The Writer and the Rake Page 17

  “I don’t need to come to where you live.” He spoke without a hint of ire. “I think it’s fair to say I’ve been in far worse states in my time.”

  “And?”

  “What I say. And yes, looking on it now, I see there were reasons for it, reasons that led me to this mess—”

  “A mirror.” She gave a little shrug.

  “A mirror?”

  She nodded, fixing him with her most enigmatic stare. This was nothing for her to deal with. She’d rather give him something to get him off her back when her life was her life and she really couldn’t bear him trying to reach her. Come out from behind her barricades? No. What would be the earthly point? She’d only regret it when she needed to get back behind them.

  And yet . . . Condoms were things he probably understood. They obviously used something in these days and a rake like him with bedpost notches galore would know all about that. A phone that was a mirror? She knew by the way he swept his hypnotic gaze over it, he’d never heard such garbage. In fact, he probably thought it was something carnal. The back of her neck prickled.

  “They are all the rage in London. You just haven’t been there recently. You look in them and you see your reflection.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Yes.” She fixed on a smile. “Let me show you how.”

  She didn’t want to. She didn’t know how she was going to show him how when the fact was she couldn’t. Not in any crystal clear way. What she wanted was to figure out how she’d got back here, but this needed dealing with first. What possible harm could there be in letting him examine the phone?

  “It’s fine.” He picked it back up, before she could move. Turned it over. Turned it back. Fingered the screen. “I don’t see—”

  She managed just to smile, although her voice was sharp as pins. “Well, what do you think it is?”

  His thumb hovered over the button on the front. The prickle spread to her scalp. There wasn’t a network but there could be enough battery. What if it came on? Then what the hell would she say? It was a mirror with pictures and fanfare sounds? She just hoped he’d hand it back before she’d to resort to snatching it.

  “I’ve no idea.”

  She closed her eyes. Relief washed as he tossed it on the bed.

  “What I’m really wondering about are these.”

  “These?”

  “Banana flavored? What’s that?”

  Her heart plummeted like a ship plunging straight to the bottom of the ocean. But if she didn’t put a stop to this, she’d have even worse explaining to do. The crisp little sound was the wrapper being torn apart. She jerked her eyes open.

  “So? You can read? Congratulations.”

  He threw the wrapper aside. Sat back, rested his arms on the chair arms. His expression may be a brick wall, she’d a horrible feeling he was playing with her. No one could be this deadpan yet say nothing.

  “Well, Mitchell? You tell me.”

  He tilted his jaw. Tilted it again. Then he held it to his nose, his sensuous fingers slowly playing with the rubber, his eyes smoky dark.

  “Do you really want me to answer?”

  “It’s a balloon.”

  He cocked a devilish eyebrow. “Right.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, darling, how could you think otherwise?”

  “Because I have a dirty mind. And you, if I may say—”

  He rested his elbows back on the chair arms, flicking her with that sensual gaze, shredding her in fact. The bastard was too handsome for his own good. She didn’t doubt a certain part of him was itching. A part he probably couldn’t control. Well, he wouldn’t make her lose hers.

  “What?”

  A shrug of his elegantly clad shoulders. His eyes were so penetrative, her heart stupidly fluttered. Images, carnal images of that appallingly basic and yet satisfying encounter she’d had with him, thudded. One she wanted to think was like many others but somehow wasn’t. One she hoped his mind didn’t dwell on. One she thought it did anyway, or he wouldn’t look at her like this.

  “I make no comment.”

  “Good.” She flicked her eyes shut. “Because once again you have no idea of what is going on in London. Face it, Mitchell, you’re out of touch. Living here like this, you’re not just out of touch, you’re floating in another galaxy. And it’s so boring, it’s unreal.”

  “But I thought you were from Newport-On-Tay? You mentioned it when you came here first.”

  “I mentioned a lot of things.” She yawned. “Just because I mentioned them it doesn’t mean—”

  “Do you know I made some enquiries? Consulted a gazetteer?”

  “Good for you.”

  “The place doesn’t appear to exist.”

  “Right.”

  This got worse by the minute. But she couldn’t say so. She couldn’t do anything other than sit here with her eyes closed.

  “Sort of Newport, either.”

  “I can’t think why. Perhaps your gazetteer is at fault? They’re not the fount of all knowledge.”

  “You’re not either.”

  At all costs she mustn’t show any of this was news to her. Must smother the alarm that prickled, sink back further into the pillow. There were some old Georgian houses dotted about Newport-On-Tay. Remains had been found of even older ones, from earlier eras. It had to have existed in some form. Anyway, what the hell was it to him if it existed, or not? What was this but another attempt to get beneath her skin?

  Well, she could tell him the truth. She’d liked to see him wrestling that with his need to pass her off as his wife.

  “Mitchell, I think we said no questions. That’s the deal. If you can’t accept it—”

  “You were talking like that the day you arrived here. When you mistook Fleming for some man called—”

  “You also asked me to name my price that day. That’s my price. I mean it.”

