‘Rain’s lashing the floor. If you get a tarpaulin, I’ll help you secure it.’
‘I said, go to bed.’
She ground her teeth together. For so long, she’d been told what to do, but with this man, it was different. She supposed her stepmother and sisters had come into her life at a particularly impressionable age, and then, the trauma of her father’s death had made it feel impossible to go against her stepmother’s wishes. Those habits were so ingrained now, she couldn’t imagine fighting them. But with Thirio, everything was new and different and she refused to bend to his will. In fact, she got a thrill out of going against him.
‘And I said, I want to help.’ She crossed her arms, unaware of the way that simple action pulled the sweater higher, to reveal her slim, toned calves to his obsidian gaze. ‘I’m not taking no for an answer.’
His breath hissed between his teeth. ‘Fine. Have it your way.’
Pleasure—and power—spread through her.
‘Stay here,’ he muttered, stalking away from her, towards the wide staircase that led to the lower level. She moved instead to the tree, shivering a little, as the cold spread like icy tentacles through this level of the castle.
He reappeared quickly enough, holding a large blue sheet of plastic, flicking a light as he went, so the hallway filled with a golden glow. His eyes brushed over her and the frigid temperature in the air seemed to reverse immediately, bathing her in warmth that morphed quickly into lava-like heat. She looked away, face flushed, every part of her vibrating with an awareness that rocked her to the core.
‘Grab this.’ He held out a corner of the tarp, their fingers brushing as she took hold of it, so lava turned to electricity, bursting from nerve ending to nerve ending. Her eyes flew to his, to find him watching her, his gaze arrested as though he couldn’t help himself.
He said something low and soft. A curse, she was sure of it, and then he turned away, taking the other corner of the tarpaulin, over the top of the tree, before approaching the broken window, peering through it.
‘How bad is it?’
‘The damage looks limited to this window. It could have been much worse.’
‘Small mercies,’ she agreed, taking a few steps closer to the edge.
‘That’s enough.’ His voice held a warning, so she flicked a glance at him, curiosity shaping her features into an expression of interest.
‘I’m just looking.’
‘Do you remember why you are here? I do not want your death on my conscience.’
‘Then it’s just as well I don’t intend to die, isn’t it?’
‘People rarely intend their deaths,’ he responded grimly, taking his corner of plastic sheeting and lifting it up, standing taller and threading a piece of rope she’d only just become aware of around the top of the curtain rod. His movements were mesmerising. Steady and sure, confident with an economy of effort that spoke of lithe athleticism. She studied his hands first, capable fingers leading to tanned, smooth wrists and forearms. Then her attention moved to his bare chest and that scar again; she wondered at its origins before her eyes travelled lower, to the shorts that covered his rounded buttocks and muscular legs.
There was such concealed strength in his body, she wondered how he stayed fit. Did he run? Work out? Abseil? How did he spend his time? Their kiss haunted her. Staring at him, she relived the way his mouth had felt on hers, the way he’d tasted, the way he’d dominated her for those brief, beautiful moments, before he’d stepped away and denied them both what they’d wanted.
She wasn’t aware of the tarpaulin falling from her fingertips. Her nerve endings were reverberating in awareness and need, but only of this man. The tarpaulin fell to the floor and Thirio angled a glance over his shoulder. Her eyes stayed locked to his fascinating, beautiful chest.
‘Have you never seen a scar before?’
She flinched, jerked back to the moment by his darkly mocking words, her eyes finally shifting higher to his eyes, which studied her with barely concealed impatience.
‘I wasn’t looking at the scar,’ she admitted, flushing to the roots of her hair.
‘You’re a terrible liar.’ He pulled hard on the rope, checking it was secure, then strode towards her with a panther’s grace and intent. He stood just two feet away from her, one hand on his hip—the side that was unmarked. ‘There. Have a proper look. It’s just misshapen skin.’
She flinched at his description. She wanted to look away, to tell him she had no interest in him or his scar, but neither was true.
Her eyes holding his, challenging him, she lifted her fingertips, connecting with his marked hip, so his eyes clenched shut and his breath flew from his lungs in one rough exhalation. But he didn’t move away. And he didn’t ask her to stop. Emboldened, she crept her fingers higher, slowly, so slowly, as if by touching him she could understand, as if he were a sheet of music and she back at her piano, learning to play it. When she reached his ribs, she splayed her fingers wide, trying to capture all of his flesh. She felt the ridges beneath, but didn’t stop there. Higher she went, towards his armpit, then detoured out, to his left pectoral muscle, and the hair-roughened nipple. Still watching him, she traced it, her mouth dry, her blood pounding through her veins at how daring she was being. This was so out of character, but it didn’t feel at all strange—that was the weirdest thing of all.
‘Lucinda.’ The word was curt. Taken on its face, it was a warning. But his tone was gravelled and husky, and his heart was thumping, almost as hard as hers. She tilted her chin up, facing him, surprised by how close they stood, how near their mouths were.
‘How did it happen?’
His expression was inscrutable, his face a mask that shielded his innermost thoughts. ‘A fire.’
‘Your parents—’ She didn’t finish the thought. The words hung between them, the question implicit. Had it been the same fire that had claimed their lives?