She shrugged. "I thought, as I'd found them, I'd see what I could discover. The sooner we locate the company, the better. All we need is their address."
Gabriel inwardly frowned. Had his kissing her made her regret approaching him? If so, too late-she had. Her breathless skittishness reached him clearly, but he knew women too well to confuse resistance with rejection. If she wasn't seriously tempted, she wouldn't be skittish. "How did you get in? The door was unlocked…" Only then did he notice that the boxes she'd been searching were padlocked. Only one was presently open, but… "You can pick locks."
She shifted. "Well-yes." She gestured briefly. "It's a small talent I have."
He wondered what other talents she was concealing. "As it happens, it's a talent I share." He reached for one of the boxes she'd yet to search. Each was labeled but only with a surname. The one he held was labeled "Mitcham." He looked at the small lock.
"Here."
He glanced up. One delicate hand, gloved in the finest Cordovan leather, offered a hairpin.
"It's just the right size."
His hand surrounded hers as he plucked it from her fingers. He had the box open in a trice; setting back the lid, he picked up the mass of papers within. "Have you stumbled on any details yet-names or other references to the company?"
"No. Nothing. There's no box here or in the other room with the company's name on it, but there must be a box for them, surely? If they're a client, they would have a box, don't you think?"
"So one would imagine." Gabriel glanced around the room. It confirmed his impression of the firm's incumbents. "Messrs. Thurlow and Brown appear staunchly conservative-if the company's a client, they'll have a box."
Side by side, they searched swiftly but thoroughly. An hour ticked by. Eventually, the countess sighed. Setting the papers back in the last box, she closed it, and pushed the box to Gabriel to relock. "Nothing."
"We've still got Thurlow's room. This will only have been half the practice." Replacing the locked box on the top of the last shelf, Gabriel returned, picked up the lamp, and waved her on.
She'd already closed an
d replaced the ledger she'd used as a screen; now she gave the desk one last, comprehensive glance, checking all was as it had been, then she preceded him out of the door.
"Was this ajar?"
"Yes." She glanced back and nodded at how he'd left the door. "Like that."
In Thurlow's room, they arranged their workplace-the desk cleared, the lamp set and screened as before-then set to. It was slow, demanding work, scanning document after document, looking for any mention of the Central East Africa Gold Company. If anything, Thurlow's room held more boxes than Brown's; the bookshelves were taller.
Gabriel was halfway through yet another box, when he heard a strangled "Oh!" He looked up-just in time to drop the papers he held, cross the room in two strides, and catch the stack of boxes teetering over the countess's head.
She was tall enough to reach the top shelf but, in this room, she hadn't been able to grip the boxes, only touch them. At full stretch, she'd coaxed a stack of boxes to the edge of the shelf; they'd tipped, then started to slide…
He reached over her head and grabbed them, his arms outside hers, his shoulders enclosing hers. They both froze, gripping the tin boxes, desperate not to let them clatter to the floor.
There was less than an inch between them.
Her perfume rose, wreathing his senses; her womanly warmth, clothed in soft, sensual flesh, teased them. The urge to close that small gap, to feel her lean against him, waxed strong.
He sensed the leap of her pulse, the sudden fluster that gripped her. He heard her indrawn breath, sensed her uncertainty-
Tilting his head, he touched his lips to her veiled temple. She stilled-the tension that gripped her changed in a flash from physical to sensual; from clinging to a physical pose, she was now teetering on a sensual precipice. He shifted, closing the gap between them until she stood stretched upward against him, touching but not pressing. Sliding his lips from her temple, caressing the line exposed by her backswept hair, he dipped his head and traced the whorl of her ear, then slid his lips lower to tease and tantalize the sensitive spot below her lobe.
Skillfully he tempted her to ease her locked muscles and lean against him. The silk veil shifted beneath his lips, a secondary caress. She caught her breath on a shaky sob and held it; he bent his head and traced the long line of her throat until, at last, she exhaled. Tentatively, ready to take flight at the slightest sign, she let her shoulders ease against his upper chest.
Inwardly smiling in triumph, he angled his head upward, pressing gentle kisses into the hollow of her throat, encouraging her to raise her chin until finally her head tipped back against his shoulder. The warm curves of her back sank more definitely against him.
He wanted much more, but their hands were locked on the boxes still held high and he didn't dare break the spell. She was sweetly responsive but oh-so-skittish, like a mare never gentled to a man's hand. So he kept each caress simple, direct, unthreatening, and as each moment passed, she sank more definitely against him. The subtle warmth of her flowed over his hardness; he was aroused but held the pain at bay. It flashed into his mind that she was a castle he intended storming; his present victory was much like watching her drawbridge come down.
Eventually, she was leaning fully back against him. A fine tension still gripped her, but that derived more from fascinated anticipation than resistance. He pressed a firmer kiss in the hollow beneath her ear, and heard her shivery breath. A tremor shook her, followed by a shaky gasp.
"I'm going to drop these boxes."
He raised his head and looked, and stifled a sigh. Her arms were quivering. He straightened-instantly, she did, too. She drew in a breath and held it. He eased back. Very carefully, she shifted her hands and gripped the lower two boxes, allowing him to lift the upper three away.