Page 13 of To Heist and to Hold

The following day Mrs. Marlow was once more at Dionysus bright and early.

And as Ethan, upon entering the boxing venue, spied that now-familiar head of shining sable hair next to Mr. Ferris, the lead carpenter, he couldn’t help but scowl.

Not because he was displeased to see her, but rather because he was pleased that she was there and had been looking forward to seeing her since they’d parted the day before. Damn it all to ever-loving hell.

Even more frustrating was the fact that he was eager to spend the day with her.

Not to keep an eye on her because he did not trust her, but just to have her near.

This was all for the sake of protecting his business, he reminded himself severely, trying to leash his rogue thoughts.

It was certainly not for pleasurable reasons.

Which, unfortunately, was like a spark to dry tinder when it came to his imagination. Against his will he began to dream up all manner of pleasurable reasons to keep her by his side. Mostly ones that did not include anyone else about. Or clothing.

Shaking his head to clear it of a much-too-tempting image of Mrs. Heloise Marlow without a stitch on amid the rumpled sheets of his bed, he growled low and spun about, intending to stalk back to the sanctity of his office.

Lusting after the woman would not help one bit in his keeping his head where she was concerned, something that was imperative if he was to successfully guard his club against whatever she was up to.

Unfortunately, his exit was not fast enough.

Before he had taken two steps, a slender yet surprisingly firm hand was on his arm, holding him in place.

“Mr. Sinclaire, how wonderful to see you again this morning.”

Closing his eyes to control his body’s completely treasonous reaction to the woman’s now-familiar voice—one that was sweet and lilting, yet with the faintest huskiness—Ethan steeled himself and turned back to face Mrs. Marlow.

“Good morning, madam.”

She smiled up at him. But it was not the too-bright simpering of the day before, with fluttering eyelashes and coy glances.

No, today her eyelids were heavy, her lips turned up in what he could only call a knowing curve.

That, combined with the way her fingertips seemed to linger on his coat sleeve, and his body burst into flames.

Her smile widened, as if she knew her effect on him. “I look forward to working closely with you again this morning. Shall we get started?”

Get started? Get started with what? As she spoke she pressed closer to him, her breasts brushing up against his arm—with a much more purposeful air than the day before—and his mind simply stopped working altogether.

Blessedly, just at that moment, Teagan sauntered up. Still dressed in his evening wear from the night before, he looked his typical devilishly handsome self. Which should not have perturbed Ethan as it did, especially when Mrs. Marlow turned her heavy-lidded gaze his way.

“Mrs. Marlow,” the other man said with a grin, sketching a slight bow. “How lovely to see you here this fine morning. You have such a wonderful dedication to your job.”

She laughed lightly. “I firmly believe that anything worth doing should be done right.”

Ethan felt those words straight to his… toes.

Not that there had been anything sexual about what she had said.

Yet they affected him just as viscerally as if she had whispered them in his ear and then licked him for good measure.

He cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot, more to break contact with her than anything else.

Good God, if he kept up like this, he would embarrass himself in front of everyone present.

“Well said, madam,” Teagan replied. “And may I say, your lovely face is a welcome diversion amidst the crush of unattractive male visages I’m forced to look upon.

Present company included,” he continued in a drawl, his sly eyes sliding to Ethan.

“But forgive me for interrupting, Sinclaire. Mr. Kendal has arrived early with the playbill and advertisement mock-ups. I’ve shown him to your office; he’s waiting for you there.

And as you have not yet eaten this morning, I’ll have the kitchen staff send something up to you after he leaves. ”

Ethan scowled. “I’m not hungry.”

To which Teagan rolled his eyes. “Did you know, Mrs. Marlow,” he said to the woman in a loud aside, “that Sinclaire here is quite the most stubborn man alive? He will gladly starve himself if it means thwarting my care of him. Which is why I shall call on you to help make certain he eats everything I send up for him. But have you breakfasted yourself? I shall send something up for you as well. We have quite the fabulous spread; you will not want to miss out.”

The damn bastard, always interfering. But whereas his interference was typically harmless fun, now it most assuredly was not.

