Chapter 4 The Animals #2
Regardless I very much liked that he liked my dress, I glared at him.
He smirked at me.
Oh boy.
The man could smirk.
God.
He tipped his head to the portfolio. “The agreement?”
God!
It took me a second, I had to start over several times, but eventually I got into it.
Straightforward, no hidden agenda, no unnecessary legalese, no need to contact Natalie, my agent, to have a look at it.
Even so, I read it twice just to be ornery.
Finally, I requested, “Do you have a pen?”
He picked up a Mont Blanc from his desk and, in a belated effort at gallantry, rose from his chair so he could reach across the leather blotter so I wouldn’t have to before he offered it to me.
I took it, uncapped it, saw it was a fountain pen, which I refused to admit I thought was cool (though, it totally was cool, and I made a mental note to buy myself one on the hopeful day I got my next advance for another book), and I signed both copies.
I closed the portfolio, capped the pen and put both on his desk.
Taking his glasses off and dropping them to the blotter, he stood, stating, “I’ll ask Fitzgibbons to have your copy delivered to your room.”
I remained seated. “Thank you.”
He quirked his brows. “Shall we go?”
“I’ll meet you there later.”
Now he appeared suspicious. “You’re not coming?”
“I have one hundred and fifty pounds of dog on my feet.”
His head twitched and he moved around the desk to stare at the dog on my feet.
He opened his mouth, more than likely to call to the pooch, but I said quickly, “Don’t.”
He looked to me. “Don’t what?”
“Disturb him. He’s napping. I’m sure it took grave effort for him to walk around your desk. He needs his rest.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re joking, right?”
“Yes and no. The no part is that I have a bizarre personality trait where I find myself emotionally unable to disturb a sleeping animal.”
“Will you be emotionally distressed if I do it so I can get a fucking drink?”
The answer to that was…probably.
“Just…go gentle,” I warned.
“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, then, “Bartie.”
The dog’s head snapped up, and I was pretty sure that was as fast a movement as he had in him, because when Battle let out a low whistle, I got exhausted watching the animal push himself laboriously to his feet.
He loped over to his daddy.
I grabbed my bag from my lap and stood.
“After you,” Battle invited, sweeping a long arm toward the door.
I started that way, praying I wouldn’t turn my ankle in these four-inch heels. I wasn’t a stranger to heels, but I was to four inches of them.
Once we left the study to walk down the plush, creamy, gold carpet runner of the hall, Battle fell into step beside me, Bartholomew trudging beside him.
We spoke no words, which I found unsettling.
When we hit the entryway, my heels clicked on the marble, while his soles drummed against it, both echoing through the cavernous space, and still I had no conversational gambit, and he didn’t bother to offer one.
The sounds of our shoes disappeared as we made the runner in the hall that led into the north wing.
“This is us,” Battle said, beginning to make a left turn into a room three doors down from the foyer.
He did this, so I did this, and then my evening bag was flying because I was flying, because something darted between my feet and tripped me.
Battle’s body jerked in surprise before he whirled and caught me.
Batholomew got closer to his daddy, maybe in support, but his movement nearly took Battle off his feet.
His arm around me tightened.
A fluffy white cloud raced between us, further thwarting either of our efforts to remain standing, thus Battle hauled me around, my back was slammed into a wall, Battle’s hard body slammed into mine, and the palm of his hand slammed against the plaster at the side of my head.
All of this took my breath away, so it came back in a whoosh as I tipped my head back to peer up at him.
His extraordinary face was close.
Very close.
His eyes were brown, yes.
But radiating from the iris was a gold tone that was mesmerizing.
And my breath left me again.
“I…uh…thank you,” I whispered.
“Don’t mention it,” he whispered in return.
But he didn’t move.
Except his eyes, which dropped to my mouth.
“Snowball! You rascal!”
We turned our heads at Prudence’s shout to see all three Talyn sisters lined up in the hallway, along with Fitzgibbons, all of them regarding us.
I could have guessed it, but I’ll run it down anyway.
Chastity was in a light-blue-shot-with-silver, off-the-shoulder confection reminiscent of the dress Princess Diana wore when she was snapped sleeping in a chair at some event, except it was much more princessier and exponentially girlier.
She accompanied this with diamonds.
Temperance wore a black, strapless tube dress that clung to every inch of her, and on her feet were a pair of killer, red slingback pumps.
She accompanied this with rubies.
And Prudence wore a shapeless, but stunning, flowing marbled black, white, and gray silk kaftan, which was fashioned so it had a dramatic cape in what appeared to be all black at the back.
And she had a bizarre black fascinator on her head that looked like a plate with a veil that came down over her eyes.
She accompanied this with ropes and ropes of pearls.
“My, my,” Temperance drawled, her lips curving meaningfully.
Pink hit Chastity’s cheeks, and her eyes darted over our heads.
Fitzgibbons was having a hard time fighting his grin.
Prudence wasn’t looking at us.
She was chastising a fluffy white Persian cat with green eyes who was sitting, faux innocently, on the carpet runner a couple of feet away, her poofy tail sweeping the rug.
“Naughty girl,” Prudence admonished the cat.
The cat, as all cats do, remained visibly unrepentant.
It was important to note at this juncture that Battle didn’t move.
Thus, I looked up at him again.
“I’m okay,” I whispered.
For a second, it didn’t seem like he heard me.
And it was important to note at this juncture, he was again staring at my mouth, and his long body was both very warm and very hard.
Then he nodded, and with exquisite slowness, he traced his large hand over the small of my back, my hip, and only then did he step away.
I gulped back a breath, hoping no one would notice me gulping back a breath.
“Shall we get that drink, Vivienne?” he asked.
Not trusting my voice to come out as more than a squeak, I nodded.
He offered his arm, a gesture both chivalrous and hot, and one I accepted because I didn’t want any more incidents to happen.
Not at all.
Especially not with Battle Talyn, the Duke of Burleigh in attendance.
We made it into the parlor further unscathed.
And for this, I was grateful.