“I figured,” she said, turning to keep him in view.
“But this wasn’t the room I reserved for tonight.”
No. This parlor was a regular love nest. He’d been in rooms much like this one, here and in far less elegant locations. Dining—on food, in any case—was only one of the lesser attractions. There was probably a bed behind those red curtains if the wide settee didn’t suffice for the purpose at hand.
He inspected the table of hors d’oeuvres that had been laid out beside the fireplace. Wineglasses, but no wine—an odd omission under the circumstances.
“Come now, Mac. You must know that the Poodle Dog is renowned in San Francisco. For its cuisine, its elegance, and the rooms above the second floor.” He picked up a delicate appetizer and crushed it between his ringers. “Rooms like this one.”
Mac glanced around, fidgeting, and suddenly joined him by the table. She selected a cracker and put it down again. Nervous, his Mac—beginning to think she’d gotten herself in a little too deep.
“Such rooms are well known to the powerful men of our fair city,” he drawled, “and to a certain class of women.”
She picked up one of the wineglasses. “I guess they showed us to the wrong room.”
“Did they?” His anger was fading, replaced by speculation and some other emotion less vehement but equally acute. Her nearness was reminding him of last night—and of the jungle. Heat. And passion.
“Mac, Mac,” he said, shaking his head. “What do you want?”
She rolled the stem of the wineglass between her fingers. “Actually,” she said, “I was rather hoping for a good French dinner.”
“Are you… hungry?”
She set down the wineglass, provoking him with the deep brown warmth of her eyes. “Ravenous,” she whispered. But she looked away again, and he took a moment to study her: the slenderness of her figure in the gown, the thrust of her breasts above the bodice, the pulse beating so intriguingly at the hollow of her throat, the paleness of her skin.
Damnation. Had Perry put her up to seducing him, making him forget all about Caroline and the proposal? Liam knew Mac hadn’t met the Englishman at the Palace; Liam’s contacts there had assured him of that. And he’d kept her close at the Gresham residence, with Caroline, since Perry’s disappearance.
But Perry obviously wasn’t gone from the city, fled after a botched murder attempt. He’d found out about Liam’s invitation to Caroline. And now, one way or another, he was using Mac to stop the proposal.
“We both know Caroline’s not coming,” Liam said.
He found himself lifting his hand, touching Mac’s cheek, brushing his fingers across her soft skin.
She was very still under his caress. For a seductress she was remarkably restrained. Except for the dress, which had clearly been chosen to display her charms. She hadn’t been very adept at the business in the jungle, either.
But it had been good between them. Damn it to hell.
“It’s not too late, Mac,” he said.
“I’m glad you feel—”
“Not too late for you to leave.” He dropped his hand, sucked in a lungful of air and let it out again. “Go,” he rasped. “Go now, and we’ll forget this happened.”
“The way we forgot about the jungle?”
“How did it happen in the jungle?”
She jerked up her chin. “I was too much for you then, and I still am. That’s why it’s all words with you. That’s what you fall back on when you can’t do anything else.”
“Why, you harridan—”
“I said it before. I scare you, Liam. Isn’t that why you didn’t finish that day in the jungle? Couldn’t keep it up… the macho façade, I mean?”
His mouth dropped open. Did she actually think… The blood rushed into his face and, at the same time, to another place entirely.
The devil. Incredible as it seemed, her defiance and insults aroused him even as she derided his manhood. She had that much inexplicable power over him.
He remembered her passion in the jungle, that mingling of boldness and innocence that had puzzled and inflamed him, the catlike strength of her slender figure. He remembered the eagerness and wetness of her opening to him without maidenly modesty, no reluctance, wanting as he wanted.