Such want and such anger leave me feeling crushed and defenceless as he steps closer.
I raise my hand. “There’s no going forward, either.” Not here. Not now. “You son of a—”
“Son of a duchess, yes,” he says, catching my fist. “But she was also a bitch. In her defence, I believe that came from being married to my father. I don’t want to want you,” he growls, yanking me closer, “because you deserve better than she had.”
And then he kisses me again. And I let him, his arms banding my body to his. But this isn’t right; I feel it in the pit of my stomach, unease swirling like silt from the bottom of a lake.
“No.” With my hands at his shoulder, I push away from him, taking a few faltering steps before pivoting back again. “Start talking,” I demand.
“I’m sorry?” he replies, not sounding sorry at all.
“Tell me what you’re doing here. Tell me what I’m doing here?” Tell me this isn’t how it looks.
“You’ve already said you’re working.” His eyes flick over me angrily. “In my own way, so am I.”
“That seems very convenient, doesn’t it? I’m here. You’re here. Hey, let’s have sex! Step in at any time,” I demand.
“I’m merely waiting for you to say something sensible before I join the conversation.”
“Tell me the truth. Did you arrange this job for me?”
“I don’t think I like your assumptions,” he responds angrily. “And I definitely don’t like your tone.”
“Well, I don’t like being manipulated, so I guess neither of us gets to be happy right now.”
“There was no manipulation. I gave you the number of an employment agency. I had no idea you were employed here.”
“So you’re saying, you’re promising me, you didn’t personally plan to park me up here in the wilds of Scotland.”
At this, something flickers across his expression. Something that looks a little like guilt.
“I didn’t know you’d be on one of my estates,” he answers. “I didn’t plan it like this.”
“So what did you plan? If not this, then what?”
“I was doing you a good turn,” he grates out. “I didn’t like to think of you destitute and waiting tables in London.”
“Destitute?” I bark out an incredulous-sounding laugh. “I’m not poor. Or desperate.” Not quite, I wasn’t. “And I was not in need of an intervention or your charity.”
Both our heads swing to the door at the brisk knock.
“McCain,” Alexander explains before the door fully opens, moving almost as though to shield me. “I said I didn’t want to be disturbed,” he growls as it does.
“He knows.” Griffin steps into the room, the door clicking quietly closed behind him. As I step around Alexander’s large frame, I notice Griffin isn’t wearing an inch of tartan. Isn’t that strange, given they’re brothers? Hands slunk deep into the pockets of his tuxedo pants, he saunters into the room like a groomsman on the prowl, or maybe a wannabe bad boy at a school dance. “That’s why McCain asked me to stick my head over the top of the trench.”
He comes to a stop, almost leaning against the side of a late model desk. Flicking on the desk lamp, he angles it in such a way that the three of us are circled in its weak rays.
“You’ve delivered his message,” Alexander mutters, the heat in his gaze going out like a snuffed candle. “Leave.”
“I didn’t really come in the guise of a delivery boy,” he says. “I will admit I thought I’d be walking in on something a little more interesting than an argument. Hey, Holly,” he adds with a bland smile. “Fancy finding you all the way up here.” Then he glances his brother’s way, almost impressed.
“Yeah, fancy,” I reply a touch acidly.
“Oh, do fuck off, Griffin,” Alexander drawls.
“I would, but you see, we’re all hungry. And Dougal is fretting that dinner will be spoiled. A temperamental lot, chefs.” He sends me a look that I’m sure is meant to be cheering. It’s not. “Besides, that lot out there are desperate to know what’s going on inside this hotbed of intrigue.” Griffin glances around the darkened room almost consideringly. “Library of intrigue?” His gaze comes to a stop on me. “Library of hotness?”
“Did you know I’d be here?” I demand, glaring back at him.
Griffin shakes his head slowly, his attention flicking to the other man. “We’re not exactly bosom buddies, are we, your grace?”
“He doesn’t expect you to call him that,” I begin when Alexander pivots quite savagely.
“If you’re going to rely on Griffin for information, you’re much sillier than I thought.”
I inhale audibly, tears inexplicably springing to my eyes. I totally have Griffin’s number—I understood exactly the type of man he was the very first time I met him. But Alexander, I don’t know what to make of him. Other than he resents wanting me.