Page 49 of Not a Fine Gentleman

He narrowed his gaze at her. “It looks like you’re destroying documents.”

She glared at the fire as if it had betrayed her. “Nothing important.”

“They must be important, or you wouldn’t have burned them.” He approached her.

She eyed him warily. “They were personal papers.”

“You’d best tell me, or I’ll assume you burned evidence.” He took another step toward her.

“Those papers had nothing to do with Hennessey’s murder.” She moved away from the fire. “It was just last week’s newspaper article that listed all the grand people who attended Hennessy’s funeral.”

“You said they were personal.”

She worked her mouth. “They were personal papers, as well as a newspaper with that sickening article about what a fine gentleman he was.”

“What are you hiding?” He tapped the center of his own chest.

“Nothing.” Her innocent look didn’t fool him.

He took another step toward her.

She retreated behind a leather armchair.

He held out a hand and wiggled his fingers. “Show me.”

Fear touched her eyes. “I haven’t got anything.”

More disappointed than angry that she was lying, Connor continued his approach. “I saw you stuff something down your bodice. Hand it to me. Now.”

She raised her chin. “You are mistaken.” She backed away but stopped as her back hit the corner.

He closed in, leaving her nowhere to go. Rather than shrinking in fear, she planted her feet, taking a stand. She had courage, he had to give her that.

Murder took a great deal of courage.

Did she do it?

“Give me the paper, or I’ll reach in and get it myself,” he growled.

Boldly, she raised her chin. “I’d like to see you try.”

He planted a hand on the wall on either side of her and leaned in, bringing his face within inches of hers. He could kiss her. If he wanted to. At the moment, he was more tempted to wring her neck.

“I will do it.” His voice took on a strangely husky quality.

Her pupils dilated, and her aquamarine eyes sparkled like the Mediterranean Sea on a sunny day. Her breathing came in little gasps. She smelled heavenly, something light and clean and fresh that reminded him of rain in a spring garden. She put a hand to her throat. Did her skin feel as soft as it looked?

He leaned closer. She drew in a quick breath. Her lips parted, and her tongue slid out to moisten them. A sort of breathlessness gave him a lightheaded sensation. He leaned in even closer.

Margaret’s breath caressed his cheeks, a sweet, lemony scent. Would she taste as sweet? Tension tightened his abdomen. Long-dormant desire awoke and uncurled. She moved her hand from her throat to his chest, a whisper-light touch. Whether she was trying to ward him off or encourage him, he could not say, but the movement of her arm made a crinkling sound.

His reason returned. The paper. She had shoved something down her bodice—some evidence she wanted to hide.

She was the main suspect in Lord Hennessy’s murder.

Connor removed a hand from the wall and held it between them, poised to move downward. “This is your last chance to give me that paper before I show you how much I am not a gentleman.”

The light in her eyes changed to a storm. For a second, hurt flashed through her face like lightning, but on its wake came the thunder of anger. She snatched back the hand on his chest and flung it out to the side with a purpose. With a blur, her hand sailed toward his face.