He was thoroughly wrong, no man wanted her, but his words affected her so much that she pounced on the bed, grabbed the key, rushed to the door and began to unlock it. "I want you to leave. Now." He had been sincere and she was certain of it.
His hand caught hers, covering it, stopping her from opening the door. And their gazes connected wildly once again. "You haven't changed, and I am glad," he said, smiling slightly. "You are still bold and courageous, and more beautiful than ever." His smile was gone. "I would hate to see you subdued by society and men like your father."
His words thrilled her, but she did not want to be thrilled, and they also frightened her. She said, "No one, not ever! you, could ever subdue me, Braxton."
He was silent. A tension fell that was thick and heavy, and with it an absolute silence, in which only their breathing could be heard. "Is that a challenge, my dear?" he finally asked.
Annabel stopped breathing. Her heart drummed against her chest. "No."
He laughed. The sound was as rich as his voice, as tempting, as infuriating. "I think that was a struggle, Annabel."
"I hate you," she cried, slamming her fist into his chest. "Now get out-and don't you dare come near me again!"
His laughter died. He caught her right wrist immediately, the action reflexive. And suddenly Annabel fell fully against him-and she was practically in his arms.
She became acutely aware of her hand in his, his fingers on her wrist, and his long, hard body pressing up against hers. She looked up. He had also became motionless. Their gazes locked.
Annabel knew he was going to kiss her. She forgot the past. Expectation-anticipation-engulfed her.
"I knew," he said suddenly, his tone low, his words slow, "that if I said good-bye, you would convince me to take you with me. That I would not be strong enough to resist you."
Annabel felt her gaze widen.
He still held her hand. But now he was clasping it. "I did not want to be responsible for ruining your life. You deserve far more than a life on the lam. You had your entire life in front of you, with so many possibilities. I did not want to take any of those opportunities away."
Annabel was stunned.
His reached up and touched her cheek with two fingers, a brief caress that sent shivers coursing over every inch of Annabel's body, followed by an intense longing- a yearning that had never completely died. "I honestly did not think I would ever see you again," he said, and his expression was twisted and odd. "I think I had better go."
Annabel was stunned by the entire encounter, but one coherent thought was clear in her mind-she did not want him to go, not so soon, not yet. It had been so long since they had been together, even just to converse with one another.
But she had pride, and never had she been more confused in her entire life. She watched him crack open the door. "The hall is clear," he said, pausing-as if he did
not want to leave quite yet, either. His regard was so direct it was unsettling.
She found her sanity and her voice. "Then go." She swallowed. "Pierce. My sisters and brothers-in-law are here, as well."
He stared. And smiled, with his eyes. "Thank you for the warning," he said.
Annabel could not find an appropriate response.
His gaze held hers for another moment before he slipped from the room.
She stood in the doorway, staring after him, long after he had disappeared. Tears were falling from her eyes.
Chapter Seven
Pierce regarded the rain.
The downpour continued, unabated. It was accompanied by a heavy fog, making it almost impossible to see more than a dozen feet in any direction. Pierce did not see, not the rain, not the blanket of mist, nor the few evergreens poking through pockets of it. He only saw Annabel, barefoot and disheveled, and in spite of her courage, obviously so damn vulnerable.
How perverse life was.
He had not lied when he had told her that he had not thought to ever see her again. He was dismayed. He had not wished for their paths to ever cross again. Yet he was also elated, peculiarly so, and there was no denying it.'".
His pulse continued to pound.
He sighed, turning away from the window, clad only in his shirt and trousers, his sleeves rolled casually up. His single leather trunk, large enough to contain an average-sized man, lay on the floor. His single valise lay on the bed. His jaw set, he went to the black trunk and began removing his clothing from it. He had a job to do.
Which was why he could not leave. And it had nothing to do with Annabel Boothe, but everything to do with the Countess Rossini.
Annabel entered the salon where the guests mingled before supper. It was a large room with gleaming oak floors and Persian rugs, and two brass gaslight chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, which was painted moss green. The walls were papered in a tree-of-life print, and most of the furnishings were yellow or green. Her heart was racing far too wildly to be ignored. Annabel paused on the threshold, glancing around. Numerous guests were present, including her sisters and their husbands, the women in lavish evening gowns, the men in black dinner jackets. But Braxton had not come. She had known he would not, anyway, for it was far too dangerous. But her heart sank like a stone, filled with undeniable dismay.
Annabel realized she had been trembling, and she grimaced. Worse, she had dressed with great care for supper, in a splendid gown of creamy beige lace that was very bare, showing off most of her bosom and all of her shoulders. She wore a velvet choker around her neck, and hanging from it was one large and perfect South Sea pearl. Never one to care particularly about her appearance, tonight she had wanted to be beautiful, and in this gown and necklace, neither of which she ever wore, with her cheeks flushed with excitement, her blue eyes brilliant, her hair upswept, she had known that was the case. How foolishly disappointed she now was that he was not present to notice and admire her.
She saw several men staring, including James Apple-ton Beard and the elderly Mr. Frank. Annabel sighed, moving toward her family without looking at anyone else. As she passed a group of guests, she heard someone say, "Can you believe that is her?" in shock and incredulity, as if such elegance and beauty were an impossibility for herself.
"Annabel!" Lizzie cried, beaming. "I have never seen that gown before! How wonderful you look!" Lizzie was holding the hand of her two-year-old soil, Evan.
"That is because I have never worn it." Annabel bent to tousle Evan's dark hair and kiss his plump cheek. "Hi, sweetie. How was your supper?"
He stuck his thumb in his mouth and smiled at her. "Goo'," he said.
His nanny stepped forward. "We were waiting for you, Miss Boothe. It is time for Master Evan to say good-night."
Annabel bent and hugged him, holding him against her chest for a moment. "Sweet, sweet dreams, Evan. I will play with you in the morning, I promise." She smiled at him.
"Play ten?" he asked, taking his nursemaid's hand.
"Yes, we shall play tennis, weather permitting." Annabel grinned.
Evan was led away. For one moment Annabel watched him, not hearing Melissa making a comment on how odd it was to teach a two-year old to play tennis before he could even spell his ABC's. And then she froze. Standing not far from the doorway, watching her intently, was none other than Pierce St. Clare.
Annabel could feel all the coloring draining from her face. Her heart, which felt as if it had halted, now resumed beating, but violently. She had never dreamed he would dare to show himself. Even if he was in disguise- somewhat.
He smiled slightly at her and inclined his head. Annabel turned abruptly away. Was he insane? He had added thick streaks of white to his hair, changing it from a lustrous blue-black to an iron gray. He had done something to his mouth, she was not sure what, but the bottom lip was fuller and protruding. His nose too had changed, it was larger and crooked. But as far as Annabel was concerned, he was quite remarkable, and anyone who knew him would recognize him instantly.