Dangerous to Kiss by Elizabeth Thornton

words with me, Deborah, or it will be very much the worse for you.”
    “I don’t know anyone by that name,” she said miserably.
    He leaned closer, one hand on the table, eyes boringinto hers. She could hardly credit that she’d once thought he had a kind face. He was the devil incarnate.
    “What happened, Deborah? Did you get in over your head?”
    Her voice was painfully hoarse. “You’re not making sense. I don’t understand you.”
    “No? Then let me tell you what I think happened. You were recruited in Paris. I don’t believe you murdered Gil, but when your accomplice murdered him, you became frightened. That’s why you ran from my coachmen in Dover. Is that what happened? Listen to me, Deborah. If you take me to Quentin, I shall let you go. I swear it.”
    If he was trying to confuse her, he was succeeding remarkably well. The horrible, perverse truth was that she wanted to believe him. But she knew there was no one else involved. He had an appointment with Lord Barrington that night. His was the name Lord Barrington had spoken only moments before he was murdered. If this man had his way, he would have murdered Quentin too. That’s why he was trying to confuse her. It was only a trick so that she would lead him to Quentin.
    Think. She had to think how Mrs. Mornay would act if this had suddenly been sprung on her. Her legs would hardly hold her when she rose to her feet. “I think you have taken leave of your senses,” she cried, trying to sound outraged. “How many times must I tell you that I am not Deborah Weyman? Don’t think you will get away with this. If anything happens to me, Miss Hare will see you hang for it.”
    He leaned back in his chair and eyed her dispassionately. When he spoke, his voice was slow and reasonable, as though he were talking to a witless child. “It could be weeks before Miss Hare comes to suspect anything and by that time, there will be no trace of Mr. Gray or Mrs. Mornay. As far as she knows—as anyone knows for that matter—you left Bath to take up another appointment. Months could pass before you are missed. Oh, I’m not saying that Miss Hare won’t suffer a few pangs of uneasiness when there is no word from you, but when she remembers that you are under the protectionof that ‘nice Mr. Gray’ ”—he smiled diabolically—“she won’t act with undue haste. It wouldn’t surprise me if six months, no, a year were to go by before any real push was made to find you, and by that time the trail will be stone cold.”
    Mentally, Deborah was dredging up every vile name in her limited vocabulary that could describe this black-hearted scoundrel.
That nice Mr. Gray
—that’s what got her goat, and didn’t his snide smile show that he knew it? He’d seen through her disguise from the very beginning. He’d deliberately worked his charm on her, and like an idiot she had succumbed to it. He knew that too. He wasn’t “that nice Mr. Gray.” He was a thoroughgoing bastard. The word wasn’t fit for a lady’s lips, so she knew she had hit on the right word to describe him.
Bastard
, she repeated inside her head, wishing she had the courage to fling it in his face. Better still, she wished she had the courage to pick up her glass of wine and dump it on his head. It would almost be worth it just to ruin his insufferably flawless appearance. Wiser counsel prevailed. He would make her suffer for it. His kind always did.
    When he rose, she squared her drooping shoulders. “At last,” he said in that lazy drawl which she was coming to detest, “you appear to understand the seriousness of your position. Think about it, Deborah. I have you in my power. There is no one here to save you. No, we won’t discuss this further tonight. In another minute or two, you will be willing to confess you are the queen of England just to please me. Now there’s a thought—you, wishing to please me.”
    His little joke fell on deaf ears. “Where are you taking me?” She sensed a new