Chapter Ten

When Joanna returned from her errand an hour later, Kincaid was gone and his office was empty.

She’d intended to be quicker, but there had been too many books to look at. She could have easily spent half a day browsing through the shelves, particularly since the majority of the novels were by authors unfamiliar to her, but she hadn’t wanted to give Kincaid an excuse to fire her off. Despite their undeniable physical attraction, it was obvious her presence unsettled him, and she wouldn’t be surprised if he used the tiniest excuse to end their agreement and let her go.

Leaving the items he’d requested in a neat pile beside his desk, she considered poking around, but how would she explain herself if Kincaid suddenly showed up and she was elbow deep in a drawer searching for his inner-most secrets?

Better to curb her curiosity and return tomorrow. At least, that was the plan until she saw James on top of the bookshelf. Naturally, she couldn’t leave without coaxing him down for a nuzzle. That would just be rude. And when he leapt off the shelf and accidentally knocked over a stack of papers, she couldn’t not pick them up. And when she saw how woefully disorganized Kincaid’s books were, she couldn’t help but sort them in alphabetical order by title. And when she finished categorizing the books, she couldn’t very well leave before she’d cleaned up the rest of the shelves, could she?

“Miss Thorncroft, what the hell are you doing up there?”

Joanna froze halfway up the bookshelf. She’d been trying to reach the top, and with no ladder to be found, she had decided to simply climb, arranging things as she went. But it seemed she had lost track of time…and if the sharp bite of annoyance in Kincaid’s tone was any indication, he was not pleased she was still in his office.

“My job?” she said innocently, swiveling her head. Unfortunately, she’d allowed herself to become distracted by Kincaid’s return and the slight movement caused her to lose her balance. The flat soles of her ankle boots slid off the shelf. Her fingers started to slip. With a shriek, she fell backwards…and landed right in Kincaid’s arms.

He had moved across the room with lightning quickness to scoop her out of the air. Cradling her against his chest, he glared down at her, his eyes nearly black with fury.

“You little fool,” he snarled, his face inches from her own. “You could have broken your neck! What were you thinking?”

Joanna’s heart pounded like a drum inside her chest. “I was only trying to–”

“You will not put yourself in peril again!” His grip tightened. “Do you understand me?”

In the blink of an eye, he’d once again transformed into the dangerous, deadly rogue she’d first glimpsed in the pleasure gardens. A rogue who wouldn’t hesitate to slay the dragon with his bare hands and then rescue the damsel in distress.

Except Joanna was no damsel.

She was the dragon.

And it was time Kincaid tasted some of her fire.

Before she could consider the potentially serious repercussions of her actions, she grabbed a fistful of his shirt to hold herself upright, and dragged his mouth onto hers.

For a moment, he was frozen.

For a moment, everything was still.

Then his arms banded around her, and his lips parted, and the world stopped spinning as everything in it blurred, then came into sharp, stunning focus.

With a possessive snarl that was more animal than man, Kincaid shoved her back against the very same shelf he’d just saved her from. Her skirts bunched as he hitched her legs up over his hips, and she locked her ankles together as he deepened the kiss with a demanding thrust of his tongue.

Books toppled all around them. One grazed Joanna’s shoulder. She barely felt it. She barely felt anything except for a wild pulsing inside of her that had grown so loud it drowned out the sound of her own heartbeat roaring in her ears.

Heat licked across her body like a flame, burning away everything in its path.

Inhibitions.

Logic.

Self-restraint.

They were all reduced to smoking piles of ash when she arched against Kincaid, clinging to his broad back as her hard nipples scraped against his chest and a damp ache gathered between her thighs.

Thiswas what she’d been missing. This was what she’d been craving. This was the proof she’d been searching for that passion, real, bone-melting passion, truly existed. Kissing Kincaid, being kissed by Kincaid, was like opening her eyes for the first time and seeing a midnight sky filled with shooting stars after a lifetime of empty darkness.

