Passion by Gayle Eden

bonds they had
forged.
    She breathed deep, calming herself, forcing
her mind to clear. Eventually she pushed away and wearily drew her
bath. The maid came, but she sent her away. Gabriella wanted time
to herself. Lazing in the water later, she rubbed her wet hands
over her face, stomach still tense knowing the worst was to come.
The scenarios, should something go wrong had been gone over and
over, and yet….
    Giving up attempts to relax, she arose and
dried, drawing on a black silk robe and shaking her hair free after
removing the pens.
    When she entered the rooms, she went to the
dressing table and combed her hair—muttering a mental curse as
Raith invaded her privacy. She was in a mood, nerves tight.
    Gabriella mused that should she ever do so to
him, invade his privacy—he would likely respond with violence,
although his anger tended to be wintry.
    Placing the brush down, she tucked the wavy
strands behind her ears and pushed the rest so that it fell mid
back, taking her time to rise from the vanity chair whilst watching
him go to the window and open it.
    She examined his state of dress. He was in
black trousers and boots, but his black shirt hung open. He smelled
of whiskey. She gathered he had time to drink a whole bottle whilst
she was bathing. She should have done that herself, Maybe it would
burn some of the….
    “Sit down,” his voice wafted over.
    She debated a split second, in her own
(mood,) before shrugging and walking to the bed and sitting against
the headboard. Her robe parted at the calf. Gabriella folded her
arms against her middle, watching him stretch his own arms to grasp
the casement, whilst leaning and looking down at the city. She
discerned he was more thinking than seeing.
    Once more, her gaze moved over him
instinctively, unconscious of tracing the lines of thigh and
buttocks, taut hips that were clear in the snug trousers. The shirt
was fine enough so that the shadow of his torso, ridged in stomach,
fanning wider in the chest, was discernible. His hair was tucked
behind his ears, throwing that hard jaw and profile into light and
shadows.
    “Have you the dirk you used to carry?”
    “Yes.”
    “Wear it on you.”
    “I do.”
    He turned his head, black eyes scanning her
then looking so swiftly away that she assumed he was not pleased to
have done so.
    “If you…If he becomes violent, or you feel
yourself in danger, use it.”
    “I plan to protect myself. If I am not alive,
then you would have to live with only the satisfaction of killing
him and getting it over with. I’ll try not to cheat either of us of
our goal.”
    He turned, his hands dropping from the sill
though he sat on the ledge. His shirt fell open more, resting at
his sides. Glints of amber lamplight cast a sheen on his honed
torso, polishing the skin that stretched over lean, carved muscle.
It was his face though, that fascinated Gabriella because he made
every effort still to not look at her.
    She watched, counted the seconds a muscle
ticked in his jaw.
    “You must insist he not set you up in your
own house, but reside with him…”
    “I know the strategy, Raith. You will play
the part of the obsessed and scorned lover, so that we may meet. I
provide you with the information I gather. He will want to kill
you—or rather arrange a convenient accident, because though you do
not have a relationship with them, you are the brother of the Earl
of Stoneleigh, and the Duke of Eastland’s son—he will want to be
rid of you. But, he will not do it. He will feed off your envy and
wish to parade me before your eyes. He will thrive off your
jealousy.”
    “Yes.” His teeth were set when he uttered
that. Raith stood, restlessly walking to the hearth and then
reaching in his boot for a cheroot case. He lit it from the fire,
drew the smoke in, and released it, tensely. The firelight
flickered yellow and red over the blue black of his hair, enhancing
the fierce plains of his face. He was looking into the fire
hypnotically.
    What a