Meena fidgeted next to the glass case protecting Reginald Blackborough’s precious Egyptian antiquity and pretended to admire the slender statuette as if she were planning to bundle her home in her purse.

Feigning an unholy interest in the crime lord’s property would have been much easier if her daring new gown weren’t itching like the very devil.

The gathered lace edging the low neckline was lovely, but it tickled her skin every time she breathed. Which irritated her far less than the thought that Spencer Crane was quite likely to show himself. Every fingersmith, cutpurse, and jewel thief of any notoriety whatsoever was already present. Surely a man with an ego the size of Crane’s wouldn’t pass up the chance to have a go at Blackborough’s treasure.

She ran a gloved finger beneath the neckline of her dress, trying to ease the tickling as discretely as possible. At least the gala itself was highly entertaining. The ball was a bizarre mix of London society and the worst of the criminal underworld.

Each appeared to be vastly thrilled to be in such exotic company.

Beneath the Parisienne perfumes, the pomade, and the acrid tang from the gas lamps glowing along the walls, the ballroom smelled of excitement. It was not precisely the happy kind, she decided. Rather it seemed the sort of giddy fear the fashionable set often craved.

She must take care not to allow it to infect her.

The night’s job required the utmost care, precision, and timing. If her plan went to perfection, Blackborough wouldn’t suspect they’d lifted the journal until he was days past his post-gala champagne headache.

She shifted from one leg to the other. As she moved, the stiff lace edging her gown tickled the bare skin above her chemise, making her wince. The unfamiliar weight of their client’s faux journal swung gently in its clever hiding place in the pocket Briar had stitched into the gown’s immense bustle. Silly as the size of fashionable apparel had become, in Meena’s opinion, at least she could put the yards of fabric to good use. There was plenty of room for both the small brown book and Bowles and Company’s finest bi-aural stethoscope.

Habit made her survey the exits one last time. She knew precisely how many steps it took to traverse the grand hall to the study, and she had several excuses at the ready, should she encounter any of the staff on her way to Blackborough’s private study.

While plans could be refined to the slightest degree, and steps measured to the second, human beings had an unfortunate tendency to muck about at the worst possible times. That being a certainty, even her secondary plans had secondary plans.

At least the man had the sense to invest in a proper safe. He had to be one of the first in the city to install the delightful Dreadstone Superior model.

She couldn’t wait to get her hands on it.

Ooof. A sharp elbow to the back shoved her even closer to the glass case guarding the priceless artifact.

Far from living up to its billing as the most honored guest at the ball, the little statuette looked tired. And rather bemused. Not so differently from the way she herself felt about the whole ridiculous crush.

She leaned closer to the case, careful not to press her nose against the thick glass as she studied the delicate artistry.

“Don’t go getting too attached to ‘er, now, Miss Sweet.” A short man at her left elbow spoke quietly. “Word has it the Jonquil’s got his eye on that pretty thing.”

Meena stiffened. “Yes, well the Jonquil generally has his eye on quite a lot of pretty things, doesn’t he?”

The elderly thief snorted. “If that isn’t the truth.” He laid a bony hand on her arm. “I know he was soft on you awhile past, but it wouldn’t do to cross him. There’s plenty more sparkly bits in this jumped up hall for the taking.”

Meena watched her old acquaintance study the crush of guests, clearly calculating the price of every expensive necklace, pocket watch, tiara, and bracelet within reach.

She snatched a shrimp toast off the tray of a passing waiter. “No need to concern yourself, Mr. Tandish. I have no intention of stepping on Spencer Crane’s toes. Indeed, I am most hopeful I will never see those toes again.”

“You always were a sensible thing.” Tandish nodded absently and wandered off after a large matron with an even larger diamond pendant glittering beneath her chins.

“I would, however, most terrifically enjoy stomping up and down on them a few times, should the occasion arise,” Meena confessed to her new Egyptian friend.

Before she could raise the canapé to her mouth, it was lifted from her fingers. “Much thanks for the warning.”

Meena seemed to float right out of her body. She’d imagined this meeting a thousand times.

Unfortunately, she hadn’t imagined herself to be unarmed.

Meena glared down at Spencer Crane’s highly polished boots. She took slow, even breaths, just as she had practiced so very many times in the event of just such an occasion. “That would be most excellent advice, Crane.”

The man grinned and popped her canapé into his mouth. She could only hope the shrimp had gone off hours ago. How terribly unfair that his looks had not.

She studied him as he chewed. Still tall, still broad shouldered and slim-hipped, and that mouth… still unspeakably kissable.

A one-man bundle of utter destruction.

