This is what it should feel like with Castleton. The thought came from nowhere. She pushed it aside, promised to deal with it later.

But for now . . . “I would like to learn,” she said.

“So honest.” He smiled, the curve of his lips—his philtrum—so close, and as dangerous as the weapon for which it was named. “This is your first lesson.”

She wanted him to teach her everything.

“Do not tempt the lion,” he said, the words brushing across her lips, parting them with their touch. “For he most certainly will bite.”

Dear God. She welcomed it.

He straightened, stepping back and adjusting the cuffs of his coat casually, utterly unmoved by the moment. “Go back to your ball and your betrothed, Pippa.”

He turned away, and she sucked in a long breath, feeling as though she had been without oxygen for a damaging length of time.

She watched him as he disappeared into the darkness, willing him back.

Failing.

Chapter Six

Hours later, long after the last gamer had left the Angel, Cross sat at his desk, attempting to calculate the evening’s take for the third time. And failing for the third time.

Failing, because he could not eradicate the vision of blond, bespectacled Philippa Marbury charging down the rear steps of Dolby House toward him. Indeed, every time he attempted to carry a digit from one column to the next, he imagined her fingers threading through his hair or her lips curving beneath his hand, and he lost the number.

Cross did not lose numbers. Much of his adult life had been spent in punishment for being unable to lose numbers.

He bowed over the book again.

He’d added three lines of the column before the pendula on his desk caught his attention, and he remembered her soft touch setting the drops in motion. Temptation flared, and he imagined that same touch setting other things in motion. Like the fastenings on his trousers.

The nib of his pen snapped against the ledger, sending a splatter of ink across the ecru page.

She thought him safe.

And with any other woman, he was. With any other woman, he was safety incarnate.

But with her . . . his control—that which he valued above all else—hung by a thread. A delicate, silken thread, soft as her hair. Her skin. Her voice in the darkness.

With a groan, he shoved his hands through his hair and pushed his chair away from the desk, tilting it back against the wall and spreading his legs wide. He had to exorcise her memory from this place. Everywhere he looked—the abacus, the globe, the damned desk—everything was sullied with her. He was almost certain that he could still smell her there, the lingering scent of sunlight and fresh linen.

Goddammit.

She’d ruined his office . . . as thoroughly as if she’d marched into the room and removed all her clothes.

And laid herself across his desk, wearing nothing but her spectacles and her little crooked smile, her skin pale and beautiful against the ebony.

He closed his eyes, the vision altogether too easy to conjure. He pinned her with one hand just below her beautiful white br**sts, their tips the color of her lips—fresh peaches drizzled with honey. His mouth watered; he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from leaning over her, from taking one of those perfect ni**les into his mouth and tasting her. He’d spend an age on those br**sts, teasing her until she was writhing beneath him, savoring her until she was desperate for him to move on—begging him to move lower.

And only when she begged would he give her what they both wanted—spreading her thighs, running his hands over her soft, creamy skin, and—

A knock on the door sounded like a rifle’s report. His chair slammed to the floor, punctuated by his wicked curse.

Whoever it was, Cross was going to murder him. Slowly. And with great pleasure.

“What?” he barked.

The door opened, revealing the founder of The Fallen Angel. “A fine welcome.”

Cross considered leaping over the desk and strangling Chase. “I must have said it wrong. Barring the club being aflame, you are unwelcome.”

Chase did not listen, instead closing the door and dropping into a large wing chair on the opposite side of the desk.

Cross scowled.

His partner shrugged. “Let’s say the club is aflame.”

“What do you want?”

“The book.”

Gentlemen’s clubs across London prided themselves on their betting books, and the Angel was no different. The massive leather-bound volume was used to catalog all wagers made on the main floor of the club. Members could record any wager—no matter how trivial—in the book, and the Angel took a percentage of the bets to make certain the parties were held to whatever bizarre stakes were established.

Chase dealt in information, and loved the book for the secrets it revealed about the club’s membership. The insurance it provided.

Cross set the heavy tome on the desk.

Chase did not reach for it. “Justin tells me that you were not here for most of the evening.”

“Justin needs a sound thrashing for all the information he gives you regarding our whereabouts.”

“I care less about the others’ whereabouts these days,” Chase said, extending one arm and setting the massive globe in motion. “I’m chiefly concerned with yours.”

Cross watched the globe spin, hating the realization that the last person to interact with the giant orb had been Philippa Marbury and resenting Chase’s touching it. “I don’t know why.”

“Knight is easier to watch when I know where to find him.”

Cross’s brows rose. Surely he had misunderstood. “Are you suggesting that I ignore the fact that he has ruined my brother-in-law, threatened my sister’s safety, and blackmailed me?”