She was more than halfway down before she noticed his presence. Most likely because that particular path was a suicide risk even for those born and raised in the area, and her gaze had never strayed far from the next step. For some reason, however, she glanced at the beach... and saw him.
He hadn’t moved. He was accustomed to holding perfectly still for hours on end. Perhaps she’d caughthisscent on the breeze, although Evan couldn’t imagine he smelled like anything more the sea itself. Or perhaps it was his appearance that arrested her. His boots had stopped squishing, but he was still flecked with sand and seaweed.
In any case, the wide-eyed blonde had frozen on the jagged edge, arms outstretched for balance. If she stared at him instead of her feet for much longer, she really would hit the beach face-first. Of course, turning back around on a disintegrating sand path the width of a man’s hand would prove its own unique challenge.
If her panicked expression was any indication, she was weighing those precise odds.
“Either go back or keep coming,” Evan shouted at last, impatient to be on his way. “But it’d be much easier to catch you from twenty feet than fifty.”
Her gaze never left his face, but she didn’t respond.
She was a pretty thing, all right. Pretty annoying, yes, but also pretty attractive, if one’s preference ran to slender blondes with high cheekbones and expensive taste in Parisian daywear. If it weren’t for the bronze-rimmed spectacles and the rather precarious way she wobbled on the narrow path, she could easily pose for a fashion plate.
He hated that look.
Such women symbolized everything that was wrong with the world today. Shallow, pretentious, self-centered. Women whose thoughts—when they had them at all—were focused on the ensnaring of a husband and the spending of his money. Evan much preferred his bachelordom, thank you very much, and the ability to take his pleasure wherever he fancied, without fear of the parson’s trap. The last thing he needed, at this or any moment, was to waste time with a London debutante.
Never mind that certain parts of his anatomy begged to differ.
“I probably won’t bite,” he called up, when it appeared she was willing to stand there all morning. The wind blew open her pelisse, molding her gown against her figure. He didn’t bother pretending not to notice.
She stared back at him dubiously, arms still stretched wide for balance.
“Or shoot me?”
Evan paused to consider. Now that both options were on the table, he had to admit he was more enthusiastic about biting women than shooting them. Nibbling, rather. Why, there was one saucy wench he’d met one night off the coast of—
“If it takesthatlong to decide—”
“Oh, calm down.” Evan held up his empty palms, to indicate peaceful intent. Not that he couldn’t have a pistol aimed and fired in less than a second. Nibbling her, of course... now that would take some finesse. No.Debutante,he reminded himself. Hands off. “I promise neither to bite you nor to shoot you.”
... Today. Unless she wanted it or deserved it. In that order.
She didn’t move.
“I think,” she said at last, “trusting you would be the height of naïveté.”
Evan had to agree. He inclined his head. Perhaps she had a dose of common sense after all. Even he was starting not to trust himself. His mind was positive he should stay far, far away, but his body seemed to think a few minutes alone with hers would do them both quite nicely.
“Unfortunately,” the dangerously comely blonde continued with a quick glance behind her, “at the moment, I seem to be without the luxury of choice.”
“Pity.” He held out his hand and flashed his most untrustworthy smile.
She scowled at him.
His smile widened.
“Scoundrel.”
“You have no idea.”
A frustrated sound escaped her lips. She glared at him, wobbled, then cast her gaze skyward as if hoping for divine intervention.
Attractive as the untouchable debutante might be, Evan did not have time to waste. He debated walking off while she wasn’t looking. Ungentlemanly, perhaps, but at least he could deliver himself from temptation.
“Look. I can’t stand around waiting to see whether or not you fall to your death. Why don’t you let me know if you’re going to be heading one direction or the other, or if you’re going to stand there all day? I’ve got things I really ought to be doing instead of—”
“What things? How can you have plans first thing in the morning? It’s a wretched, ungodly hour. Where are you going? Are you meeting someone? On thebeach?”
