immediate commitment by directing her to Harriet, waiting in the wings with appointment book at the ready.
The woman moved on only to have several more file through along with a reporter from the
Times
seeking a quote. By the time she broke away to look about again, the room had cleared considerably. Hadrian St. Claire appeared to have left as well. The depth of disappointment that observation stirred set off a bevy of warning bells. Really, why should she care in the slightest one way or another? The man was nothing to her, a virtual stranger. Yet she did care, she cared a lot or easily too much judging from the hollow feeling overtaking her despite that she stood amidst a room chockfull of supporters. Dear Lord, she must be lonely and desperate indeed to latch onto a stranger and make him the answer to filling the empty place inside her.
Pathetic, Callie, well and truly pathetic.
A hand settling on the blade of her shoulder sent her spinning about, and she found herself face to face with Hadrian St. Claire. The speech papers slipped through her fingers, which suddenly felt as nerveless as her knees.
"Oh dear, I seem to be making a habit of this." She dropped to the stage floor.
Grinning, he followed her down so that they were both squatting, heads bowed and knees brushing. "Yes, we must make a pact to stop meeting this way."
Between them, they managed to gather the papers and after some awkward shuffling, she had them back in hand, a messy stack. He offered her a hand up and personal touch that it was, she felt the heat of him flare up through her fingertips. "How did you get here?"
Stepping back, he cast a sheepish glance back to the set of side stairs leading up to the stage, gold-tipped lashes grazing the high planes of his cheeks. "I've never been terribly good about waiting in queue. Dash it, I've never been any good about waiting at all. Are you put out with me?"
He looked at her then, another of those melting, too-long looks that set her to wondering if he might just have the capacity to see through her clothes, some sort of special radiographic power endemic to photographers, this one at least. Her hands, which had remained steady throughout her speech, were at once trembling and chill. And low in her belly, the shameful liquid warmth she had fought against pulsed and pooled.
She drew a steadying breath and reminded herself that giving way to madness such as this exacted a heavy, heavy toll. The last time she'd given her passions rein to rule, she'd come bloody close to ruining her life. At times such as this, though, with a handsome-as-sin stranger staring at her as though he must know what she looked like beneath her shift, it was all too easy to forget. Easy to forget it was the mind, the
intellect
that must rule the heart and body, not the other way around. Easy to forget that never again must a man, any man, be trusted.
Reaching for the shield of her reserve, she cleared her throat. "On the contrary, I am only surprised to see you here at all. From your remarks the other day, I would not have thought you a proponent of our cause."
"My remarks?" Hadrian felt the heat rising between them, too, although any reciprocity of feeling had no place in his plans. Immersed, he stared at her while he scoured his sex-soaked brain for some recollection of what he might have said to warrant such a starchy response. A great deal had happened in the past twenty-four hours, none of it good, and while he carried with him a clear mental picture of every detail of her from wind-kissed cheeks to broken hat feather, he couldn't recall a single word he'd said.
"I believe it was something to do with spewing rubbish and rot?" She arched one dark half-moon brow, waiting.
Damn but if his mouth hadn't gotten the better of him yet again. When the devil would he learn? "In that case, I hope you'll accept my most sincere apology. It's only that suffrage for females is a new notion for me, I freely admit it." He paused before adding
The woman moved on only to have several more file through along with a reporter from the
Times
seeking a quote. By the time she broke away to look about again, the room had cleared considerably. Hadrian St. Claire appeared to have left as well. The depth of disappointment that observation stirred set off a bevy of warning bells. Really, why should she care in the slightest one way or another? The man was nothing to her, a virtual stranger. Yet she did care, she cared a lot or easily too much judging from the hollow feeling overtaking her despite that she stood amidst a room chockfull of supporters. Dear Lord, she must be lonely and desperate indeed to latch onto a stranger and make him the answer to filling the empty place inside her.
Pathetic, Callie, well and truly pathetic.
A hand settling on the blade of her shoulder sent her spinning about, and she found herself face to face with Hadrian St. Claire. The speech papers slipped through her fingers, which suddenly felt as nerveless as her knees.
"Oh dear, I seem to be making a habit of this." She dropped to the stage floor.
Grinning, he followed her down so that they were both squatting, heads bowed and knees brushing. "Yes, we must make a pact to stop meeting this way."
Between them, they managed to gather the papers and after some awkward shuffling, she had them back in hand, a messy stack. He offered her a hand up and personal touch that it was, she felt the heat of him flare up through her fingertips. "How did you get here?"
Stepping back, he cast a sheepish glance back to the set of side stairs leading up to the stage, gold-tipped lashes grazing the high planes of his cheeks. "I've never been terribly good about waiting in queue. Dash it, I've never been any good about waiting at all. Are you put out with me?"
He looked at her then, another of those melting, too-long looks that set her to wondering if he might just have the capacity to see through her clothes, some sort of special radiographic power endemic to photographers, this one at least. Her hands, which had remained steady throughout her speech, were at once trembling and chill. And low in her belly, the shameful liquid warmth she had fought against pulsed and pooled.
She drew a steadying breath and reminded herself that giving way to madness such as this exacted a heavy, heavy toll. The last time she'd given her passions rein to rule, she'd come bloody close to ruining her life. At times such as this, though, with a handsome-as-sin stranger staring at her as though he must know what she looked like beneath her shift, it was all too easy to forget. Easy to forget it was the mind, the
intellect
that must rule the heart and body, not the other way around. Easy to forget that never again must a man, any man, be trusted.
Reaching for the shield of her reserve, she cleared her throat. "On the contrary, I am only surprised to see you here at all. From your remarks the other day, I would not have thought you a proponent of our cause."
"My remarks?" Hadrian felt the heat rising between them, too, although any reciprocity of feeling had no place in his plans. Immersed, he stared at her while he scoured his sex-soaked brain for some recollection of what he might have said to warrant such a starchy response. A great deal had happened in the past twenty-four hours, none of it good, and while he carried with him a clear mental picture of every detail of her from wind-kissed cheeks to broken hat feather, he couldn't recall a single word he'd said.
"I believe it was something to do with spewing rubbish and rot?" She arched one dark half-moon brow, waiting.
Damn but if his mouth hadn't gotten the better of him yet again. When the devil would he learn? "In that case, I hope you'll accept my most sincere apology. It's only that suffrage for females is a new notion for me, I freely admit it." He paused before adding
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