Breaking the Rake's Rules. Bronwyn Scott
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Bryn began.
‘For writing? You were taking notes,’ he interrupted, his accusation implied in his tone. Kitt stopped his tracing, his hand closing over her wrist in a harsh grip. His blue eyes were harder now, their seductiveness gone. ‘You can fool Selby, but not me. I know what I saw. You were there for a purpose.’
‘It hardly matters,’ Bryn answered sharply. She did not have to stand here and validate her presence at that meeting to this man she barely knew just because he could turn her insides to mush and ruin any hopes of logical thought. All things considered, she was holding her ground well.
Kitt shrugged, his grip relaxing on her wrist. He gave her a slow smile. It was not a pleasant smile, it was a warning. Somewhere, she’d made a mistake and he was about to capitalise on it. ‘Perhaps you’re right and it hardly matters. What happened on the balcony stays on the balcony, after all.’
Bryn saw the trap too late. She’d walked right into it for all her careful play up until now. He was casting her as the hypocrite. How else could she argue the balcony mattered, but her presence at the meeting did not? There was nothing for it but to answer. She met his gaze, giving no sign of having contradicted herself. ‘My father needs reliable men in this venture.’
‘Men like James Selby?’ Kitt put in with an arch of his blond brow. ‘Selby wouldn’t know an opportunity if it jumped up and bit him in the arse.’
‘And you would?’ Bryn countered sharply, only to receive one of his disarming grins.
‘Nothing bites me in the arse, princess, opportunity or otherwise.’
His candour made her blush. Her mind had run right down that rather provocative path created by his words, just as it had last night at the the thought of his bath, as he’d likely intended. ‘I’m not worried about the balcony,’ Bryn said staunchly, keeping an eye on the bright coral hibiscus across the yard to maintain her composure. It was far less distracting than the man beside her. ‘I want to know because you will be doing business with my father. That worries me more than a few stolen kisses. If he is to trust you, he needs to know you.’ And what about her? Could she trust him?
The question was merely one of many which had plagued her last night long after she’d returned from the Crenshaws’. What sort of man climbed balconies in sweat-streaked shirts and then turned up in expensive evening clothes a few hours later at an exclusive soirée, only to sit down at the piano and entertain the ladies as if he had manners.
‘Ah, perhaps this is more about you than it is about your father,’ Kitt said shrewdly. ‘You needn’t worry, I won’t blackmail you with the balcony.’
‘Of course not,’ Bryn retorted. ‘You’d be doing nothing more than compromising yourself into a marriage if my father found out and that can hardly be what a man like you wants.’
His eyes narrowed, the air about them crackling with tension. ‘A man like me?’ He became positively lethal in those moments. She’d trodden on dangerous ground with her hot words. ‘What do you know about men like me?’
She held her ground. ‘Enough to know you’re not the marrying kind.’ This had become a perilous verbal pas de deux. What had started as a probe into the nature of his business character had rapidly become personal.
‘I assume you mean one without a moral code, who takes what he wants without thought for the consequences, someone who serves only himself?’ He was riveting like this, a sleek, predatory animal, stalking her with his eyes. No gentleman had ever behaved thusly with her. They were all too busy pandering to her, to her fortune.
His hand reached up to cup her jaw, the pad of his thumb stroking the fullness of her lower lip with a hint of roughness to match his words. ‘Your logic fails you, if you believe there’s nothing to fear from a “man like me”.’
‘You don’t frighten me.’ Far from it. He excited her. Bryn swallowed hard, more aroused than insulted at being called into account for her words.
‘Maybe I should.’ His voice was a low rumble, part-seduction, part-intimidation. She couldn’t decide which. ‘I would think my sort would be extraordinarily interested in a woman like you: beautiful, wealthy, well positioned socially, kisses like the naughtiest of angels.’ He bent close, close enough to put his mouth to her ear, for his lips to brush the shell of it. ‘Princess, I am the epitome of everything you’ve been warned about.’
All she had to do was make the smallest of movements to fall into him and whatever he was offering. She leaned towards him, into him, but too late.
Kitt stepped back, releasing her. ‘Now that’s settled, if you’ll excuse me? I have another appointment.’
A more cautious woman would retreat the field and admit defeat, but not Bryn. She was determined to not let him get away without an answer. A man who wouldn’t give one was definitely hiding something. ‘You’re really not going to tell me?’ She gave him a last chance to confess. ‘About the balcony?’
He swept her a bow, eyes full of mischief. ‘You have my permission to let your imagination run free.’
She would not let him get away with boyish charm after the rather adult heat of the previous moments. Bryn fixed him with a hard stare. ‘I can imagine quite a lot of reasons, none of them good.’ Perhaps if he thought she would imagine the worst, he’d rush to amend that image. Having a poor impression of him could hardly be what he wanted when a position on the bank board was on the line. She was not naive. She knew what sort of men came to the Caribbean: adventurers, men who were down on their luck, men who wanted to make new lives. Certainly there were a few like James Selby who was here for decent opportunities as a merchant, but he was not the norm.
Kitt gave her a sly smile. ‘Then I leave you with this: you’re a smart woman. You already know men who scale balconies are up to no good. You don’t need me to tell you that.’
The garden was quiet after he left and somehow less vibrant, as if he’d taken some of the bright, tropical colour with him. Bryn took a seat on a stone bench near the hibiscus, not wanting to go in, not wanting to encounter any of her father’s business partners. She wanted time to think first.
Kitt was right. She had known. She’d just hoped for better. Or perhaps, more accurately, she’d hoped it wouldn’t matter and it hadn’t until he’d walked into the Crenshaws’. Now, she had a dilemma. Should she stay silent and let her father discover Kitt Sherard for himself or should she warn her father off before real harm could be done? Could she even do that without exposing what had happened on the balcony?
Bryn plucked at a bright orange blossom. Current evidence suggested the latter was not possible at this point without risking the consequences. Current evidence also suggested Kitt was hiding something. Her hand stalled on the blossom. No, he wasn’t hiding anything, he was all but admitting to it, whatever ‘it’ was—further proof she needed more evidence. She was working off supposition and kisses only. She needed more than that. Too much hung in the balance. A man who compromised her, compromised her father. Likewise, if she voiced her concerns, she could ruin Kitt’s investment chances.
It all boiled down to one essential question: could Kitt Sherard be trusted? There was only one way to find out. She would have to get to know him—a prospect that was both dangerous and delicious since he’d made it abundantly clear he was not above mixing business with pleasure.
‘I don’t have pleasant news.’ Kitt kept his voice low as he and Ren Dryden, the Earl of Dartmoor, his mentor in this latest banking venture, but more importantly, his friend, enjoyed an after-dinner brandy in Ren’s study at Sugarland. Night had fallen and Ren’s French doors were open to the evening breeze. The dinner with Ren and Emma had been delicious, their company delightful, both well worth the five-mile ride out to the plantation from Bridgetown. Kitt hated returning their hospitality with bad news.
‘Tell