Winterblaze by Kristen Callihan Page A

with a call box.”
    She looked so thoroughly disgruntled that Poppy almost smiled. “Yes, well, call boxes have been known to be a nuisance now and then.”
    Mary’s cheek twitched as if she were fighting a smile, or a frown, as she stepped back and looked over Poppy with a critical eye. Poppy refused to squirm but stood like the proverbial wolf in sheep’s clothing, hoping that she’d pass muster.
    Mary smiled with satisfaction. “More than enough to make Mr. Lane remember.”
    Poppy expelled a nervous laugh. “I do not believe Mr. Lane has a faulty memory.” No, it worked all too well.
    Mary shook her head slowly. “He is suffering. Anyone can see it.” Her grin was cheeky then. “I’d wager that he will suffer a bit more before the night is out.”
    Poppy might have answered but Winston walked in. How he always knew to appear the precise moment she was ready was a mystery. One that she put aside in favor of looking at her husband. Fitted out in crisp white-and-black evening kit that outlined his lean frame, he stood tall and just a bit defiant in the center of the room. His shaggy hair had been tamed and swept back from his strong face. And while she was sure there were those who would stare at his scars and not the man beneath, all she saw was a man who’d been to hell and back, and was tougher for it. Like steel wrought and forged, he’d transformed into something more than before.
    Soulful eyes of blue-grey travelled over her, taking in her elaborate coiffure and evening gown with one glance. Not a glimmer of appreciation or emotion in that look. His voice was as crisp as his suit. “Shall we?”
    Suffering, was he? Hardly. Poppy stiffened her spine. “Of course.”

Chapter Nine

    P ink. She was wearing blasted pink. Poppy never wore pink. Never wore much of any color other than brown or grey. He hadn’t cared either way; he never really looked at her clothes, just her. But now. Now, she had to wear pink. Win stared down at his plate, at the pale slab of whiting fish swimming in cream sauce, and tried not to think of pink. He and Poppy had not exchanged more than a few words since their “chat” earlier, both of them clearly still angry, and his cods still egregiously sore. Which ought to have been enough to put him off lustful thoughts for a good while. But no, his baser self simply flew past that unpleasantness and went straight to the fact that Poppy had held him in her hand.
Stroked
him. And that it had been three months since he’d tupped his wife. Suddenly, it was imperative that he do so. Which was about when logic returned to tell him he hadn’t a snowflake’s chance in hell.
    Poppy moved beside him, a slight adjustment of her seat, and he heard the rustle of that satin. Undulatingyards and folds of shining, pale pink. Pink ought to have clashed horribly with her red hair. It did not. Instead it made him think of other places she was pink and red.
    His fist curled around the cool, thick handle of his fork. The table and those around him faded in favor of another vision, of a nest of vibrant red curls and petal pink folds, glimmering and wet. Long, white legs spread in supplication, leading the way to that gorgeous pink and red offering. His cock rose hard and insistent against his trousers. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from grunting, God help him. He stabbed at his food, making hash of the fish.
    Poppy was saying something, her low erotic voice stroking his sensitized skin. Something about being pleased that parliament passed the Explosive Substances Act, which seemed a fitting subject to hold her interest, given her secret work. Personally, he didn’t give a fig. The scent of books and lemons drifted across their small divide, and his lids fluttered closed.
    “What say you, Lane?”
    All eyes were on him. Win forced his head up. Mr. Babcock was looking directly at him, his bulbous and veiny nose quivering as if smelling Win’s weakness. They didn’t want him here. Every