The quick narrowing of her eyes told him she wasn’t satisfied with his answer. “Do you believe that?”
He took a slow step toward her, inexplicably drawn to the fight in her. Like a moth to a flame, he was unable to stop himself, even though he knew the fire would most likely burn. “I believe, Miss Winslow,” he clarified quietly but firmly, wanting no mistake between them on this point, “that ladies are capable of holding their own against gentlemen in nearly every endeavor—”
“Nearly every?” she echoed.
Good Lord. Was the Hellion a reformer, too? The more he learned about her, the more he realized exactly how monumental the task was that Winslow had given him to find her a husband.
“Nearly every,” he repeated, thinking of all the antics he and his brothers had committed during their reign of terror. Some of those were certainly not fit for ladies. Or most men. “Including business. I’ve no doubt that you would make a fine partner.”
That surprised her, based on the flicker in her green eyes. “Well, then you concede—”
“But I would be a better one.”
With that, he stunned her, and long enough that he was able to take another step to close the distance between them, remove the glass from her hand, and set it aside before she decided to fling its contents at him. Which would be a true waste of fine bourbon.
“I have no intention of surrendering this opportunity,” he told her frankly. Directness seemed to garner more of her respect than subtlety, so he’d gladly oblige. And found it surprisingly refreshing to be able to be so blunt with a woman. “Not even to you.”
Neither of them moved in the silence that followed that declaration, both unwilling to back down.
As they faced each other, he noted that they were almost evenly matched for height. She barely had to tilt her head back to look up at him, her lips very nearly level with his…those same lips that even now twisted tightly together in an aggravated grimace. What would it taste like, that sensuous mouth of hers that reminded him of a ripe cherry, all dark red and juicy? Inexplicably tart and sweet at the same time? Or would it have the bite of a poison apple?
“Then you’re going to have a difficult task ahead of you, I’m afraid,” she whispered, and God help him, he leaned in to catch each word.
“Not so difficult,” he countered, his deep voice far huskier than he’d intended. But the hellcat had him saying all kinds of things he didn’t intend, including, “You’re beautiful.”
Her lips parted in surprise. He nearly chuckled as he stared at her. For once, he’d left her speechless.
Risking a slap, yet unable to stop himself, he reached to touch one of the ebony tendrils framing the side of her face and rubbed the lock between his thumb and forefinger. His gut tightened at the smooth feel of it. Like black silk. Which immediately made him wonder if her bare skin would feel just as silky beneath his hands.
Her breath hitched, and her wide eyes dropped to his mouth, lingering there on his lips.
Did the minx want him to kiss her? Those lips, that hair…How many men had succumbed to her spell and done just that? And how many hadn’t survived?
“Intelligent and sharp,” he murmured.
She stood perfectly still beneath his touch, except for a nervous swallow that undulated softly in her throat and had him wanting to place his lips right there against her neck to feel it. And against the pulse he could see racing in the hollow at her collarbone even now. Was it arousal that had her senses alert, her pulse racing? Or fury?
Shamelessly, he didn’t care which. Even now she had him longing to take far more intimate touches than the mere stroking of her hair that he was so brazenly stealing.
“And an heiress,” he murmured. “What man could resist?”
She blinked, breaking the spell. “An heiress?” she repeated, her breathless voice evidence that she’d been affected by his caress. “Is that what you think?”
“Of course.” What would she do if he dared to trace his thumb over her bottom lip? Would this hellcat sigh with pleasure or sink her teeth into his flesh in attack?
“But didn’t Papa tell you?” A throaty laugh of surprise fell from her. “I have no dowry.”
Clenching his jaw as the lilting sound of her laugh twisted into his gut like a knife, he dropped his hand away. No dowry, with her reputation—Christ. He’d been bitten, all right.
She clucked her tongue disapprovingly. “First rule of business: never commit to an agreement until you know all the terms.” A victorious gleam lit her eyes. “All the terms.”
Ignoring her baiting, he fought to keep the incredulity from his face. “You don’t have a dowry?”
“Not one ha’penny.” With the smile of the cat that ate the canary, she turned away from him, snatching up her glass of bourbon as she went. “Neither of us Winslow daughters do. Oh, Papa is wealthy enough to negotiate a fine marriage settlement, but he doesn’t believe in them.” She paused in front of the fireplace. “Marital bribery, in his opinion.” Bracing her arm against the mantel, she gestured with the glass and puffed out her chest in an impression of Henry Winslow. “‘If a man wants my money, let him come to work for me to get it!’”
A rather good impression, he admitted grudgingly, as the harsh realization of what he was truly up against spiraled through him.
“‘If he wants my daughter, then money shouldn’t matter.’” She raised the glass in a toast as she belted out in a deep voice that sounded eerily like her father’s, “‘And if he wants both my money and my daughter, then he is a greedy bastard who deserves neither!’”
With a flourish of the glass in the air, she finished the impression by tossing back the remaining bourbon in a single swallow. And that was as equally impressive as the impersonation.
Applauding her performance with a slow clapping of his hands, he walked toward her. “Very nicely played.” He bit back his opinion that she had better odds of becoming a successful actress than she did of gaining the partnership, wanting to escape the afternoon unslapped. “But the man you marry will still become part of Winslow Shipping. His share of the company serves as your dowry.”
“No.” Her eyes grew serious, all traces of her previous teasing vanishing. “My father will never bring a son-in-law into the business. You see, my grandfather did with the man my aunt married, giving him both her dowry and a large part of the company, only to watch him change into a drunkard and a gambler. He turned my aunt against her family, then ruined the marriage and nearly destroyed the company before they were able to force him out. Until the day she died, my aunt never again spoke to my father.” She shook her head sadly, as if grieving for all that her family had lost. “Papa might eventually relent and bestow a dowry, but believe me when I tell you that he will never relent on that.”
The hole around him grew deeper, and the sensation gripped him that the partnership was once more slipping through his fingers. “Then your husband will wait until your father dies to get his due.” He was grasping at straws now. Anything to keep hold of this opportunity. “You’ll still be an heiress, dowry or not.”
“Unlikely. Knowing Papa, he’s probably left the company to some distant relative none of us knows just to keep Winslow Shipping out of the hands of fortune hunters.”
Which was exactly something Henry Winslow would do. The same things that drew Robert’s interest in partnering with him—his success, his shrewdness, his belief that a man needed to prove his worth—now cut like a double-edged sword.