Chapter One

London, England

August 19, 1870

The Office Private Residence of Mr. Thomas Kincaid, Private Investigator

Many people–and things–had shown up on Kincaid’s doorstep seeking help during his three years as a private investigator. Wives wanting to know if their husbands were having an affair behind their backs. Husbands wanting to know if their wives were having an affair behind their backs (fidelity, it seemed, was not exceedingly common these days).

Occasionally, someone would come searching for a missing relative, and this past winter he’d solved the mystery of a missing cow. His first bovine case, as it so happened. Then there was the time he’d arrived home to discover two tiny kittens on his doorstep; both of whom now happily resided in the flat above his office.

But in all those years, he’d never–not once–opened his door to find a blue-eyed American heiress with hair the color of fire and a plump mouth that immediately brought to mind all sorts of wicked, carnal thoughts. Until one rainy morning in the middle of August, when he proceeded to do precisely that. Truth be told, Kincaid would have preferred more kittens.

“Can I help you?” he asked warily, his dark brows gathering above thin wire spectacles. A light mist fell from the gloomy London sky, coating the lenses of his glasses and causing him to squint at the woman perched on his doorstep.

She wasn’t wearing a cloak, leaving her slender arms exposed to the rain. Kincaid had a primal urge to throw his jacket over her trembling shoulders and draw her into the warmth of his chest, but he’d learned long ago to be leery of beautiful women. And this one, with her thick, auburn lashes and high cheekbones and soft, soft lips, was absolutely stunning.

“I hope so.” Her husky voice–smoke and velvet wrapped together–hit him like a punch to the gut. “Are you Mr. Thomas Kincaid?”

He gave a curt nod. “Kincaid is fine. Might I inquire as to who is asking?”

“Joanna Thorncroft.” Without waiting for an invitation, she slipped past him, the side of her breast leaving a burning path along his forearm as she marched into the foyer and turned around. “Well?” she said impatiently. “Are you going to take my case or not?”

Kincaid blinked at her, then slowly closed the door. It was clear from the hard inflections of her words–and her sheer audacity–that his unexpected visitor was an American. Heralding from somewhere in Massachusetts, if he had to guess. Coupled with a keen sense of observation, he also had an excellent ear for dialects. It was what made him good at his job. Something else that made him good at his job was knowing when to recognize trouble. And it had just walked through his door dressed in rain and smelling of violets.

“I am afraid I am not taking any new clients at this time, Miss Thorncroft.” The world around him blurred as he took off his glasses and wiped them dry on the cuff of his sleeve. He’d worn spectacles since he was a young boy at the orphanage, and had been teased mercilessly for it. Those cruel taunts were what had prompted him to become a peeler as soon as he came of age.

Named for their founder, Robert Peel, the peelers were Britain’s first–and only–organized police force. Kincaid had worn his blue coat with pride, and quickly climbed the ranks from constable to sergeant. Five years in, he was named an inspector and given his own division.

With nearly twenty-four men under his command, he’d earned a reputation as a demanding, but fair leader. From sunup to sundown, and often late into the night, his career had consumed him.

It was gritty, exhausting, and dangerous work. Work that often exposed the darkest, vilest underbelly of human existence. But it had given him purpose. It had given him the opportunity to stand up against the bullies and the bruisers. It had allowed him to protect the vulnerable and save the innocent. To rescue the boy he’d been. The boy no one had ever stood up for. The boy no one had ever cared about.

The boy no one had ever loved.

Some might have taken all of that pain and anguish and drank themselves to death with it. Kincaid had used it to fuel his grueling ambition to make London a better place. A safer place. A place where babies weren’t abandoned by their parents and children weren’t beaten by those charged to keep them safe.

He hadn’t always succeeded, and sometimes those bitter failures weighed heavier on his soul than the triumphs. But he had made a difference. He’d been making a difference.

Then he met her.

Lady Lavinia Townsend.

The conniving bitch who had cost him everything.

His position. His career. His good name. She’d taken it all from him because she could, and laughed gleefully while she’d done it.

But she’d also taught him a valuable lesson.

Because of Lavinia, he knew what happened when the lines between his professional life and his personal life blurred. Because of Lavinia, he knew never to trust another woman with his heart. Because of Lavinia, he knew he couldn’t help Miss Thorncroft.

