Page 12

His lips curled as he turned away. When the Baron stomped toward the sideboard his kilt swayed about his legs, and she was reminded of that scene in the garden. From behind, he was enough to arouse even the most staid of ladies; all muscle and tanned skin and a faint covering of hair. From the front, however…

His scars were alarming, yes. They made him appear cruel and vicious, and his constant growling didn’t help. But the charitable part of her remembered he’d been hidden here for the last years, forsaking company, and she’d pushed herself on him. The man could be forgiven for his grumpiness.

But his eyes…his eyes held pain.

And good God, but those legs. Those muscles. The unharmed side of his face could even be called handsome, but Georgia was more focused on the place where his strong jaw—under the faint beard—met his throat. The muscles there jumped as he poured a finger of the amber liquid into the glass, and she wondered what he’d do if she planted her lips on his skin.

And nibbled.

When he turned back to her, glass held out, she did her best to hide her arousal. Whenever and however. Good God, was she seriously considering this?

Their fingers didn’t brush as she took the glass, and she was almost thankful for that.

Less thankful for the burn of what turned out to be quite strong Scots whisky.

“Heavens,” she coughed, waving the half-crumpled contract before her. “That was—”

“Ye’re no’ supposed to swig it down in one.” There was censure in his tone as he shook his head. “Ye want another?”

“No, I—” She coughed again, then set the glass upon the desk. “I think that was—” Another cough. “I am sufficed.”

“Sufficed,” he snorted. “Feckless turdgibbons, lady, ye sound like an etiquette manual. Ye’re in the wrong place.”

Georgia forced herself upright, forced the hard-earned steel back into her spine, and pinned him with an imperious look her father had forced her to perfect. “On the contrary, Lord Endymion. I am right where I belong.”

He just muttered something under his breath and turned away, although a muffled thud on the door of the study caught his attention.

She might’ve thought it was a servant, until he glanced at the clock over the mantle. “Cockwomble! I missed it.”

Missed what?

He went stomping toward the door—really, did the man know how to walk normally?—and dragged it open. Outside stood, rather than a servant with a tray…a cat.

An exceptionally fat, elderly cat who’d obviously just thunked its head against the door.

“Aye, well, dinnae just stand there,” Demon commanded.

The cat made a muffled sound of approval and shuffled into the room, each step placed purposefully as if it had done this a thousand times before. Demon stood there, holding open the door as the animal plodded around his desk, brushing alarmingly close to Georgia’s skirts, and headed toward one of the two leather chairs in front of the fire.

It then climbed up into it, stretched once, and settled down like a king on his throne. It yawned, closed its eyes, and did a credible impression of being dead.

“Your…pet? It belongs to you?”

Demon snorted and rolled his eyes. “More like I belong to him. We all do. Rajah is aulder than Methuselah.” Then, seemingly irritated at having to explain, shook his head and closed the door with more force than necessary. “He thinks we only exist to cater to him, hence having to hold the door for him.”

The cat had his master trained well. Georgia hid her smile. “All cats believe that, to some extent. He must be rather stuck in his ways.”

With a grunt, Demon dragged his hand through his hair. “He comes in here at 11:47 each morning, does a circuit around the desk, then settles in for a nap.”

“Is that what he’s doing?” she asked, her mouth making polite conversation while her brain was completely distracted by forearms and shoulders and jawline. When he’d dragged his hand through his hair, pulling the lank strands from his face, he suddenly looked stronger, more virile.

Which was a problem, because Georgia’s veins were already humming with desire.

That had to be the only reason she’d suggested the brash plan—the contract hung not-at-all-forgotten from her hand—they were currently ignoring to discuss a cat.

Demon’s expression had turned almost fond as he studied the animal. With another snort, he shook his head. “Bloody thing sleeps like the dead.”

Cat. Talk about the cat.