Because Pippa did not have a protector here.
Not really.
After what seemed like an eternity, Temple stopped and placed his hand flat on the exterior wall of the corridor. Like magic, a door opened as if from nowhere.
He let her into an alcove off the main floor of the Angel, closing the door behind them with a soft click. She turned to inspect the wall, running her fingers along the textured silk. It was only because she knew there was one that she found the seam. She turned wide eyes on her companion. “That is remarkable.”
He didn’t immediately reply, instead staring blankly at the wall for a long moment, as though seeing it for the first time and understanding that the rest of the world did not include secret passageways and curved walls and mysterious men. When realization struck, he smiled. “It is, rather, isn’t it?”
“Who designed them?”
He grinned, white teeth flashing in the dim space. “Cross.”
Her hand went back to the invisible seam in the wall. Of course he had.
“Temple!”
The bellow surprised her, but Temple seemed prepared for it, stepping through the curtains at the entrance to the alcove. He revealed himself to the room at large . . . and a stream of excited French. The enormous man raised his hands as if in surrender and made his way across the casino floor, out of sight. Pippa poked her head out to watch.
There was a woman at the far end of the room, cheeks red, hair asunder, wearing a black apron and . . . was that a fish in her hand? Either way, she was cursing like a sailor. A French sailor.
She switched to English. “That imbecile Irvington sent word that he is bringing a collection of his imbecile friends for dinner. And he thinks to tell me how to prepare his fish! I cooked for Charles the Second! He should get down on his knees and thank God himself that I am willing to cook for Idiot Irvington the First!”
Pippa was fairly certain that he was not the first Irvington to be an idiot. Nor the first to be insensitive. Nor unpleasant.
“Now Didier—” Temple began in perfect French, his voice low and smooth, as though he were speaking to some kind of untamed animal.
And perhaps he was. “You will send word to that cretin and tell him that if he does not want to eat the fish the way I wish to cook it, he may find another fish . . . and another chef . . . and another club!” The last fairly shook the rafters of the massive room.
Not a dozen feet from where the strange woman stood, the door to Mr. Cross’s office flew open. “What in hell is going on?”
Pippa’s breath caught as the man emerged, tall and lanky and unshaven. He was in his shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up, and her gaze flew to those long, lean forearms, where muscle curved and rippled over bone. Her mouth went dry. She’d never thought of the forearm as being particularly interesting, but then it was not every day that she saw such a fine specimen.
Yes. It was the anatomy in which she was interested. The bones.
Radius. Ulna.
That did help, to think of the bones.
The cook waved her fish. “Irvington thinks to criticize my sauce! The imbecile would not know a proper sauce if he had a quart of it in his pocket!”
Mr. Cross rolled his eyes. “Didier . . . return to your kitchen and cook your fish. Irvington will eat what we tell him to eat.”
The chef opened her mouth.
“He will eat what we serve him and shan’t know any better.”
“The man has the palate of a goat,” the cook grumbled.
Temple grinned, hands outstretched. “Well, for all our sakes, I hope you do not serve him poisson en papier maché.”
The cook smiled at that. As did Pippa. “I don’t like him.”
“Neither do I, but he and his friends like to lose, so we keep him nonetheless.”
The fight seemed to go out of the cook. “Very well,” she said, wielding the fish in one hand. “I will cook him fish.”
“Perhaps not that exact fish,” Cross said, wryly.
Pippa laughed, forgetting herself, forgetting that sound carried—quick and loud across a cavernous room. His grey eyes snapped to her location. She pulled her head back into the alcove, pressing her back to the wall, heart pounding.
“Now Cross,” she heard Temple cajole from his place on the casino floor.
There was no reply. Pippa strained to hear what happened next, edging closer to the exit, eager for any indication that he’d seen her, that he’d noticed her.
Silence.
For what seemed like an eternity.
Finally, unable to resist, she peered carefully around the side of the enclosure.
To find Mr. Cross standing not six inches away, arms folded over his chest, waiting for her.
She started at his nearness, and said the first thing that came. “Hello.”
One ginger brow rose. “Hello.”
She stepped out to face him, hands clasped tightly in front of her. The cook and Temple were turned toward them, curiosity in their stares. As though this confrontation were somehow stranger than a Frenchwoman brandishing a trout on the floor of a casino.
Well, it wasn’t.
Pippa knew that with utter certainty.
She met Mr. Cross’s cool, grey gaze, and waited for him to say something else.
He did not.
Fine. She could wait. She’d waited before.
Except, after what seemed like a quarter of an hour, she could no longer bear it. “I suppose you are wondering how it is that I came to be here.”
“You are becoming quite a lurker, Lady Philippa.”
She straightened. “I do not lurk.”
“No? My office? Your balcony? Now here . . . in my club . . . in a dark alcove? I would call it lurking.”
“The balcony was mine,” she couldn’t help but point out. “If anyone was lurking, it was you.”
