He exhaled in relief. Getting somewhere, finally. Seemed like the PME had more of a head start than anyone had thought. They were making frankenstructs with extraordinary abilities.
“Sharp time? Fitting. Now tell me, how do I know I can trust you? Because that’s the crux of it all, isn’t it?”
Ah, that got her attention. Claire wriggled, and he released her chin, then heaved himself to his feet. Briskly, he went around the desk and pulled out the top drawer, where he kept a ten-inch Tung steel knife and a six-shot revolver. He slid the knife from the sheath. “I can cut you loose, or not. Which is it to be?”
As he walked to her, he watched her expression, wanting badly to see honesty there. He’d judged men all his life, and a woman was no different. Well, a little different. He followed the smooth curve of the pajama jacket where it cupped her breasts. With her hands tied at her back, her nipples pressed forward against the silk.
“What am I to you?” The sheer earnestness of this reply jolted him. Her eyebrows tilted up, then back down, as if she struggled to control herself. “Am I a person or a thing?”
“I could never think of you as a thing. You’re you. A human being. Why?”
“Because…” Her voice cracked. “Because, if you make me a person, I swear to you, on anything you like, that you can trust me to the ends of the earth.” She hung her head, a curtain of blonde hair falling across her face, but not before Theo saw a tear spill from her eye and trickle down her face. “Besides, I never wanted to hurt you anyway.”
Shaken, he put the knife on the carpet, not wanting to accidentally injure either of them. If that wasn’t the truth, he’d retire to the mountains and become a hermit.
“Claire,” he murmured as he put his arms around her, holding her tight to stop the trembling. “I can’t make you a person. You’ve always been one. Now, sit still, love, while I cut the ropes.”
This was going to be a minefield. People would need to know about Claire and the way the PME were creating them. How to do it without her getting hurt, though—that was the big question.
Claire held still, her thoughts tumbling fractured through her mind while he sawed through the ropes. She’d given in to him then, without even trying to resist. Told him her deepest thoughts, and she didn’t really know what he wanted of her. But, oh, it felt good to trust someone, just like he wanted to trust her. Tears flowed down her face. She didn’t care if he saw.
The sickness in her belly vanished when the last rope parted. Rope. That day with Inkline—She shuddered. With her limbs free, she tried to rise, only to find her feet had become numb weights.
“Here.” Theo scooped her into his arms and took her to the leather sofa, then knelt and massaged her ankles. Amazed that he would do this, she barely noticed the fizz of pins and needles through her flesh. At last he stopped with his hands still surrounding her right ankle, a strange look on his face.
She blushed and found herself fixed in place by his eyes, though she couldn’t say exactly why. The heat from her cheeks seemed to surface elsewhere, lower down. He released her leg and moved to sit beside her, the couch sinking under his weight. His arm slipped along the couch behind her. The solid length of his thigh against hers felt good. The aches of her body sank to a dull background. Temples drumming with each heartbeat, she turned to look up at Theo.
“Perhaps, this is too soon?” he asked, moving in until his mouth and hers were less than an inch apart. “But you do owe me a kiss.”
“I do?” she squeaked.
He studied her. The balcony at breakfast had been secluded, but here, they were alone in a closed room. No one was going to walk in on them. She already knew she had trouble saying no to this man. The beats at her temples thudded louder.
Wanting to see where this would lead, yet afraid to, she went to lean away, only to find his hand cradling the back of her head, holding her there. His grip tightened, and he kissed her, delicately as a butterfly landing on a flower at first, then pressing closer. He explored her mouth, caressing every part of it with tongue and lips. She answered with her own lips as if it were some deadly duel with weapons, until something, his thumb perhaps, circled her nipple through the silk. The myriad of blossoming pleasures, the ache in her loins, and the taste of his tongue—together these crumbled her defenses to nothing. She lay there, barely able to respond, feeling herself slide down the couch until she lay beneath him, moaning and holding on to the solid muscles of his upper arms as if they were the only thing that could stop her drowning under the onslaught.
Chapter Eight