Silence.
For what seemed like an eternity.
Finally, unable to resist, she peered carefully around the side of the enclosure.
To find Mr. Cross standing not six inches away, arms folded over his chest, waiting for her.
She started at his nearness, and said the first thing that came. “Hello.”
One ginger brow rose. “Hello.”
She stepped out to face him, hands clasped tightly in front of her. The cook and Temple were turned toward them, curiosity in their stares. As though this confrontation were somehow stranger than a Frenchwoman brandishing a trout on the floor of a casino.
Well, it wasn’t.
Pippa knew that with utter certainty.
She met Mr. Cross’s cool, grey gaze, and waited for him to say something else.
He did not.
Fine. She could wait. She’d waited before.
Except, after what seemed like a quarter of an hour, she could no longer bear it. “I suppose you are wondering how it is that I came to be here.”
“You are becoming quite a lurker, Lady Philippa.”
She straightened. “I do not lurk.”
“No? My office? Your balcony? Now here . . . in my club . . . in a dark alcove? I would call it lurking.”
“The balcony was mine,” she couldn’t help but point out. “If anyone was lurking, it was you.”
“Mmm.” He narrowed his gaze. “Perhaps you would like to explain your current location?”
“I was nearby,” she explained. “Nearby the club. Not the alcove. Though I suppose one might say that nearby to one is the same as to the other. But I presume the conceptual proximity for each is relative. In your mind. At least.”
Temple snorted from his place a good distance away.
“You would do well to leave us,” Cross said to his partner, not taking his gaze from Pippa. “Before I punish you for letting her in.”
“What was I to do, leave her in the alleyway banging on our door, until someone found her?” Temple’s tone was light and teasing. Out of place. “Besides, she’s not here for you.”
Cross’s grey eyes darkened at the words, and Pippa’s heart began to pound. He was angry. She stepped away from him, unable to stop herself, back into the alcove. He followed, pressing her back, letting the curtains fall behind them, cloaking them in darkness. They were feet from others—who knew they were here, and yet her pulse began to race as he spoke, his voice went dark and threatening. “Why are you here?”
She lifted her chin. “It’s not—” She cleared her throat. “It’s not your concern.”
There was a pause, a hitch in his breathing, as though she’d surprised him. “Did we, or did we not, make a wager?”
“We did.”
He reached out, placing one hand on the wall behind her head, that forearm, clad only in shirtsleeves, more than a little distracting. “And am I wrong in recalling that it involved your commitment to stay away from men who are not your fiancé?”
She did not care for his tone. “You are not wrong.”
He leaned in, so close. Her eyes fell to the open collar of his shirt, where he should have been wearing a cravat but wasn’t. She was irrationally drawn to the triangle of skin there, dusted with hair. She wanted to touch it.
“Explain to me, then, what in hell you are doing with Temple?” His anger pulled her back to the moment at hand. She could hear it in his voice, low and unsettling.
She tried to get her bearings—nearly impossible in this dark space with him so very close. “He let me in.”
“If you even dream of reneging on our wager, I will send God, Bourne, and your father to keep you in check. In that order.”
“I should not be surprised that you believe you have some control over the Almighty,” she retorted.
He looked like he might like to murder someone.
“Cross.” From beyond the curtain, Temple came to her aid.
Rescued. Pippa released the breath she had not known she had been holding.
Cross turned his head but did not move from where he crowded her. “Leave us.”
Temple yanked the curtains back, letting light into the small space. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. The lady is not here for you.”
Cross was across the alcove in seconds. “She sure as hell isn’t here for you.”
A jolt of excitement threaded through her at the words. As though he were defending her. As though he were willing to fight for her.
How fascinating. She caught her breath at the way he moved, quick and economical. They were inches from each other now—Cross tall and lean, all corded muscle and tension, Temple a few inches shorter, but wider by half . . . and smirking.
“No. She’s not,” Temple said. “She’s here for something else.”
Cross looked back to her, over his shoulder, grey eyes flashing.
“I only have eleven days,” she said, ready to explain her purpose. Surely he’d understand, she was in a critical situation.