The man was built to please women. To plunder their mouths with sinful kisses. To run those beautiful hands over their bodies until they cried out in passion. And then, in the end, to crush their hearts to dust.

Crane brushed an imaginary crumb from his waistcoat. “You look well, Meena.”

“Nice of you to say.” Liar.

If she weren’t exquisitely aware that he preferred a far different sort of female, she could almost convince herself that his eyes sparkled with interest.

Oh, she fancied up well enough, but Meena didn’t fool herself into thinking she could compare with the wealthy wicked women swirling about the room with their diamonds and rouge.

She could play one well enough. But she couldn’t be one. Meena had enough self-honesty to admit she lacked their love of the hunt. Their preoccupation with sensuality. Their willingness to subordinate all to win a man.

“You’ll excuse, me?” She moved to plunge into the surging crowd, hoping to lose herself in the sea of pastel satin.

Crane grabbed her wrist. “You should heed Tandish. Blackborough’s not a man to trifle with.”

Meena pulled out of his grasp and blinked up at him as if she hadn’t a brain in her head. “Oh? Do tell.”

The rueful smile that played at the corners of his mouth was just the sort of thing that would have sent her heart aflutter four seasons past. Now it made her want to slap him.

“Just this once, Meena, don’t be so blindingly stubborn.”

“And leave this little gem for you? I think not.” All the better if he, too, thought she was after the figurine.

Crane caressed the corner of the case. “I’ll have to get it first, then.” His supreme arrogance would have been stunning in a less-talented thief.

Meena laughed. “Best of luck to you.”

His thin smile bloomed into an all out grin. “I never need luck.”

How maddeningly true. Meena wanted to kick him. Instead, she studied the room, searching out the large case clock on the wall opposite the overwrought orchestra.

Exactly time. “Sadly, Crane, I must be going.” She turned away.

“You used to call me Spencer.”

Meena paused. Her fingers crushed the sleek green satin of her scandalous new gown. She refused to acknowledge the way his soft voice squeezed her heart. “I used to do a lot of silly things. Good bye, Crane.”

Her back prickled as she fought her way through the chaotic tide of ruched silks, bustled satins, and dark, tailored evening coats to the far side of the ballroom. Someday, he’d have no power over her. His smile would have no effect on her pulse. His seductive gaze would fail to make her breath catch. His mere presence would in no way command every ounce of her attention.

She fussed with the pins holding her hair up in the Grecian style Briar had so carefully created. The slender lock picks remained in place, artfully twisted into her coiffure. Putting Crane firmly out of mind, Meena tried to visualize each step she’d need to take once she made it into Blackborough’s study. Her fingers twisted right, then left, then right again, as if she could already feel the safe’s lock giving way.

But her mind strayed. She risked a quick glance back toward the artifact.

The glass case stood alone next to the orchestra, tall and stiff and unaccompanied, like the other wallflowers.

He’d moved on.

The fact was more deflating than it should have been. Of course, he had. With so very many hungry wives and bored widows to choose from, it would take him all night to make a selection.

Damnation, but her new gown itched. She squirmed her shoulders around as much as she dared in the low-cut dress. Better torture by tickling than torture by Spencer Crane.

Over the loud mix of music and laughter, Meena caught the clock striking midnight. She glanced back across the room. Briar, in her black and white maid’s costume, had maneuvered herself between the orchestra and the artifact.

Exactly as they had rehearsed.

If all went to plan, they’d end the evening by saving a young man’s career.

Then, maybe, she could get about the business of forgetting Spencer Crane.

Again.

* * *

The two young lords were blazingly drunk—and far too close to the door of Blackborough’s study for Meena’s comfort.

But for the drunken party goers, the hallway was empty. For the moment. Hands fisted on her hips, she blew out a sharp breath. Edison would be cutting off the gas to Blackborough’s bloated mansion any moment.

She eyed the flame in the wall sconce above her head. Was it already dimming? The instant the light failed, she needed to get through that door. A tiny fission of fear, like the smallest prick of a knife, crawled up her neck.

She resisted the urge to cosh the pickled lordlings on the head.

“Thish is a bang up row,” the taller one observed.

His companion was busy loosening his cravat. “Tip top,” he agreed, and staggered backwards as if struck by a giant gust of wind.

Brandy fumes sharp enough to burn her eyes rolled off the pair. This had not been one of the contingencies she’d anticipated.

“B’lieve I’ll take a lil’ rest now.”

As she watched in horror, the first lordling stumbled back against the door. By the time he slid to the ground, he was unconscious.

