A Secret Love by Stephanie Laurens Page A

considering how much to reveal. Looking at her veiled face, upturned to his, he inwardly admitted that it was her investigation as much, if not more, than his. “If Swales is the company agent and he’s using Archie’s home as his base, then there’s a very good chance—better than even money—that a good friend of Archie’s, who also happens to be in residence at this time, is the real power behind the Central East Africa Gold Company.”
    â€œAnd who is this friend?”
    â€œMr. Ranald Crowley.” The name hung heavy on the air, laden with dislike.
    â€œYou know him.” It wasn’t a question.
    â€œWe’ve never met. We have, however, crossed swords, financially speaking, and I know a great deal of his reputation.”
    â€œWhich is?”
    â€œNot good. He’s a black-hearted scoundrel. He’s been thought to have been involved in a number of less-than-straightforward dealings, but whenever the authorities show any interest, the venture simply evaporates. There’s never been any proof against him, but in the . . . shall we say, underworld of business, he’s well known.” He hesitated, then added, “And well feared. He’s said to be cunning and dangerous—few doubt he would balk at murder if the gain was sufficient.”
    She shivered and wrapped her arms about her. “So he’s a clever, black-hearted scoundrel.” A moment later, she said, “I overheard that Lord Hertford declined to invest in the company purely because of ‘the man in charge.’ ”
    Focused on her, Gabriel waved dismissively. “Don’t worry about Crowley—I’ll look into the situation.”
    He reached for her—she was in his arms before she knew it. Amazed to find her hands resting on his chest, she looked up. “What—?”
    He heard the fluster in her voice, sensed the anticipation that flashed through her. Inwardly, he grinned. “My reward for locating Swales.”
    She hauled in a rushed breath. “I never said anything about rewards.”
    â€œI know.” Tightening his arm about her, he brushed her veil aside and lowered his lips to hers, touching them lingeringly once, twice . . . she quivered, then surrendered. He caught his breath as her supple, womanly warmth sank against his much harder frame—a tentative, evocative caress. His lips a mere whisker from hers, he murmured, “You’ll need to pay nevertheless.”
    She made no effort to deny him—he claimed his due, his lips firming, then hardening on hers. She met him, not proactive but ready to follow his lead, her reactions a mirror reflecting his desire, her giving a reflection of his need. Inch by unconscious inch, her hands stole upward, eventually sliding over his shoulders. She angled her head, inviting him to deepen the kiss.
    He did. She sank into his embrace and he tightened his arms, and his hold, on her. Her perfume sank into his brain.
    All he asked for, she gave, not just willingly but with an openhearted generosity that was an invitation to plunder. So he plundered, but with no sense of seizing anything that wasn’t freely given. If he wanted, she gave—readily, easily, as if she delighted in the giving. Which only made him want more.
    He pushed her veil back; with her head tipped up, there was no need to hold it. Sliding his hand down, he found the opening of her cloak. With her arms over his shoulders, he couldn’t flick the cloak up and over hers. Instead, he parted it, sliding his palm over the silk of her gown, around to the back of her waist. Supporting her there, he transferred his other hand beneath the heavy cloak; closing both hands about her hips, he drew her nearer.
    She obliged without a murmur of dissent—she was so tall, they were nearly hip to hip, her thighs against his, the hollow at their apex a cradle for his erection. If she was aware of it, she gave no sign, not