He wanted to. A single glimpse into those luminous blue eyes and he was tempted to move heaven and earth to give her whatever she asked of him.

But he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

Kincaid had learned in the hardest possible of ways to avoid temptation. And Joanna Thorncroft had temptation written across every inch of her damp, delectable little body.

Sliding his spectacles back into place, he cleared his throat. “There are several investigators I could recommend. Good men, all, and–”

“I don’t want them.” Joanna stepped closer to him, her leather boots leaving small, muddy footprints on the wooden floor. Her tantalizing perfume lingered in the air between them, causing his nostrils to flare. “I want you.”

Steeling himself against the urge to reach out and trace the sharp curve of her cheekbone, then bury his fingers in her hair, Kincaid shoved his hands behind his back and disguised his desire behind a clipped, businesslike tone. “As I said, Miss Thorncroft, I am not accepting new clients at this time.”

Her eyes flashed with annoyance. “Then you’ll have to make an exception, Kincaid, because I have come a very long way, I am very tired, and I am not leaving here unless you agree to help me.”

He’d missed the stubbornness in her chin before, but he saw it now. Along with a tiny freckle in the middle of her collarbone.

He wondered what it tasted like.

He wondered what she tasted like.

Scowling, Kincaid squeezed the back of his neck where the corded muscles were as hard as granite.

They weren’t the only part of his anatomy that had gone hard.

“Miss Thorncroft, I must insist–”

“Kincaid,” she interrupted smoothly, “I can see that you are reluctant to hear me out. I can understand. I am a stranger, after all. And an American at that.” A wry smile twisted those plump lips. “However, I am sure that after I’ve had the opportunity to tell you why I came here, you will agree that my case is of the utmost importance. Do you have an office?”

“Yes, it’s through there.” He nodded at a door across the foyer that was partially ajar.

Originally, the room had been a parlor, but now housed an old desk cluttered with papers, shelves cluttered with books, and chairs cluttered with cats. There was also a bed shoved into the corner and his jaw clenched taut when his mind conjured a vivid image of Joanna sprawled across the mattress while he peeled off her wet clothes…with his teeth.

He ran a hand across his mouth.

This would not do.

This would not do at all.

But before he could put his foot down and demand Joanna get the hell out, she flitted past him and into his office, leaving him staring after her in stunned, stormy silence.

“Oh, you have a cat!” she exclaimed, pointing to the top of a bookshelf where a sleek, black feline lounged on its side.

“Two,” he managed in a strangled voice. “I have two cats. That’s James. Jane is most likely upstairs.”

“I’ve always wanted a cat, but my sister seems to be allergic to them. Well?” Joanna’s head canted. “Won’t you come in, Kincaid? Do have a seat. You’re looking rather…flushed. Are you feeling all right?”

The irony of being invited into his own bloody office was not lost on Kincaid as he stalked through the doorway, sat down at his desk, and selected a pen from the jumbled pile of writing utensils jammed inside the top drawer.

It was clear Joanna was not leaving until he listened to what she had to say. It was even clearer he was dangerously close to yanking her into his arms and kissing her senseless. Since he obviously couldn’t do the latter, he would grit his teeth and do the former. Then he’d escort her out, tear up his notes, and go on with his day as if she’d never walked through his door.

“I am fine,” he said curtly as he flipped to a fresh page in the leather-bound journal where he kept track of all his various cases. Not that there were very many to keep track of at the moment. Business always slowed when the ton flocked en masse to their estates in the countryside. As it stood, his only other case regarded another missing cow. The poor things must have had a dreadful sense of direction. Ordinarily, he’d be reluctant to take on work involving farm animals, something which never would have been asked of him as an inspector, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He hadn’t earned much as a peeler. Certainly not enough to compensate him for all of the long hours, nor the life-threatening danger he’d found himself in more often than not. But part of his salary had included an allowance for rent, and clothes, and food. It hadn’t been much, yet he had gotten by. And there’d been a certain security in knowing that at the end of every week he would have money to bring to the bank.

As a private detective, he earned more quid outright, but it came in sporadic bursts that were dependent on the number of cases he took on. In the beginning, not a single person had dared darken the door of a disgraced policeman. By sheer will and persistence, he’d managed to secure a handful of clients, who had then discreetly spread his name to their friends. Now that he was nearing the end of his third year as a detective, he was turning a respectable profit. But he still had bills to pay, and a house in need of repairs, and cats to feed.