Not that Teagan knew just how troublesome this bit of strong-arming was.

Or did he? Ethan narrowed his eyes. Could the man possibly know how much Mrs. Marlow affected him, that the very idea of being in such close, private quarters with her was akin to torture?

As usual, however, the man gave not the smallest tell as he continued to gaze at Mrs. Marlow with that maddeningly mild yet altogether too-flirtatious smile on his face.

Just as Ethan was about to denounce the idea, however—while he needed to keep her in his sight, he did not have to be alone with her to do it, thank you very much—the woman spoke up.

“That sounds lovely, thank you.” Bidding goodbye to Teagan as that man—the utter arse—dipped his head in a small bow and sauntered away, whistling all the while, she turned to Ethan, reaching for his arm, sliding her fingers into the crook of his elbow.

Ethan jolted at the contact, more surprising for the fact that she seemed to caress his bicep, her fingers wrapping about the muscle as if taking stock of his strength.

It took everything in him not to purposely flex.

She smiled in expectation up at him. “Please, Mr. Sinclaire, lead the way.”

What could he do but comply? Gritting his teeth, he led her back down the hallway and away from the boxing venue.

Behind them, the steady pounding of nails being driven home, the sawing of wood, and the busy, deep chatter of the workmen’s voices droned on.

It all grew fainter when, just before they reached the main casino floor, he guided her through a nondescript door to his right and up the narrow staircase to the floor above.

Not a word was spoken between them. Yet with her hand still curled almost possessively around his arm, he could not fail to feel her reaction when the first-floor hallway was revealed to her.

She started, her fingers clenching on his sleeve, and for the first time that day he smiled slightly.

Most people did not expect such a drastic change when entering the long row of offices.

Whereas the public spaces were decadent and dark, with rich colors, heavy fabrics and wood, and low lighting that made you feel as if you had stumbled into some kind of prequel to hell, the floor above—save for the hall containing the owners’ suite—was the opposite.

Light-colored fabrics dominated, with large windows and landscape paintings showing a bucolic paradise.

This space, he knew, would not be out of place in even the finest English estate.

He did not know what had prompted his interior design choice here when they had first taken over the place.

Perhaps it had been a need to escape the grimness that his life was, to garner some semblance of calm and peace and beauty.

From birth he had been cloaked in a heavy gloom, nearly suffocated in the churning miasma of misfortune that his life had brought, something he fought against even to this day.

He hunched his shoulders almost self-consciously, feeling the familiar pull of the tight, scarred skin on his back.

A constant reminder that, though he might try to leave his cruel past behind, he would always be tethered to it, like a dog on a chain.

This small slice of beauty shining from ugliness normally succeeded in easing the band about his chest. Now, however, with the baffling, maddening, tempting woman at his side, he found it hard to focus on much else but her.

Especially as they drew increasingly close to his office and, beyond that, his private apartments, the place he called his own.

Just the thought of her so near where he ate and bathed and slept was enough to cause every muscle in his body to seize up.

If Mr. Kendal had not been awaiting them, he would have dragged her far away from here.

But the man was, and so they kept going, right through the open door of his office. Kendal stood when they entered, doffing his cap and sketching a bow.

“Kendal,” Ethan intoned, striding forward, taking the man’s proffered hand, “Thank you for coming with the material on such short notice. This is Mrs. Marlow; she is Mrs. Laney Finch’s business manager and is working closely with me on the event.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Marlow,” the man said, sketching a short bow. “All of London is abuzz over Mrs. Finch’s upcoming match. It is an honor to be working on the advertisement for it.”

She smiled in a way that set Ethan’s heart thumping in a strange rhythm. It was quite the most genuine expression he had seen from her thus far, lifting her cheeks and causing fine lines to radiate from the corners of her eyes. It made her, quite honestly, even more beautiful than usual.

“How kind of you to say,” she replied, taking the man’s hand in a warm shake. “But I do hope this last-minute work has not made your life difficult.”

“On the contrary, madam,” Kendal said with a warm expression, his other large hand enclosing hers, “it has been a joy to work on, an absolute joy.”