Her nails dug into sinewy muscle as he drew her bottom lip between his teeth. She gasped, the muscles in her belly tightening as he nipped, and then suckled, and then nipped again. Bristle scraped against the edge of her jaw when he lowered his head and skimmed his mouth down her neck, leaving a fiery trail of kisses in his wake. Her head fell back, exposing the slender line of her collarbone and lifting her breasts.

He cupped a heavy globe in the palm of his hand, his thumb strumming across her nipple over the thin fabric of her muslin bodice. A strangled mewl spilled from the depths of her throat and her fingers swept across his shoulders to tangle in his hair, sinking into all of that delicious, glossy mahogany as he continued to fondle her.

She would have had their embrace go on forever if she could. But shooting stars only lasted for a moment, and after a final, lingering brush of his lips across hers, Kincaid gently set her down on her feet.

“I…” He cupped the back of his neck, his expression was adorably rueful. Like a boy who had gotten caught with his hand in a jar of sweets. “I apologize, Miss Thorncroft. I do not…I do not know what came over me.”

“Mindless lust?” she suggested dazedly.

Goodness.

Joanna had been kissed before. Charles had even touched her left breast, although he’d immediately apologized and turned so red she had feared he was going to suffer an apoplexy. Because of her previous experience, she’d considered herself–if not an expert–at least somewhat well versed in the art of seduction.

What a fool she was!

Her previous encounters had done nothing to prepare her for this. Nothing could have. It would be like describing all the colors in the rainbow to a blind person, or the ocean to someone who had never seen a drop of water. Impossible to describe, the fiery desire she’d discovered in Kincaid’s arms could only be felt. And once felt, never forgotten.

Nearly a minute since he had ended it and her body was still humming with tiny little aftershocks of pleasure. Her nipples were still aroused. The soft, secret place between her thighs still ached. And all this, from a single kiss.

It was mindboggling.

“Lust is one way to describe it,” Kincaid agreed. “Still, it is no excuse for the way in which I behaved. I should not have allowed myself to lose control, and I humbly ask that you accept my apology.”

Joanna resisted the urge to roll her eyes. He was certainly acting very prim and proper for a man who’d just had his tongue between her lips and his hands all over her breasts. She found she liked the juxtaposition between the rogue who had ravished her and the detective who was–

“Are you blushing?” she asked in amazement.

“Absolutely not,” he scoffed. “It’s just…warm in here.”

It was warm, she’d give him that.

But the steam in the room had nothing to do with the temperature.

“I kissed you,” she reminded him as she tucked a loose tendril behind her ear. Kincaid had inadvertently loosened several pins during their embrace, and the heavy mass was all but undone. A shake of her head, and it would come tumbling down in a thick spill of auburn curls. “If any blame is to be assigned, I fully accept all of it.” She smiled engagingly. “I can apologize to you, if you’d like. I’ve never initiated a kiss. You’re my first.”

“Don’t tell me that,” he muttered, his expression pained as he yanked a hand through his hair.

“Tell you what?” she asked. “That you’re the first man I’ve–”

“This is not a conversation we are having,” he interrupted.

Her brows gathered. “Why not?”

“Because this,”–he gestured between them–“will not happen again.”

“Won’t it?”

“No,” he said emphatically.

She sighed. “That’s a pity, as I’ve already put it on your schedule.” Lifting her arm, she mimed writing in the air with a pen. “Ravish Miss Thorncroft at five o’clock.”

Kincaid’s mouth twitched.

Joanna stared, stunned at what she was seeing.

Was that–was that an actual smile?

A trick of the light, she decided when he scowled and stalked across the room to pour himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the windowsill. After quenching his thirst, he turned to face her. A storm cloud on the brink of releasing a torrent of rain and booming thunder would have appeared less ominous.

“Miss Thorncroft–”

“Mr. Kincaid,” she quipped.