  What was probably the condom landed on the bed. She swallowed. Hopefully she’d annoyed him enough for him to leave her alone.

  “Besides, what is there to say? I’m tired. If you want me to go on playing at being your wife, I need to sleep. The choice is yours.”

  “Well then.” The chair scraped back. “I won’t take your time. Good day, Miss Carter.”

  “Good day.”

  Mitchell Killgower’s dressing room door clicked shut and she sighed with relief. The condoms had been a bloody joke, no more no less. Even if she had kissed that random on the dance floor after the run in with Mort . . .

  Kissed.

  A kiss? Forget the paper Mort wanted her to sign. That was a red herring. She hadn’t signed the bloody paper. What had Mort said about a kiss? A kiss. And her.

  She forced herself to think. Everything else might be a blur. She might not have kissed to get here in the first place, she’d certainly kissed to get out of here. Unfortunately when she snogged that guy on the dance floor, she ended up back here too. Why hadn’t she seen it?

  A kiss.

  She pinged her eyes open. If a kiss was what it took, she’d done it once. She could do it again.

  Mitchell Killgower was very handy. If she’d known, she wouldn’t have driven him to his dressing room. She could still kiss him and get out of here now. She breathed on her fingertips. Her breath stunk worse than a giraffe’s backside. In fact it would have been a fine consolation if she’d been hard up and had wanted a drink.

  She glanced at the closed door, took a deep breath. Despite driving him away she’d just have to put things back with him. How hard could it be when he wanted to be nice?

  He’d be left in this mess with the house but she couldn’t stay here. Maybe he had looks to kill, she wasn’t going to die for them. She didn’t belong. She’d have to love him to death for that. On a slidin
g scale he wasn’t even vaguely likeable. In fact, he was a horror.

  Mort had said she must choose. When she got back, she’d choose one thing. If it took till the day she died, till eternity and beyond, she’d never kiss anyone again.

  Ever.

  ~ ~ ~

  Mitchell Killgower thudded into the leather chaise longue in the interminable calm of his dressing room, ran exasperated fingers through his hair.

  ‘When he thought of all the cheap moonlit places he’d been in his life, he knew one thing?’

  Really? And what was that exactly? That she was an ungrateful, arrogant, lying, drunk he should have left lying with her head in the chamber pot. That list was more than the one thing he knew. He shouldn’t have gone through her things. But, the damned woman was a comet blazing towards extinction. He should know. Hadn’t he hurtled to that same destiny? So, he had looked through her bag. There was something that smelt to high heaven about all of this. Everything he’d fingered, examined, felt, smelt in the cold dawn light required his dullest, calmest heartbeats and his ability to think harder than he’d ever thought in his life before.

  The dress—he’d seen shorter corsets—the shoes—all right they might pass for pattens, but then again—these strange hard squares she kept in her purse that had her name stamped on them, rows of numbers too, that square with what appeared to be her image on it? What were these for? It didn’t matter how he looked at each item, none of it belonged here in this world.

  Incredible, ludicrous to think as dawn crept in the shutters, but had she fallen from the sky? Was she the comet that had crashed to earth? Nothing added up including the jug-eared man? Where did he fit in?

  There was the God-awful state she’d been in, the one that made Gabriella’s behavior look tame. The state that had bound him to her, because it reminded him he was a human being with a heart.

  What he wanted was Killaine House and he needed to steer her towards that end. He couldn’t afford to have a human heart. He’d learned with Gabriella the value of keeping his buried in frost.

  Now Brittany Carter had embedded her footprints on his heart, it was surely his priority to remove them.

  She might be back but he was going to keep his distance. No more kissing. Most certainly no more sex. Not even if she stood there stark naked before him, one of these strangely wrapped balloon things in her hand.

  Chapter 14

  Although Dainty had made a total hash of Brittany’s hair, so chestnut ends stuck out like a bird’s nest, she met her reflection in the oval glass, that sat on the table, with a faint smile. Hairstyling wasn’t Dainty’s strong point, any more than hair was Brittany’s. Too soft, too fine. It looked like Dainty had set a tangled floor mop on top of Brittany’s head and crowned it with jewelled pins. So long as she got Mitchell Killgower to look at her though Dainty could crown it with tree branches, deer antlers, barb wire. Brittany didn’t want to have to stand naked before him to get what she needed here. But she would if she had to. She touched the back of her neck.

  How she’d made it through to ten o’clock at night, how she still managed to keep her drooping eyelids open without the aid of matchsticks, was a miracle on a par with her being at the top of the best-seller lists. It didn’t matter how much coffee she’d drunk, or the amount of time she’d dunked her head in a ceramic basin of cold water, this afternoon, she needed to put twenty-four hours between herself and that night to feel properly restored. The thought of staying on those best-seller lists was what made her mentally imagine these matchsticks, what kept her smile nailed to her lips and her lips nailed to her face, however. A kiss. A kiss. A kiss was all it was going to take.

