Only Broderick Killoran could issue a threat in a silken whisper that painted it as seduction instead of ruin. Her chest rose hard and fast, with each rapid intake bringing her body flush to his.
Nor was it fear or anger, but rather her own pathetic weakness to his nearness. And for a man who would ruin her. She saw it in the ice in his eyes and the hardness of his chiseled features. “What will you do?” she taunted, her breath tangling with his. “Have one of your men off me?”
His eyes drifted to her mouth. Desire flashed in his eyes.
Her breath quickened.
Except Broderick feeling any desire for her was impossible. He had neither wanted her nor noticed her in any of the ways a man who longed for a woman did. But then he cupped her cheek. Caressed it with his palm. And just like that, he cut her indignation out from under her and tossed her ordered thoughts into upheaval. His callused fingers against her cheek were so different from the only other man whose touch she’d allowed. Broderick’s were the hands of a man, in every way. One unafraid to work. One who’d killed to protect her years earlier. It was a chip he could call in, and yet . . . he hadn’t when any other man would. That noble gesture had just been one of so many reasons she loved him.
When he spoke, his mouth nearly brushed hers, that illusion of a kiss heady for what it promised. “There are far worse fates a man . . . or woman . . . could suffer than a physical death.” That steely threat knocked loose the haze he’d cast.
Reggie shoved herself upright, forcing Broderick back. “I’m not afraid of you.” Did she give that assurance for him? Or for herself?
He smiled slowly, displaying that wolflike grin he donned before any battle. “Then you are far less clever than I credited. Because you see . . . not only do I own this place, but my solicitor has also made inquiries on every establishment you’ve visited. Any building for sale in London.” With each triumph he hurled, she felt the blood draining from her cheeks. “Why, I even know the ones that are merely rumored to be for sale in the near future.”
This was the danger in dueling with one who possessed more money than God himself. With his fortune, Broderick could force anyone’s hand. Her and Clara’s funds combined would never be a match for the wealth he possessed. And all her earlier confidence sagged.
“Shall we discuss the terms if you accept?”
She wanted to spit in his face. To hurl a “go to hell” at him and march off. But as a woman who’d tossed aside her virtue for a cad and made the life she had in the Dials, there was too much at stake.
Giving a snap of her skirts, Reggie marched past him. As soon as she’d retaken her seat, she lifted her chin in his direction. “Get on with it.”
With that damned swagger that came as natural as breathing to him, he rejoined her. “In the event you accompany my family”—that pointed emphasis striking like a knife between the shoulder blades; how easily he’d just cut her from the Killoran clan—“I’m prepared to offer you the same agreed-upon terms for ownership of this establishment for this sum.” Locking gazes, he reached inside his jacket and held out a folded sheet.
Reggie swiped the page from his hands, and unfolding it, she scanned the single amount written there.
“Four thousand pounds?” she choked out. She tossed the page at him. It bounced off his chest and fell to the table. It was a fortune for any person . . . except him.
“I know. How incredibly fair I am. I’d contemplated five.” He flashed that charming, lopsided grin that had always done wicked things to her heart’s beat.
Until now. Rage simmered in her chest. “Can you not leave me to my affairs and go on with your life?” How had her world been turned so inside out that she could utter those words to this man who’d snatched her heart long ago?
His smile deepened, never reaching his ice-cold eyes. “I’m afraid that is an impossibility. I have to make some profit on it. As it is, I’ve lost time at my own club, conducting business with you.”
Reggie made one last grab for control. “I can find another place.” She hurried to clarify. “Outside of London.” She winced at the stridency of her tone. “If I go anywhere else, I’ll be no competition to you.”
He chuckled. “Is that what you think this is about? Me fearing competition from you?”
His slightly mocking emphasis set her teeth on edge, and she fed her fury, for it kept her from mourning the splintering of her heart.
Placing his palms on his knees, Broderick leaned forward. He let his false grin drop. “Whatever you intend to do, whatever next move you make, I’ll be three steps in front of you.”
That steely promise raised the gooseflesh on her arms. This was the man who sent terror clamoring in the breasts of all unfortunate enough to call the Dials home. It was Broderick as she’d never before known him. Still, she’d not back down. “What are your terms?”
“You remain in my employ until I give you permission to leave. At no time are you to be alone. Be it a guard, or Stephen, or myself, someone is to shadow your movements.”
She choked. She was to be a prisoner, then.
Broderick continued. “The extent of your obligation is to accompany Gertrude to ton functions: balls, soirees, dinner parties, the theatre.”
Just agree, a voice needled at the back of her mind as he ticked off those requirements. Reggie knew Broderick Killoran enough to know that he’d never concede a point or battle. At most, she’d be required to serve mere months in that hated role of companion.
Her pulse pounded loudly in her ears.
Could she truly do this? Could she risk facing Lord Oliver again and the greatest mistake of her youth? One that had put her in this vulnerable, helpless place she now found herself?
Jumping up, Reggie strode away from Broderick. Needing space between them. Needing to think. She stopped in front of the pianoforte and stared blankly down at the chipped keys.
In her mind she saw another seated at this instrument, fingers flying over the keys, while performers moved about the stage. Other women who’d not find themselves in the vulnerable position she now found herself . . . dependent upon the mercy of a man. Upon the mercy of any man. Even ones they erroneously took for friends.
Fool.
Yes, she could do this.
She could journey to the posh end of London she’d vowed never to set foot in again. She would risk seeing him again, and having the whole world speak about her sins.
But she would be damned if she didn’t have a say in the terms of their agreement.
She faced him again. “I’m not staying in Mayfair.”
“That is not negotiable. You’ll stay where I am.”
She shivered. There was an air of a threat underlying that declaration. “Very well.” Reggie placed her hands on her hips. “I want this establishment turned over to me now.” He was already shaking his head. She didn’t allow him a word edgewise. “In the times I’m not serving Gertrude, I want the freedom to visit and conduct work here as I wish.” For when he eventually set her free, she wanted to know that this new home would be awaiting her.
“You have to be mad to believe I’d sell this to you now. Tsk. Tsk. Where would be my leverage, Miss Spark?”
So she was “Miss Spark” again.
Very well, that was far easier in the frosty negotiations they now carried out.
“Draft new papers. In the event I fail to carry out my responsibilities, you are free to absolve me of my ownership.”
“What of Miss Winters?” He arched a single elegant eyebrow. “Is she comfortable with those negotiations?”
Of course he would have gleaned Clara’s role. “What other choice does she have?” she spat. Reggie hugged her arms tight. If the ten years she and Broderick had shared as friends had meant so little, how would he be to one such as Clara, who’d only recently joined the Devil’s Den . . . and had come to them from a rival establishment, no less?
“I want your assurance that you’ll cede my portion of ownership over to her.”