Traitorous little buggers that they were.

Abandoning his perch on top of the bookshelf, James leapt onto Joanna’s lap as soon as she sat down. Purring loudly, he kneaded her thigh before turning in two circles and curling into a ball. If Kincaid didn’t know any better, he would have sworn the damned cat smirked at him before James yawned, exposing a mouthful of pointy white canines, and closed his eyes.

“He’s absolutely charming,” said Joanna, stroking his back. “And soft.”

Kincaid had endured low points in his life. A beating at the orphanage that had left him black and blue for weeks. The betrayal of the woman he loved. But never–not once–had he sunk so low as to be jealous of a cat.

Before now.

Forcing his gaze away from James (you and I will discuss this later, he told the feline silently) he jabbed his pen into an open inkwell and held it poised in midair. “Why don’t you enlighten me as to why you are here, Miss Thorncroft?”

“I’d be delighted.” Her hand paused in the middle of James’ back. “But first, I believe I should be upfront about something. I do not–as it currently stands–possess the necessary monetary funds to pay for your services, Kincaid.”

In Kincaid’s experience, most women–hell, most men–would have stuttered and hemmed and blushed their way through such an admission. Money, particularly the lack of money, was never an easy subject to address. Which was why his standard policy was to demand a generous down payment on services to be rendered upfront. But Miss Joanna Thorncroft, with her clear blue eyes the color of an autumn sky, did not so much as blink. Nor did she blush, much to his disappointment.

He’d always been attracted to a blushing woman.

“I am sorry to hear that, Miss Thorncroft.” A lie, of course. Except that it wasn’t. Not entirely. Because there was a part of him that did want to take her on a client. The same part of him that wanted to kiss her. The same part of him that had imagined her on his bed. The same part of him that was fascinated by that damned freckle on her collarbone. Which, as far as he was concerned, was simply more evidence that he should not, under any circumstance, agree to help Joanna. “I can recommend–”

“Yes,” she cut him off, waving her arm in the air, “you mentioned that. But the fact remains I want you to be my investigator. And it is you I intend to have, by whatever means necessary.”

Was she trying to heat his blood, Kincaid wondered?

If so, it was working.

Any hotter and he’d burst into flames.

“That may be. But if you cannot afford my services, I am afraid we will not be able to proceed.” Closing his journal with a loud, purposeful snap, he slid it away from him across the desk. “Thank you for coming in, Miss Thorncroft. Please let me show you to the door.”

He stood up.

Joanna did not.

“I believe I was very clear, Kincaid.” She arched a russet brow. “I temporarily lack the monetary funds to hire you, but that does not mean I am incapable of paying by other means.”

Kincaid sat down so hard his chair slid back and hit the wall. “What–what are you implying, Miss Thorncroft?” he croaked as his mind immediately conjured a flurry of scenarios, each one more wicked than the last.

Joanna against the wall, sighing his name as he kissed her neck.

Joanna naked on her knees, eyes heavy-lidded with desire as she beckoned him towards her with a crook of her finger.

Joanna leaning back against his desk, her skirts lifted above her waist as she ran a hand down the flat plane of her belly and pressed her fingers between her thighs–

Stop it, he ordered himself fiercely.

What the devil had come over him?

Kincaid wasn’t a monk. Far from it. But in the four years since Lavinia had shredded his heart with all the maliciousness of a feral she-wolf and reduced his career to a smoking pile of ash, he had selected his partners with the utmost discretion. Seeking blind pleasure over emotional attachment, he’d always been exceedingly careful to choose women far outside of his professional circle.

His last mistress, a widow several years his senior, hadn’t even lived in London. He had visited her when time allowed, and when they’d mutually decided to end their affair last month, there were no hard feelings. There’d been no feelings at all. Which was exactly what Kincaid preferred.

And how he knew, he knew, he couldn’t allow himself to become tangled up with a feisty red-haired American. Because the ripe, tangy passion Joanna invoked within him was the same he’d felt with Lavinia.

And everyone this side of the Thames knew how that had ended.

He had been stupid enough to fall in love once and it had nearly ruined him. He wasn’t going to make the same mistake again. He wasn’t even going to allow himself to be tempted to make the same mistake again. Which meant, as deliciously enticing as trading sexual favors for investigative work appeared on the surface, he needed to decline Joanna’s offer.

