placing them on either side of her head.
'My bedroom or yours?' he asked softly.
Perhaps he expected her to back down, stammer, run away.
Her hands curled into balls of tension. 'Which would you prefer?' she parried.
His head tilted as he studied her, his eyes oddly caressing. 'My bed is bigger.'
'Oh,' was all she could manage to whisper. Her heart crashed repeatedly against the wall of her chest, pounding the breath from her lungs.
He looked at her as if he could read her every thought and emotion. 'However,' he murmured, relenting, 'if we retire together, I doubt that either of us would get much rest.'
'P-probably not,' she agreed unsteadily. 'Therefore, I suppose it would be for the best if we adhered to our usual arrangement.'
'Our usual...'
'You go to your bed, and I'll go to mine.'
Relief flooded her, leaving her weak, but at the same time she was aware of a subtle wash of disappointment. 'You won't stay up late, then?' she asked.
He grinned at her perseverance. 'Good God, you're tenacious. No, I won't cross you. I fear the consequences if I do.' Standing back, he opened the door for her. 'Miss Sydney, there is just one more thing.'
Sophia paused before leaving. 'Yes, sir?'
He reached for her, his hand sliding around the back of her neck. Sophia was too startled to move or breathe, her entire body stiffening as his head lowered to hers. He touched her only with his lips and with his hand at her nape, but she was as helpless as if she had been bound to him with iron chains.
There had been no time to prepare herself...she was defenseless and stunned, unable to withhold her response. At first his lips were gentle, exquisitely careful, as if he feared bruising her. Then he coaxed her to give him more, his mouth settling more firmly on hers. The taste of him, his intimate flavor laced with the hint of coffee, affected her like a drug. The tip of his tongue slid past her teeth in silken exploration. He tasted the interior of her mouth, stroked the slick insides of her cheeks. Anthony had never kissed her like this, feeding her rising passion as if he were layering kindling on a blaze. Devastated by his skill, Sophia swayed dizzily and clutched his hard neck.
Oh, if only he would hold her tightly and lock her full length against his...but he still touched her only with that one hand, and consumed her mouth with patient hunger. Sensing the force of his passion, held so securely in check, Sophia instinctively sought a way to release it. Her hands fluttered to the sides of his face, stroking the bristle of his cheeks and jaw.
Ross made a quiet sound in his throat. Suddenly he took hold of her shoulders and eased her away from his body, ignoring her whimpering protest. Sophia's gaze locked with his in a moment of searing wonder. The stillness was broken only by their panting breaths. No man had ever looked at Sophia that way, as if he could eat her with his gaze, as if he wanted to possess every inch of her body and every flicker of her soul. She was frightened by the power of her response to him, the unmentionable desires that shocked her.
Sir Ross regarded her without smiling. 'Good night, Sophia.'
She mumbled in reply and fled, moving as fast as possible without actually breaking into a run. Her mind swam with confusion as she returned to Bow Street No. 4. Dimly she noted that the mob was dissipating and that the street was orderly once again. Horse patrols crossed in front of the building, briskly dispersing the crowd.
As she entered the private residence, she saw that Eliza and Lucie had swept away the broken glass and were busy covering the gaping window with oilcloth. 'Miss Sophia!' Eliza gasped as she saw her torn gown and disheveled hair. 'What happened? Did one of those filthy rioters get hold of you?' 'No,' Sophia replied distractedly. 'There was a bit of a crush inside number three, but Sir Ross had it cleared away in no time.' Spying the broom standing in the corner, she reached for it automatically, but the two women ushered her away, insisting that she get some rest. Reluctantly she complied, lighting a candle stub to take to her room.
Her legs were leaden as she trudged up the stairs. Upon reaching her room, she closed the door with great care and set the brass candleholder on the small bedside table.
Recollections filled her mind...Sir Ross's light, smiling gray eyes, the way his chest moved as he breathed, the heat of his mouth, the searing liquid pleasure of his kiss...
Anthony had crowed about his experience with women, his skills as a lover, but Sophia now understood that it had been only empty boasting. In the space of a few short minutes, Sir Ross had aroused her far beyond anything she had felt with Anthony...and he had left her with the unspoken promise of more. It was frightening, the realization that she would not be able to stay unaffected when she finally shared a bed with him. Half angry, half despairing, Sophia wondered why Sir Ross couldn't have been the portly, pompous fool she had expected him to be. He was going to make it horribly difficult for her to betray him; she would not escape the experience unscathed.
Disheartened, she changed into her night rail, brushed her hair, and washed her face in cool water. Her body was still sensitive, all her nerves clamoring for the sweet stimulation of Sir Ross's hands and lips. Sighing, she carried a candle to her window, pushing the little curtain aside. Most of Bow Street No. 3 was dark now, but lamplight shone from Sir Ross's office.
She could see the dark outline of his head as he sat at his desk.
Still working, she told herself in sudden annoyance. Was he going to renege on his promise to get some rest?
As if he sensed that she was watching, Sir Ross rose and stretched, then glanced out his window. His face was partially shadowed as he stared at her across the way. A moment later, with a mockingly deferential bow, he turned and extinguished the lamp on his desk, leaving his office in darkness.
CHAPTER 4
Ross questioned Nick Gentry for three days in the ruthlessly persistent style that usually wrung confessions from the most hardened characters. However, Gentry was in a different category from any other man Ross had ever encountered. He was steely and yet oddly relaxed, in the manner of a man who had nothing to fear and nothing to lose. Ross tried in vain to discern what mattered to him, what weaknesses he might have, but no information appeared to be forthcoming. For hours on end Ross engaged Gentry regarding his so-called thief-taking activities, his past, his associations with various crime gangs in London, with maddeningly little results.
Since all of London was aware of Gentry's detainment at Bow Street, and because all eyes were upon them, Ross did not dare hold the young crime lord for one minute longer than the allotted three days. On the third morning, Ross ordered Gentry's release to be effected just before dawn, at a time so early that it would prevent victorious demonstrations from the supporters who assembled every day in defense of the young perpetrator.
Containing his foul mood behind an expressionless mask, Ross went to his office without stopping for breakfast. He did not want to eat, or sit in the comforting warmth of the kitchen, or enjoy Sophia's small attentions. He wanted to sit at his desk and immerse himself in the pile of work that awaited him.
Today Sir Grant Morgan was the sitting magistrate at Bow Street, a fact for which Ross was profoundly grateful. He was in no humor to hear cases and sort through testimony and ask questions of the innocent and the guilty. He wanted to brood alone in his office.
As was his habit, Morgan came to Ross's office to talk for a few minutes before going to court. Ross welcomed his company, for Morgan was one of the few men who understood and shared Ross's determination to bring Nick Gentry down. Over the past six months, since Morgan had been promoted from the runners to serve as an assistant magistrate, he had more than justified Ross's faith in him. As a runner, Morgan had been known for his quick temper and impulsiveness, along with his intelligence and courage. Some critics had warned that he did not have a suitable temperament to become a Bow Street magistrate. 'Your weakness,' Ross had told him more than once, 'is your habit of making up your mind too quickly, before taking all the evidence into account.'
'I go with my instincts,' Morgan had parried.
'Instinct is a fine thing,' Ross had said dryly, 'but you must stay open to all possibilities. No one's instincts are infallible.'
'Not even yours?' came the pointed question.
'Not even mine.'