  Of course, she’d sooner Mort just showed up and stopped her having to abase herself in this manner but he hadn’t. She needed to get home now before another minute went by. Success was something she’d given up waiting for. She needed to build on it. Get the story of Ruaf and Orla finished and out there, ignore the mess of her hair in the mirror, take a deep breath, ice her heartbeats. She was strangely nervous about this. But, then Dainty had also tugged Brittany’s hair to bits when her head was already in agony.

  “That’s fine, Dainty, thank you.”

  “Very well, Madam, if that will be all?”

  Dainty clanged down the hairbrush. The thump ricocheted through Brittany’s head, leaping from temple to temple, but she managed not to flinch.

  “Oh, I think it’s more than.”

  “It’s just I don’t do hair. And that bit there—”

  “Leave it.”

  Any minute now, Mitchell Killgower was going to come in on his way to the dressing room. She needed to waylay him. From now on her life would be riches, success, fame.

  Much as she loved darkening Skinny Joe’s doors, her shadow wouldn’t darken it from this day forth. She’d made more resolutions than the entire population of Scotland did at New Year. For the first time in her life she had something to make them for. Had she really wanted to sell Sebastian’s house over his head, when she was probably going to be able to buy him out? She would need to think about that. His house wasn’t something she wanted particularly. It was certainly something she’d deal with when she got back home.

  The door opened. “Good evening, Dainty.”

  Brittany fingered the back of her neck. Mitchell Killgower was here. Since he was, it didn’t matter he pointedly ignored her.

  “Dainty is just doing my hair.”

  To say, for you would, on a sliding scale of one to five, with one being a trifle bold and five being utterly crass, be utterly crass, especially when she hadn’t gone down to dinner.

  “What’s more, I don’t know about you, darling, but I think she’s made a good job for a beginner.”

  She didn’t want to give too much credit where it wasn’t due. Mitchell Killgower might think she was up to something if she dripped honeyed sweetness although, he’d looked after her. He might think it was his reward.

  She placed her palms on the table for support, rose to her feet.

  “It’s fine, Dainty. Let me get the door for you. I know, that strictly speaking, I shouldn’t under any circumstances, but we’re all amongst friends here and you’ve made such a lovely job of my hair, so why not? Isn’t that so, Mitchell?”

  “That she’s made a lovely job of your hair, or what, exactly?”

  She glanced around. Mitchell Killgower stood with his back to her in front of his dressing room door. It wasn’t a huge problem if he went in there. She’d already turned the place over, looking for the portal when she thought there was one so nothing about it would surprise her. It was a move she’d anticipated. It was also a move she could do without.

  “Well, I know you’re not much given to compliments. Thank you, Dainty. That will be all.”

  Dainty showed no sign of going. Had he told her not to? Brittany stood her ground despite the way her heart raced, till Dainty ambled into the softly lit passageway, fingering the ties on her cap. Before Brittany shut the door, Mitchell Killgower did the same with his. At least a door shut. She swallowed. The thought he’d only closed it because it needed closing was dashed against the rocks when she turned round. The room was empty.

  Brittany let go of the handle and fingered the frothy front of the peignoir—Gabriella’s in all probability. Whatever was going on in his mind, fame, success and riches, floated through hers. All for want of a kiss. A piece of cake when she thought of the random guys she’d pulled in the past. If she’d gone to dinner, she might not be standing here, fiddling with the back of her neck where her hair had been pulled so tight she felt her head was dangling from an invisible hand. But, she was standing here.

  She squared her shoulders and glided to his door. So long as it wasn’t locked, she could do this. But it was probably best to knock first. She tapped on the panelling.

 
“Mitchell? Mitchell? Are you there?”

  A stupid question. She just couldn’t think of another.

  “Mitchell?”

  Silence. When he had a comeback for everything? She grasped the handle. “Mitch—”

  The door flew open on him, sunk into the chaise longue, which sagged to the floor, pulling off his boots. “There you are.”

  That she’d caught him unawares was obvious from his raised brows and the fact she’d never seen him do anything so ordinary before. Except for when she’d seduced him, he kept his drawbridges up with an unrelenting confidence and power.

  “What do you want?”

  “I—”

  She swallowed the tiny knot in her throat. He kept his drawbridges up, period. Handsome to look at. Excruciating to deal with. So, despite the fact her very bones needed to go home, uncertainty flickered. The dressing room was his ground, not hers. His very male preserve from the bust of Caesar Augustus on the mantelpiece, the cravats and shirts spilling out of drawers to the scent of old leather. She’d feel better on her own ground except she’d none here. All the more reason to shove her uncertainty beneath a smile.

  “I just wanted to thank you for last night.”

  He tossed the boot aside, started on the other one. “And that’s why you had Dainty do your hair?”

  “My hair? Well, I don’t know about you Mitchell but I never go to b—.”

  “When you never came to dinner?”

  At least he’d interrupted her before she’d been crass enough to say the word bed.

  She shrugged. “Oh that? I didn’t feel well enough and from what I remember the portions aren’t the best. There’s barely enough for two, much less three people so, I thought it would be more for you and Fleming. But, I’ll join you tomorrow if that’s what’s worrying you.”