“This is not a joke.”

“I never said it was.” Kneeling, she began to gather the books they’d knocked down during their moment of passion. As good a way as any to describe what had occurred between them, she supposed. And no matter what Kincaid claimed to the contrary, it was going to happen again.

Sooner rather than later, if she had anything to say about it.

“Why don’t you like me?” Clutching a dictionary to her chest, she sat on her haunches amidst a pool of skirts. “I understand I can be somewhat vexing at times–”

“Somewhat vexing?” he said incredulously.

“But we’ve never argued or spoken unkindly to each other. Why, then, do I find myself the constant recipient of so much…” She searched for the right word. “Antagonism?”

“Miss Thorncroft, all we do is argue,” he said, leaning back against his desk.

“That’s not true,” she protested.

He lifted a brow. “We’re literally arguing right now.”

“You’re trying to change the subject.”

“No, I am trying to avoid the conversation altogether.”

She rested her chin on the spine of the dictionary. “Why?”

“Because it’s not one we should be having.”

“Why?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Because you are my employee, and my client, and our relationship is already complicated enough. I do not dislike you, Miss Thorncroft. Neither do I like you. I…I feel nothing towards you. As it should be.” He crossed his arms. “Which is why these discussions of an intimate nature serve absolutely no purpose.”

Joanna slowly rose to her feet as a spark of anger ignited within her belly. Despite their short acquaintance, she’d already come to several conclusions in regards to Kincaid’s character. She knew he was cold. Occasionally even callous. But he was also compassionate. Dedicated Protective.

One thing she’d never suspected him of being?

A liar.

“Here.” Marching up to him, she more or less threw the dictionary at his chest.

He caught it with a grunt. “What the devil is this for?”

“So you can look up the definition of the word hypocrite!” She whirled around, prepared to dash out in a huff of righteous indignation–if she were on stage, surely it would be an exit worthy of a standing ovation–but Kincaid spoiled her theatrical debut when he grabbed her around the waist and spun her towards him.

Their bodies collided.

Their eyes flashed.

First with warning…

…and then in recognition of the inevitable.

“Damn you,” Kincaid growled as he pushed his fingers into her hair and tilted her head back. Free of its coiffure, her wild mane tumbled over his hands in a waterfall of red silk. He cursed again while her breath quickened in anticipation. “I don’t want this.”

“Hypocrite,” she whispered.

He kissed her.

No, Joanna registered with a small stirring of alarm as he nipped her bottom lip with his teeth and then soothed the bite with his tongue.

Kincaid wasn’t kissing her. He was possessing her. With a fierce, nearly carnal hunger that left her gasping for air when he wrenched free of her lips, cleared his desk of papers with a violent sweep of his arm, and sat her in the middle of it.

She clung to his neck as he stepped between her legs, anchored his arms on either side of her trembling body, and proceeded to devour her mouth like a man starved. He took her lips as though they belonged to him, as though she belonged to him and, for once in her life, Joanna was more than happy to relinquish control.

Her head rolled limply to the side when he kissed her neck. He suckled at the deliciously sensitive juncture between her throat and collarbone, and she gasped when he went even lower, tugging her bodice down with one hand while the other cupped the underside of her breast…and raised its dusky center to his mouth.

Lust. Passion. Arousal.

Joanna had not understood their true meaning before this. Before she found herself sprawled on a man’s desk, her thighs wantonly splayed apart and her pupils dilated with desire, while a man teased her nipple through her cotton undergarments.

With his tongue.

She whimpered when Kincaid moved to her other breast; a tiny, mewling sound that only seemed to inflame his ardor. He kissed his way down her ribcage, peeling her gown off as he went. It bunched at her wrists and her waist, and his snarl of frustration made her smile.

“How do you get this bloody thing off?” he demanded, tugging at her corset.

Joanna shook her head regretfully. “I wish I knew.”

