“Very well.” She swiped up the refilled glass, nearly spilling it since it was more than half full this time, and sat back in her chair to take a fortifying gulp. “What would you like to discuss?”
“My passionate enragement, of course. Now, why, I wonder, would you think of rage when I mention passion?”
“Because . . . because . . . oh, devil take it, Malory, you know very well you’ve been annoyed with me.”
“I don’t know anything of the kind.” He was really smiling now, like a cat moving in for the kill. “Perhaps you’ll tell me why I should be annoyed with you?”
Admitting she had struck at his pride would be admitting she had done it deliberately. “I haven’t the faintest notion,” she insisted, eyes as innocently wide as she could make them.
“Haven’t you?” The golden brow arched, and she realized she’d missed that affectation of his these last few days. “Come here, George.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head emphatically.
“I’m merely going to prove that I’m not the least bit enraged with you.”
“I will accept your word on it, I assure you.”
“George—”
“No!”
“Then I’ll come to you.”
She leaped up and ludicrously held out her glass as if it might ward him off. “Captain, I must protest.”
“So must I,” he said on his way around the desk, while she started around the other side to keep it between them. “Don’t you trust me, George?”
This was no time to be diplomatic. “No.”
His chuckle kept her from elaborating. “Smart girl. They do tell me, after all, that I’m a most reprehensible rake, but I prefer Regan’s more discerning ‘connoisseur of women.’ It has a much nicer ring to it, don’t you think?”
“I think you’re drunk.”
“My brother would take exception to that word.”
“Blast your brother and you, too!” she snapped. “This is absurd, Captain.”
She stopped moving around the desk only when he did. She’d kept her glass in hand and somehow managed not to spill a drop. She set it down now and glared at him. He looked back with a grin.
“I quite agree, George. You’re not really going to make me chase you around this thing, are you? This is the sport of doddering old fools and parlormaids.”
“If the shoe fits,” she retorted automatically, then gasped, realizing her mistake.
All traces of humor left him. “I’ll make you eat the bloody shoe this time,” he growled low just before he leaped over the desk.
- Gentle Rogue by Johanna Lindsey