Chapter Thirteen

Catamount sat behind the cluttered desk in his office at Bow Street headquarters, surrounded by stacks of case reports and the low hum of activity filtering in from the bustling streets of London below. His piercing green eyes, usually sharp and focused, carried a distant glint, betraying a mind preoccupied with thoughts that extended far beyond the ink-stained papers strewn across his desk. The scent of aged leather and musty parchment permeated the room, blending with the muted sounds of footsteps echoing through the narrow corridors.

"Focus, Castlebury," he muttered to himself. "You've got a job to do, and it doesn't involve daydreaming about a certain modiste." He picked up a case report, scanning the words, but the letters blurred into an indistinct jumble. The image of Juliette's auburn hair and hazel eyes lingered in his mind, distracting him from the task at hand. With a shake of his head, he attempted to brush off the intrusive thoughts.

The creak of the office door interrupted his internal struggle. Detective Bradley, a seasoned officer with salt-and-pepper hair, entered the room. "Captain, we've got updates on the Revivalist investigation. Some promising leads in the Docklands from that journal of Lord Arnold's."

Catamount nodded, grateful for the shift in focus. "Good. Bring me the details. Let's see if we can finally put an end to this madness."

As Bradley left to retrieve the information, Catamount rubbed his temples, trying to dispel the lingering image of Juliette's face. The complexities of his personal life clashed with the gritty realities of his profession. Juliette was beautiful. His job was most often ugly.

"Here's the file," Bradley said as he reentered the room and handed it over.

As Catamount perused the new leads, his thoughts stubbornly circled back to Juliette. The events of the past days had stirred a dormant ache, one that whispered of a connection he was unwilling to dismiss. His mind replayed moments—her startled gaze, the familiar flutter in his chest, the elusive memories that danced on the periphery of her consciousness, proven by her nightmares. He clenched his jaw, torn between the skepticism that came with his profession and the unwavering pull of an inexplicable bond. "Julie," he murmured, the name reverberating in the confines of his office.

He returned to the file on the Revivalists. Catamount focused on the information, his detective instincts driving him to piece together the puzzle. Yet an undercurrent of something tugged at him—a tug fueled by a belief that Juliette might just hold the key to bringing down the murdering bastards.

"Captain," Bradley said, interrupting his contemplation, "we're making progress on the rest of the journal, but that Lord Arnold was a confusing weasel. It's taking time to decipher his notes."

Catamount nodded, pushing his personal concerns to the background, at least for the moment. "I want every detail on their recent movements that he wrote down. We need to anticipate their next move."

As Bradley left, Catamount's gaze lingered on the file, but his mind spiraled back to Juliette. The notion that she might be his long-lost Julie simmered beneath the surface, an unresolved chord that vibrated within him. And the idea that she might be hiding, that she didn't trust him enough to reveal herself, added a layer of worry and frustration.

He paced his office, the creaking floorboards beneath his boots evidence of his restless agitation. "Damn it, Julie," he muttered. "I'm certain it's her. Why doesn't she come forward? Why the charade?" He raked his hands through his disheveled hair, the gold-tipped strands slipping through his fingers like grains of sand. "What are you hiding from?" he wondered aloud.

As he circled his office, he considered the implications. "Is she running from danger, or is she playing some awful game? No, she wouldn't do that." Still, unease settled deep within him at that possibility. "I've seen enough deceit in this city. Can't escape it, can I? If she's Julie, what's she afraid of? And if she's not…" His thoughts trailed off, the uncertainty gnawing at him like an unrelenting dog on a bone. "Some days I think I'm just making this whole bloody thing up."

With a last, lingering look at the scattered clues on his desk, Catamount refocused on the case, determined to pierce through the fog of mystery surrounding Juliette and the looming threat of the Revivalists.

Several minutes later door creaked open again, and Catamount's eyes snapped from the scattered reports on his desk. There she was—Juliette, a vision that struck him like a bolt of lightning and sent a shock wave through his chest. She'd changed and was now in a burgundy dress that clung to her incredible figure. She moved with a hurried grace, and her auburn hair framed her face in loose tendrils. Her freckles—those that dusted her nose and cheeks in the same delicate pattern as Julie's—stood out against her creamy skin.

A blast of emotion hit him, and for a moment, he stood frozen. Then, instinctively, his arms opened wide, drawn by an unseen force. He didn't understand it. He just did it. Opened them wide for this woman, knowing without knowing that it was what she needed.

Juliette, emotion shimmering in her beautiful eyes, rushed into his embrace. The reports and investigations were forgotten with her in his arms.

