“How … horrific.”
“The question is why … and unfortunately, I think we know the answer to that one.”
“What are you going to do now?”
He stayed silent for a while. And then his eyes lifted to hers. “For starters, I was thinking of taking you upstairs.”
Lizzie blushed again. “And what are you going to do with me on the second floor?”
“Help you fold your laundry.”
She barked out a laugh. “I hate to disappoint you, but that’s already been done.”
“Make your bed?”
“Sorry. Done.”
“Curse your work ethic. Darn your socks? Any buttons that need replacing?”
“Are you saying you’re good with a needle and thread?”
“I’m a fast learner. So … care to sew with me?”
“I’m afraid I’ve got nothing like that to attend to.”
“Is there something else I can help you with then,” he said in a low voice. “Some kind of ache I could soothe. Some fire I could put out—with my mouth, maybe?”
Lizzie closed her eyes, and swayed in her chair. “Oh … God …”
“Wait, I’ve got it. How ’bout I take you to the second floor and we mess up your bed—then we can remake it.”
When she finally looked over at him, her lids were low and her eyes were hot. “You know … that sounds like a perfect plan.”
“I love it when we’re both on the same page.”
They stood up together, and before she could stop him, he went over and picked her up.
“What are you doing?” She pushed at his hold as she started to laugh. “Lane—”
“What does it look like.” He headed out of the kitchen. “I’m carrying you upstairs.”
“Wait. Wait, I weigh too much—”
“Oh, please.”
“No, I really—I’m not one of those tiny little females—”
“Exactly. You’re a real woman.” He hit the stairs and kept going. “And that’s what real men are attracted to. Trust me.”
She let her head fall on his shoulder, and as he felt her eyes search his face, he thought of what Chantal had done with his father. Or at least, what she had said she’d done.
Lizzie had never betrayed him. Not in thought Not in deed.
She simply wasn’t hardwired like that.
Which made her a real woman, and not just because she was no hundred-pound, social X-ray.
“No, you don’t have to say it,” he murmured as the old steps creaked under his feet.
“Say what?”
“That this doesn’t mean anything in the larger scheme of things. I know you want me as a friend only, and I accept that. You should be aware of one caveat, though.”
“What’s that,” she breathed.
He let his voice deepen. “I’m prepared to be a very patient man when it comes to you. I will seduce you for however long it takes—give you space if you need it or follow you tight as sunshine on your shoulder if you’ll let me.” His eyes locked on hers. “I lost my chance with you once, Lizzie King—that is not going to happen again.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
As Edward sat in his chair, he was floating on a cloud of Beefeater gin, his body numb to the point where he was actually able to entertain a fantasy of potential strength and flexibility. In fact, he could imagine that getting to his feet would be an impulse easily followed, an uncomplicated, unconscious change of location requiring nothing more than a passing thought and a pair of thigh muscles that were happy enough—and capable enough—to do the job.
He was not drunk enough to actually give it a try, however—
The sound of a knocking on his door brought his head up.
Well, well, well. Given that he wasn’t prepared to try the whole verticality thing, at least this arrival represented another alternative reality he could partake in.
And this one he would not deny.
With a grunt, he tried to sit a little straighter in his chair. There would be no going and opening the way for the woman, and he felt badly about that. A gentleman should always perform such a service for a member of the fairer sex, and he didn’t care that his guest was a prostitute—the female deserved to be treated with respect.
“Come in,” he called out, slurring his words. “Come on in …”
The door opened slowly … and what was on the other side, standing directly under the porch light was— Edward’s heart stopped beating. And then began to hammer.
“They got it right,” he breathed. “Finally, Beau got it right.”
The woman blinked. “I’m sorry?” she said roughly. “What did you say?”
The voice, too. How had they matched the voice?
“Come in,” he rasped, motioning with his free hand, the one that didn’t have the glass in it. “Please.”
And do not be afraid, he thought to himself.
After all, in his current position, he was sitting in darkness, the illumination on the countless trophies in those shelves not quite reaching his face or his body. Which was deliberate, of course. He didn’t like looking at his own self—there was no reason to make the whore’s job harder by forcing her to have a clear picture of him.