Her heart squeezed in dismay. Sinclair spoke so confidently, but he had no idea what he was up against. “Oh, you will, will you? He’s a first-class villain, Jeffrey is. Even his friends don’t trust him. He’s got all kinds of tricks, and he likes hurting people.”
“My friends are well able to take on someone like him. Trust me.” Sinclair drained the glass in one long swallow and turned back to the sideboard.
Bertie waited until he’d set the glass down, then she launched herself across the room and got her arms around the startled Sinclair from behind. She pulled him backward and jammed her hand to his throat as though she held a knife.
“Yeah?” Bertie said in his ear, trying to ignore the sleek warmth of his hair so near her lips. “This is what Jeffrey would do to you. If I’d been him, he’d have killed you already. What do you think about that?”
Chapter 12
For a moment Sinclair didn’t move. His body was solid under hers, hard muscle beneath the giving fabric of his coat. Bertie felt his chest expand with his breath, his pulse thud beneath her fingertips. The contact, this intimate, made her so giddy she almost lost hold of him.
A heartbeat later, Sinclair broke her grip, whirled Bertie around, and had her off him and against the nearest wall before she knew what happened. Sinclair’s strong hand was at her throat, his fingers just pressing her skin.
His breath was warm and smelled of whiskey. “This is what I do to men who attack me, Bertie. You don’t have to worry about me. I can hold my own.”
His gray eyes were so near hers, the irises flecked with lighter gray, his lashes as light as his hair. Sinclair’s mouth—that firm-lipped mouth that spoke the rich, rumbling words—was very close to her own. If Bertie didn’t squirm away now, she’d do something foolish, like kiss him.
She drew a breath, contriving to look intimidated. “I’m sorry. I only meant . . .”
Instantly, Sinclair took his hand from her neck, set her on her feet, and took a swift step back. “Lass, I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to frighten you . . .”
Bertie spun away, laughing. “You’re a soft touch, you are. As soon as a thief starts to cry, you’ll apologize and let him go?” She held up her hands. From her fingers dangled Sinclair’s handkerchief, his watch, and a small pouch of coins. She grinned her triumph.
“Bertie, you bloody little . . .” Sinclair broke off, glancing at the open door, then crossing to close it. “How the devil did you do that?”
“Easy as winking. You see? You need someone looking after you.”
Sinclair came to her, his amazement mixed with irritation. “Show me how you took them. So I can be on my guard.”
Bertie returned the watch, coins, and handkerchief to his cupped hands. “Wasn’t hard. You were concentrating on your hand at my throat, but all the while, my fingers were sliding into your pockets.”
Sinclair tucked his things away. “In other words, while I was trying to put down my attacker, she was busy robbing me.”“Exactly. I was taught never to come out of an encounter without winning something. But even if I’d only passed by you in the street, I’d have had something off you. Like I did when I took your watch.”
“When you beguiled me, you mean,” Sinclair said.
“Beguiled?” Bertie’s face heated. “I did no such thing.”
“You smiled at me, and made the day better.” His voice softened. “On that gray day, I needed a smile.”
A small flame burned in Bertie’s chest. “My good luck, then. But I could have done it without you noticing me at all, if someone hadn’t shoved me into you.”
Sinclair’s eyes glinted. “I don’t believe you. Show me.”
“All right. Go on across the room and then walk back toward me.”
Sinclair slanted her a look that made fire race through her blood, then he turned and strode across the room. At the far end he turned back and started for her, not allowing her time to prepare.
Didn’t matter. Bertie strolled past, pretending she didn’t notice him, barely brushing him as she went by. Sinclair stopped at the other end of the room, near the windows. “Well?” he asked. “Another turn?”
“Don’t need one.” Bertie held up a silver card case that flashed in the lamplight. “Lost this, did you?”
Sinclair’s brows came down. “Bloody hell. How did you—?”
“Misdirection.” Bertie came to him and handed him the card case. “Put that back in your pocket.”
Sinclair dropped it in. Bertie walked past him again, letting her shoulder bump him gently, as she had before. A tiny tap, barely noticed in a crowd.
“See, you turn a little to adjust,” she said, stopping the movement. “And the contact distracts you. While you move to keep your balance, I dip inside your pocket and take whatever I can get me fingers around.” Bertie pulled her hand out, his card case between her fingers.
“I see.” Sinclair’s eyes narrowed. “Try it again.”
Bertie shrugged, gave him back the case, and walked away from him. This time, when the two passed in the middle of the room, Bertie bumped him a little harder and brushed her fingers over his wrist. Sinclair gave a laugh of triumph and caught Bertie’s hand, prying open her fingers.
Her hand was empty. Bertie grinned and showed him what was in her other hand, his pouch of money.
“Damn and blast it,” he said.