Without words they met in a collision of passion, a union of force and feeling that left them both breathless. Her lips moved against his, familiar and yet new. He tasted the traces of shared history on her lips, mingled with secrets that hung in the air. For a moment, the weight of duty melted away, and there was only the sensation of Juliette in his arms.

It was a wholly unexpected kiss, and a rush of emotions swept through him. Juliette's actions were cryptic, and lost in the heat of the moment he couldn't decipher them. The tangle of his emotions and any questions evaporated with each tug of her fingers in his hair. Juliette's mews drowned in the intensity of their kisses, a cascade of desire that flared wildly. He yielded to the magnetic pull of her lips, forgetting the questions that had plagued his thoughts only moments before.

Her actions spoke louder than any words, and in that moment, explanations seemed trivial. Who needed them when he had her warm and willing in his arms? Catamount's resistance crumbled, and he kissed her back with every bit of feeling he'd shoved deep down and pushed aside. It came roaring out, expressed through tongue and lips and hard, searching hands.

Juliette's breathy voice cut through the haze as she yanked away. "I couldn't stay away any longer," she confessed between kisses, her hands still firmly entangled in his hair.

He managed to pull back just enough to mutter, "What's going on?"

She silenced him with another kiss, her reply muffled against his lips. "I couldn't resist you any longer. I needed to feel your touch, your kiss. I know I'm not making any sense after the way I rushed out this morning. And I went walking and realized that it's you . I… I need you, Catamount."

The questions that had plagued his mind moments ago were replaced with the demanding pulse of desire. He whispered, "Whatever brought you here, I'm not letting you go again."

"Good," she growled, grasping a fistful of his linen shirt, "don't." Her lips sought his once again, urgent and verging on frantic.

"Wait," he murmured, loving her taste but pulling away with mountainous effort.

"No more waiting." Her lips took his again—those full, sensual lips he knew so well from a lifetime ago.

Resistance was nonexistent.

He was lost.

" Julie. " Every bit of him lit up with love and need for his woman— this woman who knew not who she truly was. But he did.

Perhaps he should show her.

Grasping at her with hungry hands, Catamount traced her curves, reveled in their feel. "Damn, you fill my hands so right," he rasped, cupping her breasts before yanking impatiently at the bodice of her dress. "So very right." Her breasts sprang free, and a need so big, so violent, swept through him that he nearly lost control right then and there.

Juliette gasped and dropped her head back, exposing the long column of her throat. "Why—" she started, and cut off on a moan when his mouth covered her nipple and his tongue washed over the delectable peak. "Oh, don't stop," she demanded, burrowing her hands into his hair and holding him to her. "This… this feels… Oh! " she cried out when he nipped at her playfully, arching into him.

"I know you like that." Because his Julie did. In fact, she also liked…

"Oh my God!" Juliette groaned and melted against him as he stroked his tongue, bold and possessive, across her peak. Over and over, making her arch impossibly into him.

Knowing her body, even as she didn't yet remember, Catamount brought his thumb to her other peak and began flicking in time with his tongue. If she was indeed his Julie, the combination would shatter her. Christ, he loved how sensitive her breasts were, had always been. Having this additional way to take her over the edge had always pleased him in the most primal way. "Hold on to me, love," he said with dark satisfaction, his breath brushing across her skin. "You're about to touch stars."

With single-minded intent, Catamount built her up, bringing her closer and closer to the crest with his mouth and hands, loving her breasts with open hunger. With every flick of his tongue, his heart thumped a thunderous beat of love and belonging, of passion for this exquisite woman in his arms.

"Cat!" she called out, her nails digging into his shoulders.

He grunted with pleasure—at the nearness of her orgasm and at her use of his nickname. "That's the way, love. Just like that."

She came, splintering apart in his arms.

How he'd craved that. Fuck , how he'd craved that. "More," he commanded, ready to give her as many as she could take.

But then… a tear. He felt it spatter gently against his skin, warm and wet. Alarm rang in his mind. No, he hadn't pushed too far and hurt her? Christ, he couldn't bear that if he had. "Juliette?" He raised his head to look at her. "Did I… did I hurt you?"

"No," she whispered, swiping at her face with the back of her hand, her mass of auburn hair tumbling about her as she shook her head. "I just… I'm not myself right now."

She'd been exquisitely herself, to his way of thinking.

"I'm sorry, love." He gently recomposed her bodice, tenderly tucking her modestly within. "Can I do anything?"

"Hold me, s'il vous pla?t ," she said as she melted into his embrace, seeming to take comfort there. "Just hold me."

As if letting go was an option.