He took off his spectacles and tossed them carelessly on the desk. They skidded across and dropped to the floor, but he didn’t even seem to notice. He was too intent of ridding her of anything that separated his lips from her flesh, and she jumped when he grabbed her corset by its seams and quite simply ripped it apart.

The boning had left faint red lines in a vertical row around her torso. Anger darkened Kincaid’s countenance when he saw the marks the corset had left. She quivered when he traced them first with his fingertips and then with his mouth, following a line all the way down to the jut of her hipbone.

“Never wear one of those again,” he said, glaring at the torn corset which now laid in a sad crumple at her feet. “Such beauty doesn’t deserve to be contained.”

“All right.” Resisting the primitive urge to cover herself, she lifted her chin instead, bravely exposing every inch of her naked bosom to Kincaid’s gaze as he turned his head. “I won’t.”

The detective swallowed.

Audibly.

“Beauty,” he repeated, his voice little more than a rasp.

Joanna closed her eyes and arched her spine away from the desk when he cupped her breasts, his thumbs circling round her nipples until they were hard and aching and all but begging to be licked.

Kincaid obliged, leisurely suckling one swollen peak and then the other. Soon, her entire body was as taut as a bowstring and she feared she might explode. There was a…a tension rising within her. Unlike anything she’d ever encountered before. The tension only increased when his hand slipped beneath her skirts and found the inside of her leg.

Her drawers were loosely fitted, allowing more than enough room for his fingers to glide up to the juncture of her thighs. He paused just shy of touching the curls that nestled there and met her gaze. His amber eyes gleamed with a wolfish intensity, and she understood the question he was asking before he could form the sentence.

“Yes,” she whimpered, shamelessly rubbing herself against the hand beneath her dress when he rolled her nipple between his thumb and finger. “Oh, yes.”

He kissed her.

Stroking her above the waist and below, he kissed her.

Slowly at first, so slowly she nearly stomped her foot in frustration, and then the tempo increased as his tongue stole boldly between her lips and his finger stroked the small nub buried between her slick folds from which all of that delicious tension was radiating.

Faster, and faster, and faster he pleasured her. She writhed on the desk, her hips instinctively rising to meet his hand as she returned his kiss with a desperate enthusiasm.

Almost, she wanted to beg. Almost.

She didn’t understand what she was reaching towards, only that Kincaid was bringing her closer and closer to it with every wicked flick of his wrist. Her nails streaked up and over his shoulders, unconsciously urging him on as she rode his hand with all the wild abandon of some dockside hussy.

Then, a final stroke.

The peak.

A guttural noise rose from the depths of Kincaid’s throat as she clamped her thighs around his hand and cried out. Her head fell back, her arms went limp. If it was possible, she could have sworn her heart stopped as well. At the very least, it stuttered.

And why wouldn’t it? She’d just touched lightning. Had been touched by lightning. Surely that was the only comparable explanation of what had occurred. Of what Kincaid had done to her. Of what he’d done for her. He had taken passion, wrapped it in a pretty box, added a bow, and given it to her. A gift she hadn’t expected, but one which she was exceedingly pleased to have received.

Much more practical than flowers and sweet candies.

Her eyes were still squeezed shut. She opened them to see Kincaid was still hovering above her. His gaze was unreadable, his nostrils flared. A thin sheen of perspiration gleamed high on his brow and his hair was in disarray. Reaching out, she tucked a piece behind his ear. For an instant, he leaned into her embrace. For an instant, she held the weight of his heart in the palm of her hand. Then he stiffened, and pulled back.

“Miss Thorncroft–”

“I am sitting on your desk half-naked with my skirts above my knees,” she interrupted. “Surely we can dispel with the formalities.”

Other women in her position may have felt self-conscious. Embarrassed. Perhaps even a little ashamed. But Joanna did not find any shame in what she’d done with Kincaid. Quite the opposite, in fact.

She felt liberated.