Swaying alarmingly, his companion bent forward to examine him. “Harrington?” He gave the man’s chest a hearty poke.

The lights in the hallway flickered.

Meena yanked the neckline of her gown even lower and hurried toward the pair. “Oh, Harrington, there you are, you goose.” She nudged the fallen man’s leg with her foot. “Harrington?” At her prodding, the man’s head rocked slightly on his rubbery neck.

She frowned up at his companion, affecting a spoiled pout. “He promised he would meet me in the garden. It was terribly difficult to get away from Mama. She’s constantly on the lookout for fortune hunters.” For added effect, she toyed with her diamond necklace.

The man blinked for a long moment. “I—” He cleared his throat and started again. “I could meet y-you in th’ garden.”

She bit her lower lip and trailed a finger down the man’s chest. “Would you?”

Though she barely touched him, he staggered to the side. “Be my pleasure, Miss…?” His unfocused eyes scanned her face.

“Wollstonecraft.” She squeezed his fingers. “Mary Wollstonecraft.”

“I’ll meet you in a tick, Mish Woll… Miss W.… Miss.” He glanced around the deserted hallway. “I jesh need the ah… ah….”

“I believe the facilities are that way.” Meena gestured back toward the ballroom.

The man tottered off just as the lights flickered out.

Meena squatted next to the unconscious man and gave him a hearty shove. He toppled sideways, his crumpled body leaving just enough space for her to get around him.

A quick check of the doorknob told her the study was locked. Exactly as she had anticipated. She pulled her lock picks out of the curls coiled atop her head and slid the first into the keyhole. Two quick twists of the second and the door popped open.

Meena slipped inside and clicked the lock shut behind her. She shook her head. One would think a criminal mastermind like Blackborough would invest in finer security.

Unless he relied on his reputation for butchery to keep his possessions safe.

The thought made her heart thump hard against her ribs.

Though she’d been prepared for complete darkness, she couldn’t help trying to blink it away. An acrid note of stale cigar smoke and the lighter, softer scent of polished leather spoke of a man’s room. A center of power. Of fear.

She rested there, her back against the closed door and calmed her mind, visualizing the layout of the room as she’d seen it the week before. Straight ahead was Blackborough’s desk, built into the wall behind it, the safe. The man hadn’t even bothered to conceal it. It was nestled into the paneling behind his great behemoth of a desk, not even a bad painting hung over the door.

Even in the complete darkness, she could picture the unique lock of the Dreadstone Superior.

Her fingers twitched. She’d been dying to try one.

Outside the thick door, voices rose in confusion as darkness filled every corner of the great house. Edison had played his part to perfection.

Careful not to make a sound, she felt her way across the room and around the desk. The large dial of the Dreadstone was cold to the touch, but it spun smoothly beneath her fingers. A magnificent piece of machinery.

“What happened to the lights?” Voices, sharp with confusion, sounded out in the hallway. “Bring candles. Quickly.”

She had but seconds.

Meena reached back into the hidden pocket of her bustle and extracted her stethoscope and the faux journal. Then she closed her eyes and began the calming mantra she’d used so many times to focus her concentration.

A breath in. A breath out. A breath in.

As it always had, the energy began flowing from her very center, through her shoulders, down her arms, out to the ends of her fingers.

She seated the ear pieces of the stethoscope in her ears and pressed the diaphragm to the door of the safe. A moment’s pause allowed her ears to adjust to the tiny sounds now coming from the instrument. The piece was sensitive enough to pick up the sound of the blood flowing through her fingers. Once acclimated to the background noise, she spun the dial ever so slowly to the right. The first tumbler fell in to place with the barest click and a lessening of tension that she could feel in her sensitive fingertips.

“Find out what’s going on!” Blackborough’s cigar-roughened voice came from just outside the door. “Now!”

Fear squeezed her chest, making her heart pump harder, making it difficult to hear the subtle scrape of metal on metal that helped her find the combination. The energy focussed in her fingertips zinged through Meena’s body like an electrical current, almost making her lightheaded. She took her fingers off of the dial. What had she been thinking? Blackborough was the biggest crime lord in London. In the whole of England, more like. What a man like that would do to her if he found her now…

But he wouldn’t. She was mere seconds away from finishing the job.

A breath in. A breath out. A breath in.

Blackborough’s heavy footsteps faded down the hall, a host of lighter steps following. Meena blew out a long, deep breath and pressed the stethoscope back to the door of the safe. A quick spin to the left and the second tumbler fell. With utter deliberation, she moved the dial once again to the right, alert for the feel of the final tumbler dropping.

