He’d heard plenty of warnings concerning himself, however. De´charne´ had tracked them to Paris and ransacked his town house last night. It was only a matter of time before he discovered this apartment in the Latin Quarter as well.
Alex ran a hand through his hair. Dewhurst was meeting him in two days at the Good Patriot, and it would take at least one good day, perhaps more, to make it back to Calais.
He was running out of time and options. And how was he to supposed to tell Lucia they were leaving Paris without her brother?
He’d considered every scenario, prowled the hallway outside her bedroom door for half the night. Part of him wanted to wake her, tell her outright, and force her to accept it. The other part wanted to put it off, wanted to play the hero a little longer.
In the end he left her alone. She’d learn the bad news soon enough. Alex scowled down at the busy streets. He needed to find her a new dress. Every time he saw her in that low-cut red gown, he wanted to rip it off her. It left almost nothing to the imagination, but it was the almost that he wanted to see.
Bloody hell! Why did he still want her? He spun from the window and began to pace the drawing room. He hadn’t touched her in days—three to be precise—and he still couldn’t rid her from his thoughts. His need for her wasn’t even so much physical anymore, although his body hadn’t come to terms with that yet. Lately he found he just liked being with her. He liked the way she chewed her lip, the way she said his name, the way her azure eyes darkened when she was angry or aroused.
He sighed, and his traitorous gaze strayed to her bedroom door again. Was she sleeping in there, curled up like a kitten? Or on her stomach with an arm thrown over the side of the mattress? Or perhaps on her back, hair spread beneath her head like a golden pillow?
Did she sleep in the dress or had she taken it off? With an oath, Alex paced the room again.
He was staring out the window again when he heard her door open. He tensed and didn’t turn around. God help her if she wasn’t wearing a wrap.
“Alex?” she said, the lilt of her voice raising the hair on the back of his neck. He inclined his head to acknowledge her.
“Are we alone?” she asked. Alex almost groaned. The question set his blood pounding.
“Alex?” she said again.
“Yes.” His voice was husky as he finally turned to face her, letting the curtains fall. “We’re alone.” And God help him.
He stared at her—cheeks rosy with warmth, eyes misty from dreams, and her hair wantonly tousled. His gaze slid down her body. She was not wearing a wrap over the dress. He wondered if her skin was still heated from her bed.
His perusal was not having the effect he desired. Still the innocent, she was blushing prettily, but she didn’t look away. She met his hungry gaze, and he averted his eyes first.
It was either that or take her right then.
“I want to talk to you about Camille,” she said a moment later. “I don’t trust her.”
“Why is that?” He swept the curtains aside again and peered out. He should have guessed this was coming. Camille had not been exactly complimentary toward Lucia when he’d returned home last night.
“She’s in love with you, Alex.”
His hand tightened on the curtain, but he shook his head in dismissal. “It’s an infatuation. Nothing serious.”
Silence greeted his statement, and he glanced at her. Immediately he regretted his words. Not because he didn’t think they were true, but because Lucia clearly applied them to herself as well. Is that how you think of me? her eyes questioned him.
The momentary flash of pain he saw there almost undid him. He wanted to tell her she was different. That her feelings meant so much more to him. The silence continued.
“Be that as it may,” Lucia said, looking away. “I don’t trust her. You told me only Dewhurst, Ethan, Wentworth, and my brother know about Madame Loinger ’s.”
Alex shrugged. “I can’t fault your memory.”
“You failed to mention Camille knows about Sophie, too.”
“I didn’t realize she did . . . what’s your point, Lucia?” Irritation sliced through him. Jealousy was one thing, but it didn’t justify accusations of betrayal.
“She could be the traitor.”
“Dammit, Lucia.”
“Sophie told me Camille was in Calais the day before we arrived,” Lucia went on hastily.
He held out a hand. “And?”