She felt empowered.

She also felt a slight chill.

“Would you mind?” she asked, turning her back towards Kincaid so that he could assist in helping her redress. There was no saving the corset, but after a few tugs and adjusting a button here and there, she managed without it. Her hair was another matter. Tangled beyond repair, the best she could manage was shoving it behind her shoulders.

“I’ll make certain to wear my hat when I leave.” Her lips, swollen from his kisses, twitched at the corners. “Wouldn’t want the neighbors gossiping if they saw the state of my coiffure.”

His mouth flattened. “Miss Thorncroft–”

“Joanna,” she said. “Call me Joanna.”

Something flickered in the depths of his amber gaze. “That would be unprofessional.”

She snorted. She couldn’t help it. “If using my Christian name is unprofessional, what would you call…well…”–she pointed at the desk–“that?”

“A mistake,” he said flatly.

Now it was Joanna who stiffened. “A mistake?” she repeated. “Kissing me was a mistake?”

He grimaced. “That’s not what I…that’s not what I meant.”

“By all means, please enlighten me, then.” Kneeling, she began to collect the papers that had been knocked to the floor. Her fingers brushed against the ear loop of his spectacles. Wordlessly, she picked them up and extended her arm above her head.

“Thank you.” Kincaid took the spectacles. He was quiet for a few seconds before he said, “I’m afraid this isn’t the first time I’ve had…feelings for a client.”

“You’ve feelings for me?” Jumping on his choice of words like a cat on a poor, unsuspecting mouse, Joanna gathered the stack of papers and leapt to her feet. “What sort of feelings?” she asked as her pulse fluttered.

This was what she’d been waiting for. Kincaid to actually express his emotions instead of concealing them behind that damned stone wall. Who knew all it would take was a bit of heavy fondling? Heavens, had she known that she might have been tempted to kiss him the first day she walked into his office! It certainly would have saved them both some time, and she quivered when she thought of all the climaxes–was that the right word for it? She thought that was the right word for it–she could have had between then and now.

Unfortunately, her newfound hope quickly withered like a flower denied rain when she saw the expression upon Kincaid’s countenance.

“You’re a truly lovely woman, Miss Thorncroft,” he began.

“Oh, dear,” she mumbled. Nothing, in the history of all humankind, had ever gone well after a sentence began with “you’re a truly lovely woman”.

“But–”

“Here it comes,” she sighed.

“I would kindly ask you to forget this ever happened.”

Joanna stared blankly at him. “You want me to forget you had your hand on my–”

“Yes,” he said hastily. “Yes, that’s precisely what I want you to do.”

“I was going to say shoulder.”

His eyebrow raised. “Of course. Because Americans are known for their propriety.”

A valid point.

Biting on the inside of her cheek, she placed the papers on his desk, then pivoted to face him, her gaze (and her heart) troubled. “I must be honest. I don’t know if I can forget.”

“You must try, or else…”

“Or else?” she said softly.

“Or else I would advise you to find another private investigator, Miss Thorncroft.”

He wouldn’t dare.

Except he would, and they both knew it.

“You can still call me Joanna,” she offered. “If you’d like.”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t believe that would be wise, Miss Thorncroft.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. It was just a name. Except it wasn’t.

And they both knew it.

Her name was a barrier. One of the last that stood between them and...well, more of what had happened on the desk.

Joanna would have liked more.

She would have liked more very much.

But it was clear that while Kincaid had enjoyed himself (he had enjoyed himself, hadn’t he?), there was no interest in a repeat performance.

“All right,” she conceded. “I shall endeavor to do as you’ve requested and forget this ever happened. Except…why can’t we enjoy each other’s company? We are both adults.”

Heat flared in his gaze. “Are you asking for an affair, Miss Thorncroft?”

“No.” Maybe. Her hands gathered in the folds of her skirts. She tucked her thumbs in, nail digging ever-so-slightly into her the soft flesh of her palms.“Unless you wanted–”

“I do not,” he said shortly.