“Mmm.” He narrowed his gaze. “Perhaps you would like to explain your current location?”
“I was nearby,” she explained. “Nearby the club. Not the alcove. Though I suppose one might say that nearby to one is the same as to the other. But I presume the conceptual proximity for each is relative. In your mind. At least.”
Temple snorted from his place a good distance away.
“You would do well to leave us,” Cross said to his partner, not taking his gaze from Pippa. “Before I punish you for letting her in.”
“What was I to do, leave her in the alleyway banging on our door, until someone found her?” Temple’s tone was light and teasing. Out of place. “Besides, she’s not here for you.”
Cross’s grey eyes darkened at the words, and Pippa’s heart began to pound. He was angry. She stepped away from him, unable to stop herself, back into the alcove. He followed, pressing her back, letting the curtains fall behind them, cloaking them in darkness. They were feet from others—who knew they were here, and yet her pulse began to race as he spoke, his voice went dark and threatening. “Why are you here?”
She lifted her chin. “It’s not—” She cleared her throat. “It’s not your concern.”
There was a pause, a hitch in his breathing, as though she’d surprised him. “Did we, or did we not, make a wager?”
“We did.”
He reached out, placing one hand on the wall behind her head, that forearm, clad only in shirtsleeves, more than a little distracting. “And am I wrong in recalling that it involved your commitment to stay away from men who are not your fiancé?”
She did not care for his tone. “You are not wrong.”
He leaned in, so close. Her eyes fell to the open collar of his shirt, where he should have been wearing a cravat but wasn’t. She was irrationally drawn to the triangle of skin there, dusted with hair. She wanted to touch it.
“Explain to me, then, what in hell you are doing with Temple?” His anger
pulled her back to the moment at hand. She could hear it in his voice, low and unsettling.
She tried to get her bearings—nearly impossible in this dark space with him so very close. “He let me in.”
“If you even dream of reneging on our wager, I will send God, Bourne, and your father to keep you in check. In that order.”
“I should not be surprised that you believe you have some control over the Almighty,” she retorted.
He looked like he might like to murder someone.
“Cross.” From beyond the curtain, Temple came to her aid.
Rescued. Pippa released the breath she had not known she had been holding.
Cross turned his head but did not move from where he crowded her. “Leave us.”
Temple yanked the curtains back, letting light into the small space. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. The lady is not here for you.”
Cross was across the alcove in seconds. “She sure as hell isn’t here for you.”
A jolt of excitement threaded through her at the words. As though he were defending her. As though he were willing to fight for her.
How fascinating. She caught her breath at the way he moved, quick and economical. They were inches from each other now—Cross tall and lean, all corded muscle and tension, Temple a few inches shorter, but wider by half . . . and smirking.
“No. She’s not,” Temple said. “She’s here for something else.”
Cross looked back to her, over his shoulder, grey eyes flashing.
“I only have eleven days,” she said, ready to explain her purpose. Surely he’d understand, she was in a critical situation.
Temple interjected, “Perhaps you’d like to give her escort?”
At the light words, Cross’s eyes went blank, and she had the instant and irrational desire to reach out to him, as though he could bring back his emotion. Not that she wanted to. Emotion was not her goal.
Knowledge was.
But she couldn’t have, anyway, as he had already turned away, pushing past Temple and making his way to his office.
She followed, as though on a lead. “Is that all?”
When he arrived at the door to his office, he turned back to her. “You are not my concern.”
A sharp pulse of something akin to pain threaded through her at the words. She rubbed absently at her chest. “You are correct. I am not.”
He ignored the last. “I will not be your keeper. Indeed, I’ve more important matters at hand.”
He opened the door to his office, not attempting to conceal the woman inside.
The beautiful, raven-haired woman with dark eyes and red lips and a smile that seemed like a scandal in itself. Pippa took a step back, her gaze riveted to the other woman as she replayed the events of the last few minutes in her head—his unshaven jaw and wrinkled shirtsleeves, the way he’d opened the door with irritation, as though the cook had interrupted something very important.
He’d been inside his office with this woman, this woman who smiled as though he were the only man in the world. As though she were the only woman.
As though they were tasked with repopulation.
Pippa swallowed. “I see.”
He smirked. “I’m sure you do.”
She took another step back as he closed the door.
I’ve never seen you treat a woman so,” Sally Tasser said, pulling her legs up beneath her in the large wing chair to allow Cross room to pace.
Cross ignored the words and the pang of guilt that came with them. “Where were we?”
Why was she here? How had she twisted their wager—one afternoon together—into a welcome for her to invade his space anytime she liked?
The prostitute raised raven brows in silent disbelief and consulted her notes. “I’ve thirteen girls, all working on the list.” She paused. “Who is she?”
She is temptation incarnate. Sent to destroy him.
“Can they be trusted?”
And what the hell was she doing with Temple?
