Эротические рассказы

The Midnight Man. Charlotte MedeЧитать онлайн книгу.

The Midnight Man - Charlotte Mede


Скачать книгу
was an outrage she could never hope to understand.

      She looked into his eyes and saw cool calculation, an awareness that he knew exactly what he was doing and why.

      Irritation and hopelessness fueled her impatience. “None of this makes any sense, at least to me, Mr. Ramsay,” she said, infusing the words with iron. “Speak your business and let’s have done with it.”

      Without taking his eyes from her, he sauntered across the room, broken glass crunching under his booted feet. He leaned against the windowpane, this time not bothering to lift the curtain to glance outside. “You still don’t understand,” he said finally. “Maybe you don’t want to understand.”

      Helena set down her glass with a thud on top of the cabinet. “You’re speaking in riddles, but I’m giving you one minute to explain yourself.” She let out a short breath, feeling suddenly calm and certain. “Why should I believe that you have nothing to do with this wanton destruction? You’ve asked me repeatedly to trust you, to go along with you when all I can think of is this.” She gestured helplessly around the room, trying to avoid looking at the four bodies slumped on the floor.

      “You are asking the impossible!” For emphasis, she scooped up a piece of torn canvas, the corner a livid, vibrant green, before tossing it back to the frayed carpet. “I meant what I said earlier when I entered this room—if you have had anything to do with this abomination, you will pay.”

      “You’re not in any position to be exacting retribution.”

      “Just watch me.”

      “That’s your problem, Helena. You act on emotion. Try counting to ten from time to time.”

      “Damnit—I’m leaving.” She kicked at an overturned chair with a jerk of frustration, making her way to the door.

      He didn’t bother to come after her, his supreme confidence unnerving. “Do you see what I mean? If you just stopped feeling for a moment and listened, it might do you some good.”

      “You bastard.”

      He cocked a brow. “A fine and accurate assumption on your part. But never mind that, are you ready to listen?”

      A step away from the door, she whirled to face him. “Enough about what I’m supposed to feel or not feel, sir. I’ve had a lifetime of being dictated to by men, and I’m not about to have you of all people move me around like a piece on a chessboard.”

      He crossed his arms. “Then what do you propose to do to extricate yourself from this particular situation? It looks like you have half of London eager to ensure you rot away the rest of your life in Bedlam. Not a great prospect—unless you have a solution at the ready.”

      Helena hated the condescending tone and she evaded his gaze. “Not that it’s any of your concern.”

      “That’s where you’re wrong. Again. I’ve said it a few times in the last twenty-four hours—I can help you.” He glanced briefly out the window and then had her back in his sights like the marksman he probably was.

      “Then you have a peculiar way of showing your regard.”

      “You’ve yet to give me the opportunity,” he lied smoothly, no doubt the result of years of practice.

      “It’s been difficult—what with your unwelcome attentions.” She regretted the words the minute she’d said them and could have bitten her tongue. She looked away from those hard eyes.

      But his faint smile revealed nothing. “If you haven’t noticed already, I’m not a gentleman, and in any case”—he held up both hands in mock defeat—“I refuse to give in to the charade that my attentions were in any way unwelcome. I recognize a woman’s response, and frankly, I’m surprised at your hypocrisy.”

      Helena flushed. “Even your referencing this, this…” She was at a loss for words.

      Ramsay shrugged carelessly, raising a dark brow. “Where is the free-spirited bohemian, the artistic soul, the woman who cares not a shred about society’s strictures, the renegade who takes and discards lovers as though they were kid gloves?”

      “You know nothing about me, sir.” She glowered.

      “I know you’re supremely talented and about one minute away from being locked up in Bedlam for the rest of your life. What else is there to know?”

      The man had a point. “You have a proposal, a solution?” She shot him an incredulous look. “And how do you intend to gain from it? I don’t think the knight in shining armor is particularly your strong suit.”

      Her sense of foreboding didn’t evaporate. It was heightened, particularly when she thought about the way he made her feel. This was what lust was, it occurred to her suddenly, a heady, reckless emotion emerging from a lethal combination of fear and attraction. She put her hand to her forehead and was horrified to find it trembling.

      He scrutinized her closely, dissecting her with his eyes. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do have a solution to your problems. And by the way, you’re shaking.”

      The man didn’t miss much. His stillness was unnerving, his opaque gray eyes giving nothing away, save that they could read her mind. Dear God, she hoped that he would never see into the dark of her soul that she trusted to no one, the part so well hidden, it kept her safe and whole.

      “I haven’t had much sleep,” she muttered, forcing her hands to her side.

      With a last glance out the window, he stalked toward her. “If you don’t leave with me now, you’ll have the rest of your life to sleep away in your cell at Bedlam. And if, once again, you don’t believe me, just take a look outside this window.” He grabbed her arm. “You’re about to receive a visit from half of London’s constabulary.”

      Helena smothered a curse, trying to ignore the hand burning through the fabric of her dress. Her head snapped toward the door, but she knew it no longer offered an option.

      She moistened her lips. “You could be lying. Those men could be yours.”

      “You know that is entirely illogical.” He paused for a second. “Although something tells me there’s more going on here. You seem to have quite a few enemies, Helena.”

      Before she could respond, he swung her toward the stairs. Dear God, the stairs where they had nearly…just minutes ago… She wouldn’t think of that now.

      “The stairs lead to the rooftop, which I’m sure you know, and into a back alley.” The man was thorough, having checked out all the entrances and exits in advance. “Once again, you’ve got no choice but to trust me.” He added coolly, “Twice in one day, how unfortunate for you.”

      She felt panic once again close her throat as Ramsay squeezed her hand, his movements calm and assured. And like an obedient child, she followed him through the atelier, up the stairs and onto the rooftop into the stinging light of day.

      Chapter 6

      It was like herding cats.

      “Order, I say. Let us bring the meeting to order.” George Busk cleared his throat and surveyed the men hovering around the heavy Queen Anne table, reluctantly taking their seats. A surgeon by training and instinct, he liked getting things done.

      He scratched his heavy white beard impatiently. “We have many important matters to discuss this evening, gentlemen. Beginning with the debate last week up at Oxford.”

      An instant hush fell over the room. Seven heads swiveled in Busk’s direction.

      Joseph Dalton, on his left, puffed himself up like a balloon. “I do believe Huxley did an outstanding job! Outrageously good!” He punched the air for emphasis before scraping back his chair and sitting down decisively. The other men followed suit.

      “Is he still up at Oxford?” asked John Tyndall, who had given up his work as an artisan to become a physical scientist, and had joined


Скачать книгу
Яндекс.Метрика