“Miss Thorncroft, while I appreciate–greatly–your proposition, I’m afraid I must turn it down.”

She frowned at him and tucked a damp tendril of hair behind her ear. Her dress, a simple green gown with black buttons down the middle and a matching sash at the waist, was nearly dry with the exception of her breasts. Full and voluptuous, Joanna’s bosom must have caught the rain as she walked, and Kincaid’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth when he noted the hard peaks of her nipples straining against the light cotton fabric.

“But I haven’t even told you what it is yet,” she said.

“What?” Tearing his gaze away from her bodice–no small feat–Kincaid forced himself to focus solely on Joanna’s countenance. That hardly helped matters, as every inch of her face was just as stunningly beautiful as the rest of her.

Thick, arching brows a few shades darker than all that wild, red hair. Pale ivory skin saved from coldness by a charming spattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. A full mouth that was slightly top heavy, and an elegant jawline leading to that delightfully stubborn chin.

“My offer. I haven’t told you what it is yet,” she repeated.

Kincaid gripped either side of his desk and bore down with such strength he wouldn’t have been surprised to see the wood crack in half. “That won’t be necessary, Miss Thorncroft. I’ve a vivid enough imagination.”

Her freckles bunched as her nose wrinkled. “What are you imagining?”

Was the woman trying to kill him?

“Miss Thorncroft.” Taking a deep breath, he chose his words with the utmost care. “Please do not misunderstand. I would very much enjoy engaging in an–an intimate relationship. However, given the–”

“What are you talking about?” she interrupted.

His brows drew together. “What are you talking about?”

“Secretarial work.” She looked oddly at him. “Obviously.”

“Secretarial work,” he repeated in a strangled voice.

“Yes.” Joanna scratched James under his whiskery chin, then took a pointed glance around the room. “It is clear you would benefit from some organization. Your office is, if I may be so blunt, an absolute disaster. As it happens, my organizational skills are second to none. In addition, given my lackluster welcome, I believe you would benefit greatly from a secretary.”

“Do you?” Kincaid didn’t know whether he felt relieved…or disappointed.

“Indeed. Someone to greet your potential clients as they come in. Take their coats, serve them tea, make sure they are comfortable.” She leaned forward, further exposing her breasts to his carnal stare, and Kincaid liked to believe it was a mark of his good character that he didn’t whimper. “Surely we can work something out. My services in exchange for yours.”

Once again dragging his gaze from Joanna’s curvaceous frame, he grimaced fiercely at a painting hanging crookedly on the wall. It had been a gift from a wealthy dowager countess after he’d discovered who had been siphoning money off of her estate. A greedy nephew, as it happened, with no regard for his elderly aunt’s welfare. The countess had been so pleased with Kincaid’s detective work, she’d doubled his fee and given him an oversized canvas depicting her three beloved cocker spaniels as a reward. He’d tried hanging the painting in his bedroom, but James and Jane wouldn’t hear of it, and thus the artwork had been relegated to the office.

The frame was in need of a good dusting, he noted. As did everything else.

Joanna was right. The room was a disaster. But then, he was an investigator, not a bloody maid, and he had neither the time nor the inclination to keep things neat and tidy. That being said, he was the first to admit his office could surely benefit from a bit more…orderliness. And a secretary to take notes, keep his files straight, and greet clients with the warmth and tactfulness he admittedly lacked, certainly wouldn’t hurt anything either. In fact, it might even get him some of the meeker clients his gruff demeanor tended to frighten away.

Yes, now that he thought about, he didn’t know why he hadn’t hired someone sooner.

But he’d be damned if that someone was going to be Miss Joanna Thorncroft.

“No,” he said flatly as he picked up a pile of papers and shuffled them into place.

“No?” Joanna said in the incredulous tone of someone unacquainted with the word. “I don’t understand.”

“Have you ever been a secretary before?”

“Not exactly, but–”

“Have you ever worked for a detective?”

“Well, no, but–”

“Are you acquainted with British law?”

“How does that–”

“I am sorry, but you do not have the proper qualifications.” He met her gaze, registered the angry indignation swirling in the depths of those vivid blue eyes, and glanced promptly away. “As you can see, I am a very busy man. If you would, please put down my cat and see yourself out.”

She stomped her foot. “I will not!”

“All right, you can keep the cat,” he said graciously.