Well, then.

That was blunt, wasn’t it?

Except it was an answer, not a reason. And surely, surely there had to be a reason. Because they did enjoy each other’s company. And they were both adults. And…why not? She wasn’t married. Neither was Kincaid. He also didn’t have a mistress, at least one that she knew about. From what she’d witnessed thus far, the detective was wedded to his work. Everything else came secondary, which was to be expected, she assumed, given the long hours his line of employment required. But surely his job did not exclude him from all pleasures.

Joanna knew it was wicked of her to want what she did.

But she also refused to believe it was wrong.

“I have a private meeting in half an hour.” Kincaid gathered her hat and gloves. A not-terribly-subtle hint that it was time for her to leave. He ushered her to the door but she balked at the threshold, refusing to be dismissed so easily as that.

“Why?” Her lashes swept across the tops of her cheeks as she glanced down, then back up, her brow creased in confusion. “Is it me? Have I done something?”

“You’re my client,” he said, as if thatexplained everything.

“And?” she persisted.

“And only a fool steps back into the fire after they’ve already been burned. Good day, Miss Thorncroft.” Without further explanation, he shoved her into the foyer, closed the door…and locked it.

* * * *

“Go away,” Kincaid growled when he felt a nudge against his legs. “I’m not speaking to you.”

Baring his tiny, white fangs, James gave a loud hiss before he leapt onto a chair and swatted at his master’s hand.

“Bloody hell!” Kincaid swore when he felt a sharp stab of pain and saw four bright red claw marks across his knuckles. “What the devil was that for?”

The cat’s tail swished through the air.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

James hissed again.

“It’s not as if I planned for this to happen.” Scowling, Kincaid began to pick up the books that were scattered across the floor. “I did the only thing I could do,” he muttered, more to himself than to the cat, never mind that there didn’t really need to be a distinction because it was a cat.

From the chair came the sound of a sniff that could only be described as disdainful.

Kincaid glared at James over his shoulder. “What? You think I should have an affair with her, don’t you? An affair with an American. Bollocks on that.” He slammed two books together. “It’d be like standing naked in the middle of a thunderstorm with an iron rod while I waited for lightning to strike me down.”

But damned if the shock–and the resulting electrocution–wouldn’t be worth it.

He meant what he’d said. He hadn’t intended to kiss Joanna. In fact, it was the last thing he had wanted to do. But then she had kissed him. And once he tasted her lips…once he tasted her lips, he knew he’d never find anything else on earth so sweet no matter if he scoured the four corners.

Holding her in his arms had been like holding the sun. The sheer brightness of her passion had blinded him. Her lack of inhibitions had stunned him. The mewling noise she’d made when she came against his hand had undone him.

It was a wonder he’d stopped when he did.

It was a miracle he hadn’t started where he’d left off when she suggested they have an affair.

A bloody affair.

The woman was out of her mind. And he was just as equally crazed, because for a fleeting moment…he’d actually considered it.

“Sleep,” he muttered to himself as he returned the last book to the shelf. When was the last time his head had spent more than a few hours on his pillow? Not since the day a bold, brazen, red-haired hellion had darkened his door. He needed to sleep, and then he needed to eat, and then he needed to pretend this afternoon had never happened.

He only prayed Joanna would do the same.

Because if she tested his restraint…

James released a loud meow.

Kincaid looked at the cat. If he didn’t know any better, he could have sworn his pet was smirking at him. “I can still throw you out, you damned bag of fleas,” he threatened. “You think you’re tough now. You wouldn’t last a damned minute on the streets. A rat would eat you for dinner.”

After a cool staring match, the cat lifted his hind leg and began to lick himself.

It was, to Kincaid’s memory, the clearest “fuck you” he’d ever received.

“Sod off.” Kicking off his boots, he headed upstairs.