The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie
Page 27
Since he’d seen her standing in the dining room of her London house, girding herself to face Mortimer and his friends, Daniel had wanted her. Even now, he wanted to carry her off to his hotel, peel back her plain and sensible clothes, and discover the lush woman beneath. He wanted her in his bed, to scent her ready for him, to taste her skin and mouth, to feel her around him.
Daniel craved her, and he would have her before he left France.
The boardinghouse they reached was clean, neatly painted, and respectable. Lights glowed in the upstairs rooms as well as in the downstairs parlors. “Thank you,” Violet said, stopping. “I’ll go in alone.”
“Right you are.” Daniel released her and tipped his hat. “Good night, Miss Bastien. I’ll keep calling you that until I learn another name.”
Violet gave him a nod, her face softening. “Good night, Mr. Mackenzie. I truly am glad you are well.”
“Glad because I won’t come down upon you with the full extent of the law? You’re lucky I’ve got so much kindness in my heart.”
Violet’s glare returned with his teasing. “I am glad, for your sake. But you may think what you like. Good night.”
She spun away and made for the door to the boardinghouse, her head high. Her skirts swayed enticingly across her hips, her upright stride a joy to watch.
Violet didn’t look back at Daniel as she opened the door to the boardinghouse with a little jerk and walked inside.
She was good. She was very, very good. Daniel smiled at the closed door, tipped his hat again, and walked on down the street as though satisfied.
When he came to a narrow passage between houses on the opposite side of the street, he stepped into the shadows, drew out a cigarette, lit it, fixed his gaze on the boardinghouse, and waited.
Ten minutes, he gave her. Enough time for Daniel to make it to a main thoroughfare and hire a carriage to take him to his hotel.
After ten minutes had gone by, Daniel dropped the spent cigarette and ground it out under his boot heel. At the same time, Violet walked out of the boardinghouse again. She looked up and down the street, scanning every shadow, before she started walking back the way they’d come.
Clever lass.
Too bad for her that Daniel knew this city so well. As a boy, he’d managed more than once to follow his father to the Riviera, despite Cameron’s efforts to leave his son behind. Daniel had learned how to coerce others to get him to the Continent, and when he was a little older, to buy his own tickets and come himself. He’d spent many an evening surreptitiously following his father around Marseille, hurt because his dad would rather take up with fancy women than sightsee with his son. Therefore, Daniel knew exactly how to weave through the streets to reach the main avenue before Violet did. Again, he ducked into a doorway and waited.
She turned onto the street, walking briskly, determination in her stride. When Violet reached the doorway where Daniel hid, he stepped out in front of her.
“Now then, Mademoiselle,” he said, grinning at her. “How about we walk to where you really live?”
Chapter 9
He’d drive her mad. Violet’s heart thudded as she stared at Daniel, with his captivating smile, his warm eyes, and his uncanny ability to predict her every move.
Never let anyone know all about you, Jacobi had stressed. A person who knows your secrets has a powerful hold over you. If you never let yourself be known, you will always be free.
Daniel was so tall. He stood, unmoving, not about to let her walk around him. Or he might, then catch her with his strong arm and pull her back again.
Violet wet her dry lips. “Why must you know? Surely it makes no difference whether I stay in this boardinghouse or that boardinghouse . . .”
“It makes a difference to you,” Daniel said. “Your key will work only in the right door, for one. And you’d keep all your things in one place, wouldn’t you? Unless you have a network of rooms all over the city. That is handy, I admit. I often keep several places at once for stashing things.”
She tried to put on a lofty look. “Why do you care, Mr. Mackenzie?”
“Because you do. And because I want you to get home safe. Now, come on.” He held out his arm. “If we debate in the street, that nice policeman over there will come and tell us to move on, or maybe arrest us for breaking the peace. And the police would be sticklers about finding out your name, your nationality, where you come from, why you’re here. Safer to walk home with me, isn’t it?”
Daniel held out his arm, so polite, so gentlemanly, but behind the courteous gesture was a man of ruthless intent. He wanted to know all about her, and by God, he was going to find out.
Violet made a noise of exasperation, turned from his extended hand, and started striding back the way she’d come.
Daniel easily fell into step with her, strong fingers coming around her arm. “So, did you bring it with you?” he asked.
“Bring what?”
“The wind machine. I want to borrow it.”
He was too close to her. Violet easily smelled the scents that clung to him—smoke, the remnants of whiskey, the musk of himself under his wool coat. The scents made her remember how he’d leaned to her in the upstairs room in London, how he’d tasted her mouth, how he’d stunned her with the brief, warm press of lips.