“I don’t want the cat. No offense intended,” she said when James lifted his head and gave a grumpy meow. “What I want–and need–is a private investigator. You’ve come highly recommended, Kincaid. I should think you would view that as a compliment. And while I realize exchanging my services for yours is a tad…unconventional, shall we say, I truly believe such a bargain will be immensely beneficial to us both.” She smiled hopefully. “Why don’t we shake on it and see how things go? Surely you can commit to a trial period of a week. A fitting compromise, don’t you agree?”

Kincaid didn’t like what that smile did to him.

Or maybe he liked it too much.

Either way, the answer was still…

“No, Miss Thorncroft. I don’t agree.”

Her smile disappeared. Her eyes narrowed. Her chin lifted. “Is this because I am a woman? Is that why you don’t believe I meet your lofty qualifications? Perhaps I’ve never been employed as a secretary before, but I can assure you I am as intelligent and well-read as any man. I’m also more than capable of handling any tasks you put before me.”

Kincaid didn’t doubt that Joanna could topple mountains if she put her mind to it. For such a little slip of a thing, her courage and persistence was formidable. But he’d drawn his line, and he wouldn’t cross it. No matter how sweet the enticement was on the other side.

He had been down this road to hell before. He had the scars to prove it.

And he had no desire to travel it again.

“Miss Thorncroft, my inability to take you on as a secretary–or a client–has nothing to do with your intelligence, or your work ethic.” Having shuffled and straightened every piece of paper on his desk, he laid his hands flat and pushed his weight into them. “This is a personal decision.”

“Personal?” Her head tilted in confusion. “But you don’t know me well enough to dislike me yet. It usually takes a few days. Or so I’ve been told.” She bit her lip and gave a small, apologetic shrug. “It seems I can be rather…obstinate.”

“Really?” Kincaid said dryly. “I hadn’t noticed.”

A huff of breath whistled between her lips. “Kincaid, I must implore you to reconsider. My sister and I have traveled a very long way–”

“You’ve a sister?” he interrupted.

Wonderful.

As if one gorgeous, stubborn American running amok in London wasn’t bad enough, there was a pair of them. And no, he wasn’t going to allow himself to imagine them naked. Together. Doing things.

Naughtythings.

No, he wasn’t going to imagine that at all.

Absolutely not.

“Yes,” Joanna replied. “Well, two sisters actually, but–”

Bloody hell.

“–Claire stayed at home.”

Thank God for small favors.

“Miss Thorncroft.” Gritting his teeth, he latched on to his self-control with all the desperate strength of a drowning sailor clinging onto the side of a sinking ship. “I do not know how many different ways I can say the same thing. I cannot, under any circumstances, hire you on. It’s completely out of the question.”

“I…I see.” Giving James a final scratch behind the ears, Joanna gently set him aside and stood up. Walking towards Kincaid, she extended her hand across the desk. “Very well, Kincaid. I respect your decision, in as much as I disagree with it. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

“You’re welcome.” Relief flowed through Kincaid as he took her small, delicate hand in his considerably larger one. He began to shake it. And then he saw her stubborn chin wobble.

Such a tiny movement, really.

Hardly perceptible.

Easy to ignore.

Except he couldn’t ignore it. Nor could he ignore the sudden clench in his gut. His fingers tightened around hers, unconsciously drawing her closer.

“Miss Thorncroft…”

“Yes?” she whispered.

Kincaid closed his eyes.

Don’t do it.

Don’t do it.

Don’t do it.

“A week-long trial, did you say?” With great reluctance, he opened his eyes.

“Yes!” Her entire countenance lit up, as bright as the sun. “Just seven days. If I haven’t found what I’m looking for, or either of us decides our arrangement is no longer sustainable, then I’ll get another detective and you’ll never have to see me again. I swear.”

Never see her again?

Kincaid’s stomach tightened again. Although this time, it was for an entirely different reason. Quickly releasing Joanna’s hand, he sat back in his chair and motioned for her to do the same.

He knew he was going to hate himself for this later.

He knew he was making a terrible mistake.

But he also knew it was the right thing to do.

Picking up a pen, he reopened his journal. “Why don’t we begin by you telling me what it is you’re doing here, and what, precisely, you’re searching for?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Resuming her seat, Joanna beckoned James into her lap. With a happy meow the traitorous feline accepted the invitation and began to purr as she stroked his tail. “You see, it all began with a ring…”