Amelia jerked awake with a violent start, her heart racing with the remnants of adolescent passion and yearning. Tossing back the covers, she sat up, allowing the chilly night air to seep through her thin night rail to her perspiration-damp skin. She lifted shaking fingertips to her lips, pressing hard against the swollen curves in an effort to stem their tingling.
The dream had been so vivid. She imagined that she could still taste Colin, a heady exotic flavor that she craved to this day. It had been years since she’d been plagued with such recollections. She’d thought they were fading, that perhaps she might be healing. Finally.
Why now? Was it because she had agreed to proceed with the wedding? Was Colin’s memory rearing up and demanding that the love of her life not be set aside?
Amelia closed her eyes and saw a white mask above shamelessly sensual lips.
His kiss had made her tingle as well. From head to toe and everywhere in between.
She had to find him. She
“What does he say?”
Colin refolded the missive carefully and tucked it into a drawer of his desk. He looked at Jacques. “He believes Cartland is leading a group of men here in England.”
“He will not want to bring you back alive.” Jacques walked over to the window and brushed the sheer panel aside to look down at the front drive.
The town house they occupied was a rental in fine shape. It was a short distance from the city, near enough to be convenient, but far enough away to ensure that no one would find them noteworthy. The distance also allowed them to ascertain if they were being followed or not, which Colin had been just a few nights past. The night he had danced with and kissed Amelia.
“It is good that you stay indoors during the day,” Jacques said, turning back to face him again. “You are being hunted on all sides.”
Shaking his head, Colin closed his eyes and leaned into the back of his chair. “It was foolish of me to seek her out that way. Now I have attracted St. John’s attention, and he will not rest until he knows why I displayed such interest in her.”
“She is a beautiful woman,” Jacques said, his voice laced with a Frenchman’s innate appreciation of such delights.
“Yes, she is.”
Beyond beautiful. Dear God, how was it possible for a woman to be so perfect? Stunning green eyes framed by sooty lashes. An imminently kissable mouth. Creamy skin, and the fully ripened curves of a woman grown. All carried with an air of latent sensuality that he had always found alluring.
He could admit now that his attendance at the ball had been goaded by his hope that he would see her and find his attraction unfounded. Perhaps absence had made his heart too fond. Perhaps he had embellished her memory in his mind.
“But that is not why you love her,” Jacques murmured.
“No,” Colin agreed, “it’s not.”
“I have rarely seen a woman with such yearning in her soul. Although I watched her as you did, she did not take note of my interest, only of yours.”
That was his fault, he knew. Repeated glimpses of her profile had only whetted his appetite to see her directly.
And she had, unable to resist when followed with such ravenous attention.
The eye contact had cut him to the quick, piercing across the distance between them and stabbing deep into his heart. He’d felt it, the yearning Jacques spoke of. That longing elicited a primal response in him to deliver it, whatever
“You could take her from the other man,” Jacques said.
He knew that, too. Had felt the wavering in her as they had danced and then again when they had kissed.
“I wish I’d never followed Cartland that night!” Colin growled, the frustration inside him a writhing, powerful thing. “Everything would be different.”
She would be in his bed now, writhing and arching beneath him as he rode her hard and deep, awakening the wanton he sensed was waiting just beneath the surface. In his mind, he could hear her voice hoarse from crying out his name, her satin skin covered in a fine sheen of sweat.
He would push her beyond reason, take her body places she never knew it could go…
“The twists in our lives happen for a reason,” Jacques said, returning to the desk and sitting across from him. “I could have lived the whole of my life without leaving France, yet I was destined to follow you here.”
Colin pushed the lewd images from his thoughts and opened his eyes. “You are a good man, Jacques, to carry your debt beyond the grave.”
“Monsieur Leroux saved the life of my sister and with her, the life of my niece,” he said quietly. “I cannot proceed knowing his murderer has not paid for the crime.”
“And how do we make him pay?”
The Frenchman smiled, bringing warmth to his hard features. “I would like to kill him, but that would put you at a marked disadvantage. With me as your only witness, you would find it extremely difficult to prove your innocence.”
Colin said nothing to that. Jacques had already helped far beyond what he had any right to ask.
“So he must confess.” Jacques shrugged. “I will take what pleasure I can from doing whatever is necessary to garner that confession.”
Nodding, Colin looked toward the window. Night had fallen hours ago. Shortly, he could leave and make discreet inquiries in his efforts to find Cartland before the man found him. But first, he would need some rest. “I will retire for a few hours, then set out and see what I can discover. Someone will have a loose tongue, to be sure. I just have to find him.”
“Perhaps you should contact the man you worked for here,” Jacques said carefully. “The one who directs Quinn.”
Colin had never met Lord Eddington, never exchanged a word or correspondence. All communications passed through Quinn, and as far as Colin knew, Eddington was unaware of the identities of the men working under Quinn. There would be no way to prove that he was a confidant. “No. That is not possible,” he said grimly. “We do not know one another.”
The Frenchman blinked, apparently so taken aback by the news that he lapsed into his native language.