“Borrow it why?” she managed to ask.
“Because I’m working on something, and I want to see if it will help me. Or give me a clue as to what would. If you don’t want to let the thing out of your hands, you can come with it.”
Daniel craved her, and he would have her before he left France.
The boardinghouse they reached was clean, neatly painted, and respectable. Lights glowed in the upstairs rooms as well as in the downstairs parlors. “Thank you,” Violet said, stopping. “I’ll go in alone.”
“Right you are.” Daniel released her and tipped his hat. “Good night, Miss Bastien. I’ll keep calling you that until I learn another name.”
Violet gave him a nod, her face softening. “Good night, Mr. Mackenzie. I truly am glad you are well.”
“Glad because I won’t come down upon you with the full extent of the law? You’re lucky I’ve got so much kindness in my heart.”
Violet’s glare returned with his teasing. “I am glad, for your sake. But you may think what you like. Good night.”
She spun away and made for the door to the boardinghouse, her head high. Her skirts swayed enticingly across her hips, her upright stride a joy to watch.
Violet didn’t look back at Daniel as she opened the door to the boardinghouse with a little jerk and walked inside.
She was good. She was very, very good. Daniel smiled at the closed door, tipped his hat again, and walked on down the street as though satisfied.
When he came to a narrow passage between houses on the opposite side of the street, he stepped into the shadows, drew out a cigarette, lit it, fixed his gaze on the boardinghouse, and waited.
Ten minutes, he gave her. Enough time for Daniel to make it to a main thoroughfare and hire a carriage to take him to his hotel.
After ten minutes had gone by, Daniel dropped the spent cigarette and ground it out under his boot heel. At the same time, Violet walked out of the boardinghouse again. She looked up and down the street, scanning every shadow, before she started walking back the way they’d come.
Clever lass.
Too bad for her that Daniel knew this city so well. As a boy, he’d managed more than once to follow his father to the Riviera, despite Cameron’s efforts to leave his son behind. Daniel had learned how to coerce others to get him to the Continent, and when he was a little older, to buy his own tickets and come himself. He’d spent many an evening surreptitiously following his father around Marseille, hurt because his dad would rather take up with fancy women than sightsee with his son. Therefore, Daniel knew exactly how to weave through the streets to reach the main avenue before Violet did. Again, he ducked into a doorway and waited.
She turned onto the street, walking briskly, determination in her stride. When Violet reached the doorway where Daniel hid, he stepped out in front of her.
“Now then, Mademoiselle,” he said, grinning at her. “How about we walk to where you really live?”
Chapter 9
He’d drive her mad. Violet’s heart thudded as she stared at Daniel, with his captivating smile, his warm eyes, and his uncanny ability to predict her every move.
Never let anyone know all about you, Jacobi had stressed. A person who knows your secrets has a powerful hold over you. If you never let yourself be known, you will always be free.
Daniel was so tall. He stood, unmoving, not about to let her walk around him. Or he might, then catch her with his strong arm and pull her back again.
Violet wet her dry lips. “Why must you know? Surely it makes no difference whether I stay in this boardinghouse or that boardinghouse . . .”
“It makes a difference to you,” Daniel said. “Your key will work only in the right door, for one. And you’d keep all your things in one place, wouldn’t you? Unless you have a network of rooms all over the city. That is handy, I admit. I often keep several places at once for stashing things.”
She tried to put on a lofty look. “Why do you care, Mr. Mackenzie?”
“Because you do. And because I want you to get home safe. Now, come on.” He held out his arm. “If we debate in the street, that nice policeman over there will come and tell us to move on, or maybe arrest us for breaking the peace. And the police would be sticklers about finding out your name, your nationality, where you come from, why you’re here. Safer to walk home with me, isn’t it?”
Daniel held out his arm, so polite, so gentlemanly, but behind the courteous gesture was a man of ruthless intent. He wanted to know all about her, and by God, he was going to find out.
Violet made a noise of exasperation, turned from his extended hand, and started striding back the way she’d come.
Daniel easily fell into step with her, strong fingers coming around her arm. “So, did you bring it with you?” he asked.
“Bring what?”
“The wind machine. I want to borrow it.”
He was too close to her. Violet easily smelled the scents that clung to him—smoke, the remnants of whiskey, the musk of himself under his wool coat. The scents made her remember how he’d leaned to her in the upstairs room in London, how he’d tasted her mouth, how he’d stunned her with the brief, warm press of lips.
“Borrow it why?” she managed to ask.
“Because I’m working on something, and I want to see if it will help me. Or give me a clue as to what would. If you don’t want to let the thing out of your hands, you can come with it.”
