Bronwyn Scott's Sexy Regency Bundle (32 page)

ball
with
his money still tucked inside.

Stunned, he stood there, dumb in amazement. The Cat was purring about an affront to her dignity. 'Should I be flattered that you're surprised to see me or should I be insulted? Did you think I wouldn't keep my word?'

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'If I
am
surprised, it is over finding you in my bedroom. I
am
not used to women making free with my private chambers.

It's usually the other way around.'

His urbane scolding did nothing to daunt her. She stood mere inches from him, her low voice making him hard as she spun fantasies with her words. 'I wanted to arrange something special for our last meeting.'

'Last? Are you leaving?' He hadn't thought buying supplies for her needy would drive her out of town. He found he didn't want her to go. Maybe there was time to cancel the orders.

She gave one of her throaty laughs and he discarded his irrational thought. 'Of course not! I still have investors who need my particular attentions. But since you fail to play by my and announce Stockport Hall has been

I must

spend my time elsewhere on more likely subjects.' She ran a finger lightly down his cheek along his jaw line where night stubble was starting to grow. 'I need the publicity.'

Her continuation of the robberies did not bode well for his plan to dissuade her from her criminal activities. 'I thought I'd provided enough supplies for your families to last until spring.'

Brandon was thoroughly confused. He'd believed he'd kept her out of harm's way with his purchases. Apparently, she was addicted to danger.

'You did. But that doesn't change the fact that plans for the mill are still going forward.'

'No rest for the wicked, eh?' he said with a flippancy he didn't feel.

'None, and I am very wicked.' She stood so close to him now that the tips of her breasts pressed against his shirt. He wanted to forget the game they played over his mill. He wanted to throw her down on his bed and play an entirely different game, one that didn't involve clothes or masks or secrets or politics; well, maybe sexual politics, he amended.

Brandon did not believe it was possible for him to get any

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Pickpocket Countess

harder and survive intact. He fully expected it to explode shortly. In a hoarse voice, he tried to turn the conversation down a neutral venue. 'It's foolishness to continue at this rate.

You must slow down. Do you want to be caught?'

Her eyes glinted with mischief. 'It depends on who is doing the catching.' A nail lightly raked his chest where his shirt opened in a vee, causing him to shiver in aroused delight.

She continued, 'I have no intentions of being caught by silly Squire Bradley and those nabob investors who have ponied up their pounds for the privilege of associating with you, my lord. I certainly shall not surrender to the pompous St John or that young braggart, Witherspoon.'

She smiled coyly at Brandon, making him feel that the cat had already licked the cream. 'Tell me, my lord, haven't you ever
wanted
to be caught? It can be invigorating with the right person.'

'Yes,' Brandon managed. They were no longer about

catching The Cat. One moment they'd been about traps

of one type and in the next were

about traps of entirely

another sort. An inappropriate sort. The sort that made him want to throw back the very proper damask cover on his bed and take her on the red satin sheets that hid beneath.

He groaned his lust as The Cat ran her nails down his chest.

Her deft hands found their way inside his shirt to the hard planes beneath the fabric. Brandon sucked in his breath. Never in his intimate relationships had he been so stimulated and he had yet to remove his clothes.

'You see,' she whispered sensually, 'it is nice to be caught.'

His groin swelled painfully. He wanted her to catch him. It didn't take long for his thoughts to head in the reverse direction. He wanted to catch
her
in the manner she'd intimated.

His mind ran riot with all nature of exotic visions. He imagined a primal coupling among his scarlet sheets that would leave them both sweat-drenched and slaked. He imagined her sleeping and rumpled in the middle of his big bed, her dark hair

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fanned out against the crimson clad pillows. He imagined for a moment that The Cat and all her passion belonged to him alone. If he took her, it could not be otherwise. He was a man used to power and the responsibilities that went with it.

She stepped back and arched an eyebrow that both insinuated a dare and mocked his ardour. With languorous movements, she stepped away from him and took a chair, crossing her long, booted legs. 'It's clear from the look on your face, and dare I say "other parts", that you think you are man enough to tame The Cat.'

Brandon's blood was already hot. Her insouciant manner pushed him the rest of the way until he fairly boiled. It was time for this impudent wench to learn a lesson about what happened when she played with fire. 'You need taming badly.' He advanced towards her, hands on hips.

'You think you're that man?' The Cat queried from her relaxed position in the chair, unmoved by his proximity.

He leaned over her chair, his hands braced on each of the arms. He inhaled. The scent of outdoor air with the tinge of winter on it still hovered about her. She hadn't been there long ahead of him. 'Damn right I am.'

'Many men have tried and most have failed.'

'I am not most men.' He was impressed. She hadn't flinched once.

'No, you're an Earl. There's, what, roughly fifty of you?'

She rose from the chair, her movements forcing him to step back and aside.

She still wore his jacket. She made a great show of taking it off and laying it aside with all the care of a man preparing to engage in fisticuffs. 'Well, my lord, are you going to come tame The Cat or stand there all night trying to figure out who the other forty-nine are?'

He saw her game and it was over. He would not suffer defeat twice in the same evening, nor would he be cowed into retreating by her brazen tongue.

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