“They know you deliver on promises.” Another pause. “At least, promises made to whores.”
He spun to face her. “What does that mean?”
“Only that you’ve never been anything but a gentleman to my women. And yet this afternoon you appear to have gravely mistreated a lady.”
He resisted the truth in the words. “And since when have you had sympathy for aristocrats?”
“Since that one looked as though you’d kicked her dog.”
The reference to Pippa’s dog reminded Cross of their conversation the night prior—of Castleton’s request—of her hesitation to name his hound. Of the way her lips curved around the words as she attempted to explain her reticence.
Of the way the entire conversation made him want to steal her away and convince her that marriage to Castleton was absolutely wrong for her.
He did not tell Sally any of that, of course. Instead he said, “I want the fifty biggest gamers in the hell. No one can be missed.”
The woman leveled him with a frank look. “You’ll get them. When have I ever failed you?”
“Never. But there is always time to begin.”
“What’s he got on you?”
Cross shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
She smiled, small and nearly humorless. “I assume you’ve something to do with the way he’s crowing with pride about marrying his girl off to an earl.”
Cross gave her his darkest look. “I’m not marrying the daughter.”
“So you think. She’ll be here in five days, and when she gets here, he’ll stop at nothing to get you married.” When he did not reply, she added, “You don’t believe it? This is Knight.”
“I am not marrying the girl,” he repeated.
Sally watched him for a long moment before saying, “I shall work the floor that night. If a single deep pocket comes through the door, I’ll slip him an invitation to Pandemonium myself.” She inclined her head toward the door. “Now tell me about the girl.”
He forced himself to sit, and to deliberately misunderstand the question. “I’ve never met Meghan. Ask Knight about her.”
She smiled wryly. “Really, Cross? This silly game?”
He resisted the urge to shove his hands through his hair, instead leaning back in his chair, all control. Pippa Marbury was more than any decent man could handle. And he was far from decent. “She’s someone who should not have come here.”
He should have barred her from entry.
She laughed. “You did not have to tell me that. Yet come here she did.”
“She has a taste for adventure.”
“Well, she’s sniffing round the wrong tree if she wants that.”
He didn’t reply, knowing better.
“You’re trying to keep her away from you?”
God, yes. He didn’t want her here. He didn’t want her touching his things, leaving her mark, tempting him. Didn’t want her threatening his sanctuary. Didn’t want her tainting this dark place with her light. “I’m trying to keep her away in general.”
She leaned forward. “She’s not your lover.”
“Of course not.”
One of her black brows rose. “There’s no of course about it. Perhaps there would have been if I hadn’t seen her face.”
“I may well owe the girl an apology, but that doesn’t make her anything close to my lover.”
Sally smiled at that. “Don’t you see, Cross? It’s because you feel you owe her an apology that makes her closer to your lover than any of the rest of us.” She paused for a long moment before adding, “And even if you didn’t feel that way, the girl’s face would have been enough.”
“She came to request my assistance in a matter.” A ridiculous matter, but Sally need not know that.
“She may request your assistance
in one matter,” the prostitute said with a soft, knowing laugh, “but she wants your assistance with something else entirely.”
Cross’s gaze narrowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sex,” she said, plainly, as though she were talking to a child. A child wise beyond his years. “The woman saw what I am. She knows what I do. And she was jealous.”
Cross met her dark eyes, seeing only Pippa’s large, shocked blue ones, made massive by the lenses of her spectacles. “There’s no reason for her to be jealous.”
“Sadly, that is true.” Sally’s mouth pursed in a perfect moue, and she leaned back in the chair. “But she doesn’t know that.”
Frustration coursed through him. “I mean, she wasn’t jealous.”
Sally smiled. “Of course she was. She wants you.”
“No. She wants my assistance with some”—he hesitated on the word—“research.”
Sally laughed, long and loud. “I’ve no doubt she does.”
Cross turned away, reaching blindly for a file he did not need. “We are finished.”
Sally sighed and stood, approaching the desk. “Just tell me, does she know?”
He closed his eyes, frustrated. “Does she know what?”
“Does she know that she’ll never have you?”
“She’s marrying a lord in just over a week.” And even if she weren’t, she’s legions too good for me.
“Engagements are made to be broken.”
“I forget how cynical you can be.”
“It’s a hazard of the occupation.” She moved to the door, turning back before she opened it. “You should tell her. Before the poor thing becomes sick with unrequited love.”
He did not reply.
After a long moment, she said, “I’ll see you tomorrow with your list.”
“Thank you.”
She nodded once and opened the door, turning to leave before she looked back, a smile playing over her too-red lips. “Shall I allow your next appointment in?”
He knew before he looked what he would find when Sally stepped out of the doorway.
Philippa Marbury was seated on a high croupier’s stool, not five feet away, nibbling at the edge of a sandwich.
He did not mean to stand, but he stood anyway, coming around his desk as though he were chased. “Did someone feed you?”