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Authors: Deborah Smith
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poking him in the stomach until all he could swallow were sips of his weak American coffee and a few bites of fried egg.
She probably had his inheritance stashed somewhere, damn her. And she had to know it was stolen. Even though she wasn’t the one who’d pilfered it during the war almost fifty years ago, she was the one who stood to benefit from the theft.
There was no reason to feel guilty for doing whatever it took to worm the truth out of her. Worm. He felt like a worm. Very well. So he could live with himself, anyway.
He remembered as a boy watching his father cheat at a card game with the stable hands. The manager of the Bennington stables getting drunk and cheating his own workers!
His father was despised by the men who worked for him, but they were too much in awe of him to complain to the estate’s lord. They took out their frustrations bytormenting John. He’d learned to fight, to work harder than everyone else, and to dissect human nature.
Those skills had saved him from the streets. He’d earned sergeant’s rank in the army. Then he’d gone to college, and by the time he turned twenty-five he was on his way to becoming a detective with Scotland Yard. Until last year, he’d been one of their best.
He’d played by the rules, and the rules had betrayed him. So this time he’d make up his own rules. Six months ago a London rare-book broker had tracked him down after being contacted by Sam Hamilton. John had listed his family’s books in Scotland Yard’s records of stolen art objects. The dealer had checked the records because the books Hamilton wanted him to sell were so valuable.
John wondered what would have happened if he’d come here then, while Sam Hamilton was still alive. At John’s request, the dealer hadn’t warned Hamilton. He’d told him that he needed to see the books before he agreed to represent them, and Hamilton refused.
John had planned to pay Hamilton a surprise visit, but then his life had come apart at the seams. Betrayal. Accusations that he’d taken bribes from the terrorist organizations he’d been assigned to infiltrate. A trial. A conviction. Three months in prison. The end of his career and reputation. And Sam Hamilton had died of a heart attack in the meantime.
After all that, getting the books from Agnes Hamilton ought to be a piece of cake. He wasn’t going to let desire get in the way.
Let her believe he was some kind of knight in shining armor. Let her believe that lie.
Four
By the time they began rebuilding the pasture fence that afternoon, John knew she wouldn’t ask him to leave. He could see the gratitude and affection blazing behind her troubled blue eyes. John covered his guilty eyes with absurdly conservative black sunglasses to protect himself from her scorching attention and the semitropical sun. Her attention was hotter, no contest.
At first he made pleasant small talk when he wasn’t cutting the oak apart with a chain saw. But she gave one-word answers and worked as swiftly as a lumberjack. A dangerous female lumberjack, John thought with exasperation. It was hell to concentrate on handling a chain saw when Agnes’s peach-shaped rump strained against her shorts each time she bent over.
Her hands were covered in thick leather gloves, and perspiration shone like a crystal veneer on her face and arms as she chopped at small tree branches with a hatchet and carried off the big chunks that fell from the chain saw’s whirring blade. She sucked her lower lip when she was concentrating hard, and she gave the tree limbs orders under her breath.
So many small things about her delighted him. It seemed silly to love the coconut scent of her suntan lotion, or enjoy her ferocious attitude toward the tree.
At any minute he expected her to wrap her arms around a thick limb and wrestle it. Soon her legs below her baggy brown shorts were stained with grime, bits of broken leaves, and thin pink scratches. She didn’t seem to notice or care.
“Do you
She probably had his inheritance stashed somewhere, damn her. And she had to know it was stolen. Even though she wasn’t the one who’d pilfered it during the war almost fifty years ago, she was the one who stood to benefit from the theft.
There was no reason to feel guilty for doing whatever it took to worm the truth out of her. Worm. He felt like a worm. Very well. So he could live with himself, anyway.
He remembered as a boy watching his father cheat at a card game with the stable hands. The manager of the Bennington stables getting drunk and cheating his own workers!
His father was despised by the men who worked for him, but they were too much in awe of him to complain to the estate’s lord. They took out their frustrations bytormenting John. He’d learned to fight, to work harder than everyone else, and to dissect human nature.
Those skills had saved him from the streets. He’d earned sergeant’s rank in the army. Then he’d gone to college, and by the time he turned twenty-five he was on his way to becoming a detective with Scotland Yard. Until last year, he’d been one of their best.
He’d played by the rules, and the rules had betrayed him. So this time he’d make up his own rules. Six months ago a London rare-book broker had tracked him down after being contacted by Sam Hamilton. John had listed his family’s books in Scotland Yard’s records of stolen art objects. The dealer had checked the records because the books Hamilton wanted him to sell were so valuable.
John wondered what would have happened if he’d come here then, while Sam Hamilton was still alive. At John’s request, the dealer hadn’t warned Hamilton. He’d told him that he needed to see the books before he agreed to represent them, and Hamilton refused.
John had planned to pay Hamilton a surprise visit, but then his life had come apart at the seams. Betrayal. Accusations that he’d taken bribes from the terrorist organizations he’d been assigned to infiltrate. A trial. A conviction. Three months in prison. The end of his career and reputation. And Sam Hamilton had died of a heart attack in the meantime.
After all that, getting the books from Agnes Hamilton ought to be a piece of cake. He wasn’t going to let desire get in the way.
Let her believe he was some kind of knight in shining armor. Let her believe that lie.
Four
By the time they began rebuilding the pasture fence that afternoon, John knew she wouldn’t ask him to leave. He could see the gratitude and affection blazing behind her troubled blue eyes. John covered his guilty eyes with absurdly conservative black sunglasses to protect himself from her scorching attention and the semitropical sun. Her attention was hotter, no contest.
At first he made pleasant small talk when he wasn’t cutting the oak apart with a chain saw. But she gave one-word answers and worked as swiftly as a lumberjack. A dangerous female lumberjack, John thought with exasperation. It was hell to concentrate on handling a chain saw when Agnes’s peach-shaped rump strained against her shorts each time she bent over.
Her hands were covered in thick leather gloves, and perspiration shone like a crystal veneer on her face and arms as she chopped at small tree branches with a hatchet and carried off the big chunks that fell from the chain saw’s whirring blade. She sucked her lower lip when she was concentrating hard, and she gave the tree limbs orders under her breath.
So many small things about her delighted him. It seemed silly to love the coconut scent of her suntan lotion, or enjoy her ferocious attitude toward the tree.
At any minute he expected her to wrap her arms around a thick limb and wrestle it. Soon her legs below her baggy brown shorts were stained with grime, bits of broken leaves, and thin pink scratches. She didn’t seem to notice or care.
“Do you
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