gaze. She stood her ground, tipping her chin to glare up at him.
She braced herself for his touch. Yet he did not touch her. Only stood very close, close enough for her to catch his scent of leather and warm male flesh, to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, like coins at the bottom of a bright blue sea. This close, she saw the masculine splendor of his face, its bold lines. The tempting contours of his mouth. A series of tiny scars just at his temple, the lingering trace of a childhood battle with illness—which made him all the more human and real.
He stared at her, and she saw a faint glimmering beneath the surface of his handsome face, a kind of distant puzzlement as if he were observing a beautiful yet brutal ritual. There, in those quick moments of wonderment, she saw him. The Whit she had known back in the encampment. Clever, quick of mind. Yearning. Desirable.
He blinked, and that man disappeared.
Now he was a villain. A beautiful villain.
He reached toward her then. She recoiled. All he did was shut the door behind her.
She retreated until the door pressed into her back. He advanced, closing the distance between them. His hands came up to brace against the door. The muscles of his shoulders and arms shifted and tensed, forming solid shapes beneath his coat. Sometime during the night, he had lost his stock, and he stood near enough for her to see the beat of his pulse beneath the corded length of his neck.
Despite the enforced calm of his expression, his pulse throbbed in quick rhythm. He was not as impassive as he seemed.
Her own heart was a galloping horse that ran all the harder at his nearness. Perhaps he wasn’t as lost as she had thought, for he might have done a dozen things to her, none of them good. Yet she saw in his eyes, in the press of his lips, a struggle within. Battling the Devil’s wickedness.
Maybe there was a chance at freedom, for both of them. If so, she had to tame the creature living in her chest, must control herself. But, even amongst her own people, she was known as too fiery, too impulsive, and so her cheeks flamed and her breath came in gulps as she stared up at Whit.
“’Tis your secrets I want, Zora.” He said her name in a husky whisper—the voice of the man she’d known back in the encampment—that shivered up and down her spine.
“I don’t want to give them to you,” she answered.
A corner of his mouth turned up, sly and sensuous. “You’ve no choice in the matter. Mr. Holliday—”
“Who?”
“I believe you called him Wafodu guero .”
“Mr. Holliday,” she repeated. Her own smile tasted bitter. “Fitting for him to use a pleasant guise to cloak his evil.”
At the word evil , Whit did frown. Clearly, he disliked the sound of it. There again, a trace of who he had been emerged. Zora wanted to reach out to that Whit from before. Yet he shook his head as though to dislodge his earlier self.
“Mr. Holliday granted me an additional boon,” he continued. “While you are my guest, you must tell me the truth. No false words shall pass your lips.” His gaze strayed down to her mouth. She found herself looking at his, the seductive shapes of his lips promising things she would not allow herself to ask for, not from this wicked stranger. She had known him, somehow, before, but now she did not.
The implications of his words unnerved her. Life amongst the Romani was made of spinning yarns and telling hokibens , both to the gorgios who wanted their fortunes told and amongst the Rom themselves. The Romani were expert fabulists and liars—a justifiable source of pride, it meant they were clever and could be trapped by no one. Yet perhaps this sinfully handsome gorgio was himself lying.
He saw that she doubted him. “What is your surname, Zora?”
She wanted to give him the alias she always used, Lee, but instead other words leapt from her mouth as if pulled by an unseen hand. “Grey. I am called Zora Grey.” She bit her lip to keep from saying
She braced herself for his touch. Yet he did not touch her. Only stood very close, close enough for her to catch his scent of leather and warm male flesh, to see the flecks of gold in his eyes, like coins at the bottom of a bright blue sea. This close, she saw the masculine splendor of his face, its bold lines. The tempting contours of his mouth. A series of tiny scars just at his temple, the lingering trace of a childhood battle with illness—which made him all the more human and real.
He stared at her, and she saw a faint glimmering beneath the surface of his handsome face, a kind of distant puzzlement as if he were observing a beautiful yet brutal ritual. There, in those quick moments of wonderment, she saw him. The Whit she had known back in the encampment. Clever, quick of mind. Yearning. Desirable.
He blinked, and that man disappeared.
Now he was a villain. A beautiful villain.
He reached toward her then. She recoiled. All he did was shut the door behind her.
She retreated until the door pressed into her back. He advanced, closing the distance between them. His hands came up to brace against the door. The muscles of his shoulders and arms shifted and tensed, forming solid shapes beneath his coat. Sometime during the night, he had lost his stock, and he stood near enough for her to see the beat of his pulse beneath the corded length of his neck.
Despite the enforced calm of his expression, his pulse throbbed in quick rhythm. He was not as impassive as he seemed.
Her own heart was a galloping horse that ran all the harder at his nearness. Perhaps he wasn’t as lost as she had thought, for he might have done a dozen things to her, none of them good. Yet she saw in his eyes, in the press of his lips, a struggle within. Battling the Devil’s wickedness.
Maybe there was a chance at freedom, for both of them. If so, she had to tame the creature living in her chest, must control herself. But, even amongst her own people, she was known as too fiery, too impulsive, and so her cheeks flamed and her breath came in gulps as she stared up at Whit.
“’Tis your secrets I want, Zora.” He said her name in a husky whisper—the voice of the man she’d known back in the encampment—that shivered up and down her spine.
“I don’t want to give them to you,” she answered.
A corner of his mouth turned up, sly and sensuous. “You’ve no choice in the matter. Mr. Holliday—”
“Who?”
“I believe you called him Wafodu guero .”
“Mr. Holliday,” she repeated. Her own smile tasted bitter. “Fitting for him to use a pleasant guise to cloak his evil.”
At the word evil , Whit did frown. Clearly, he disliked the sound of it. There again, a trace of who he had been emerged. Zora wanted to reach out to that Whit from before. Yet he shook his head as though to dislodge his earlier self.
“Mr. Holliday granted me an additional boon,” he continued. “While you are my guest, you must tell me the truth. No false words shall pass your lips.” His gaze strayed down to her mouth. She found herself looking at his, the seductive shapes of his lips promising things she would not allow herself to ask for, not from this wicked stranger. She had known him, somehow, before, but now she did not.
The implications of his words unnerved her. Life amongst the Romani was made of spinning yarns and telling hokibens , both to the gorgios who wanted their fortunes told and amongst the Rom themselves. The Romani were expert fabulists and liars—a justifiable source of pride, it meant they were clever and could be trapped by no one. Yet perhaps this sinfully handsome gorgio was himself lying.
He saw that she doubted him. “What is your surname, Zora?”
She wanted to give him the alias she always used, Lee, but instead other words leapt from her mouth as if pulled by an unseen hand. “Grey. I am called Zora Grey.” She bit her lip to keep from saying
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