Finally, he responded. With another touch, at first. He traced the curve of her chin, his expression contemplative, as if he weighed his words carefully.
“What was between you and the man? What drew you to him?”
Infernal Scot, still convinced she’d taken a fancy to Abbott. Did MacMasters believe only a romantic attachment could motivate her involvement in Cranston’s scheme?
Dagger-sharp pain lanced her heart, twisting the blade for good measure. In a sense, MacMasters was right. Her heart had indeed driven her to undertake this devil’s bargain. But Connor didn’t realize her heartache was tied not to a lover, but to a sweet-natured, mischief-prone girl whose eyes reminded Johanna so very much of the sister she’d lost.
“You might say we had a mutual interest,” she replied, purposefully vague.
“In his acquisitions?”
“No.”
MacMasters caught her arms. He pulled her closer. Exquisitely gentle, his fingertips swept over her cheek. “A man like him…I can see why he’d want you. You’re a beauty. More than that, your wit would challenge him.”
“I assure you, Mr. Abbott harbored no such interest.”
“You expect me to believe that?” MacMasters traced the pad of his thumb over her lips. “The man knew a treasure when he saw it.”
She let a little huff escape. Certainly he didn’t think tender touches and dubious tributes to her femininity would win her trust. “Flattery, Mr. MacMasters? I’d no idea you were so skilled at seduction.”
“Seduction?” His mouth lifted at the corners as he repeated the word. “Ye think that’s what this is?”
“It does seem an apt beginning. You’ve complimented both my countenance and my intellectual prowess. Perhaps next, you will endeavor to praise my spirit and my strong passions. In my novels, plying a woman with tributes to her beauty and character are effective to a point—until the heroine realizes spouting platitudes is the verbal equivalent of shoveling manure.”
Those green eyes of his crinkled at the corners. “When I seduce a woman, I dinnae start with words, lass.”
She cocked her chin. Damned if she’d let this brawny Scot intimidate her. “I suppose in your case, you’d bypass sweet platitudes and proceed to tossing a lass over your shoulder and carrying her off to your lair.”
Very slowly, he shook his head. His gaze lingered on her mouth. His eyes darkened, suddenly dangerous. “That comes later.”
She swallowed. Hard. Heat inflamed her cheeks. “Later?”
“First, I’d do this.” He dipped his head. His lips nearly brushed hers. So close, his breath seemed a caress. But no contact. No touch of his flesh to hers.
A sense of utterly absurd disappointment flooded her veins. What nonsense was this? She should have felt relief, not this millstone in the pit of her stomach. Had the stress of her predicament finally pushed her past the brink of reason?
She put a hand’s breadth between their bodies. “Precisely what is that intended to accomplish, Mr. MacMasters?”
His mouth spread into a grin. “Not a damnable thing. But this is.”
He kissed her. A mere sweep of his lips against hers. Light as a soft spring breeze. Gentle. Yet infused with hunger. His tongue parted the seam of her lips. Exploring slowly. Tenderly. Setting her senses afire. One arm snaked around her back, pressing her to the rough-hewn length of his body.
His heat drew her in. Ah, she could get lost in that heady fever. The world disappeared around them. She closed her eyes. Savoring his touch. Drinking in the delicious warmth. Relishing every beat of his heart against hers.
And then, he released her. The cocky gleam in his eyes sobered her like a bucket of chilled ale dumped over her head. “Now, lass, that is what I’d do.”
“Is that so?” She prayed her voice wasn’t trembling with the aftershocks of his caress. “Quite effective, I must say.”
“High praise.” He roped her to his body with one powerful arm. “Verrae high praise, indeed. But that doesn’t change a bluidy thing. I need the truth.”
She pulled in a long breath, as if that might calm her stampeding pulse. “I have not lied to you.”
“If ye think to ransom Benedict, it is too late for that.” His tone had gone low and raw, as if it pained him to deliver a difficult truth.
“As I have told you, I knew him as Richard Abbott. He was an art dealer with clients throughout Europe.”
“He was a thief. His greed made him take too many risks. There’s reason to believe one of his deals made him a target.”
MacMasters’s gruff words swirled around her like a vortex threatening to pull her under. How could it be that her sister’s loving husband had fooled them all?
“This man named Benedict whom you speak of…he sounds like a different man, as if Richard had a twin with a dark, hidden nature. Surely he could not have been living two different lives.” Bitterness welled in her throat. “But you have correctly deduced one key truth. The contents of this satchel are indeed a ransom, but I haven’t come after Mr. Abbott.”
“Then why…why put yerself in danger?”