his chest. The man still had his shirt on, although it was unbuttoned fully, showcasing his hairy chest. Grace squinted, hoping to see what the thief-taker noticed, but his shadow obscured it from Grace’s view.

“I… what? Did I do something wrong?”

“You are the primary suspect.” He stood and dusted off his gloved hands, the leather of his gloves making a dull sound. “And you are not going anywhere.”

His gaze penetrated hers, sharp and direct. She did not remember the color of his eyes, but in this dim lighting, they seemed devilishly black.

He slowly tore his eyes away, his gaze gliding down her body, slowly, sensually, almost like a caress. Grace swallowed—the urge to wriggle was nearly uncontrollable.

What was he doing? Why was his gaze so heated? And how come his gaze had such a profound effect on her? Had her wiles suddenly worked?

Or was he beating her at her own game?

Either way, her skin hummed and her blood warmed in her veins.

Perhaps it wasn’t the man eliciting such a reaction from her. It must have been the excitement and nerves of being suspected of murder. Yes, that must be it.

“Do you have any weapons?”

Grace almost jumped from the sharpness of his voice. Ah, that’s why he was studying her form. He was not being flirtatious; he was trying to see if she was armed.

Grace took a step back and twirled, sweeping her arm in the air, indicating the numerous whips and knives displayed on the wall behind her. There were other items there, none of which she would describe as “weapons,” but perhaps the thief-taker would. It was called The House of Pain and Pleasure for a reason, although a murder involved a little too much pain for Grace’s liking.

“I meant on your person,” he clarified.

Without taking her eyes off him, Grace slowly bent down and retrieved a tiny dagger neatly strapped to her thigh. The blade glinted in the candlelight as she flipped it in her hand, then, holding it by the blade, offered it to the thief-taker.

He took it by the handle and studied it carefully. “Any other weapons?”

Grace responded by slowly widening her stance, legs shoulder-width apart, arms out akimbo. “You are free to search my person if you don’t believe me, Monsieur Gunning.”

Mr. Gunning’s gaze held an unsettling intensity as if those piercing eyes could see straight through to her very soul. Yet Grace knew there was nothing there for him to find but darkness.

Without taking his eyes off her, he stepped closer and closer still until he was less than a foot away. Was he going to accept her challenge and pat her down?

Grace swallowed. He would not find anything on her body, either. But his closeness made her shiver once more.

Then he did something unexpected. He leaned in closer, so much so that she could feel his breath on her cheek.

For a moment, her fanciful mind conjured up the idea that he was going to kiss her. Worse still, she didn’t think she minded. Something about this large man—the warmth of his skin, the intensity of his gaze—invited her closer.

And then something even more unexpected happened: his gloved hand touched her bare one, if just for a moment, grazing her wrist.

Her pulse drummed madly against her skin, and Grace tried very hard to contain it. He was beating her at her own game, the wretched man. She was supposed to sweep him off his feet with her coquettish smile and artificial charm, distracting him so that he would leave this place in a daze. Instead, she was the one who was dazed.

She took a deep breath to steady her nerves but failed miserably. Instead, she inhaled the fresh scent of rain and the outdoors that still clung to his cloak and beneath it, the raw, masculine scent of his skin.