A body slammed against the outer wall of the study, making her jump. “Blazing hell.” The curse escaped her mouth before she could stop it.

She backed away from the safe and took another deep, calming breath. And another. In. Out. In. Out.

The energy moved back into her fingertips, and her breathing calmed enough for her to hear the safe’s mechanism moving as she turned the dial one last time.

And done.

The final tumbler gave way. With a sharp, downward pull of the handle, the door swung silently open.

She pulled the earpieces of the scope out of her ears and let the instrument fall around her neck like a necklace, then she patted the inside of the safe, feeling for the journal. There, atop what felt like a thick stack of bank notes, her fingers grazed it. She lifted the palm-sized book out of the safe. With the other hand, she scooped up the fake she’d set on the desk.

“I’ll take that.”

Meena lashed out, her body reacting before she had time to think. The spine of the journal connected with something hard, eliciting a gratifying grunt of pain.

“Damn it all to bleeding hell.” The voice was strangely muffled.

Meena shoved at the intruder’s chest, meaning to throw him off balance and run.

And then she froze, a book in each hand. That voice. That mix of Talbot’s Lime Elixir. Licorice. Pure man.

“Crane?”

“My nose. I think you broke it.”

Tension drained from her body, only to be replaced by a hot rush of righteous anger. “It would entertain me greatly to be so fortunate.”

A match flared to life. Meena blinked against the sudden light. She thrust the real journal behind her back, feeling desperately for the hidden pocket in her bustle. A corner of the book snagged the opening, and she dropped it into place.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. “The artifact’s in the ballroom.”

“Yes, I know.” He took the slightest step toward her.

Meena held her ground. Shock, anger, and a great deal of annoyance swirled through her like a toxic fog. She’d expected him here. Well, not here, exactly. At the ball, of course. With a prize like Blackborough’s statue for the taking, why wouldn’t he be? But what was he doing in the study, besides irritating the living tar out of her?

She glared at him. “What’s here that’s worth more than Blackborough’s new toy?”

He pointed at the decoy journal.

She snatched it up and took a healthy step back. “Too late.”

A great sigh escaped him. Slowly, carefully, he wiggled his nose.

And then he lunged for her.

Meena scrambled backwards, cursing herself for all kinds of a fool. She should have fled the instant she smashed him in the face. He was quick and strong and —as she had great cause to know— entirely ruthless when it came to getting his way.

And she needed to put the new journal back in the safe.

Her free hand grazed the heavy leather desk chair. Another step back put it between them. With a great whoosh of air, she blew out the match, yanked the chair out from behind the desk, and shoved it at Crane.

“Ouch! Damn it, Meena, that was my shin.”

“Come any closer and it’ll be something much worse.” She raced for the safe, but her foot caught on the corner of an end table, sending her sprawling.

She clawed at the rug, trying to push herself up.

“Don’t take this so hard.” He was inching toward her, as if time was of no import, as if he were a tiger stalking its prey. “I’m doing this for a client. I’ll give you a cut. You know that.”

“I most certainly do not know that.”

Meena managed to get her feet under her and sprang up, just as Crane crashed into her from behind. She sprawled across the floor next to the desk, the air forced from her lungs as he fell atop her with an oath.

But she still had the journal. “Get off me,” she commanded.

“I think not.” He let the weight of his body press her further into the floor. “I rather like it here.”

She wasn’t sure she liked the tinge of surprise she detected in his voice. Grunting with effort, Meena folded the arm holding the book beneath her chest. “You are exceedingly vulgar.”

His laughter rippled through her. “Not all women believe that to be a bad thing.”

Her cheeks flamed. It was a bad thing. A terrible, awful thing. A thing that had brought her nothing but trouble.

She wormed her other arm beneath her as well and clutched the book with both hands. “Blackborough will have the gas back on momentarily. You had better get off me if you wish to live.”

“This would be a great deal easier if you’d hand me that book.” Crane traced a finger down her cheek. “You don’t want to take on a man like Blackborough.”

He smelled of licorice. Licorice and limes and…. Meena shook her head, trying to wipe away his spell.

He sighed. “I thought not.” His weight lifted slightly. “Sorry to be so vulgar, but—”

Strong hands circled her waist, roving over her bodice, grabbing the bottom edge of the book.

Meena gritted her teeth. She yanked the book upwards, toward her chin, trying to keep it out of his reach, trying to distract herself from those strong, talented fingers.

One more heartbeat and he’d be cupping her breasts. Desire, hot as liquid fire, doused her. It dulled her brain, wracked her with memories, made her ache with wanting.

A soft, insistent hiss surrounded them, growing quickly in volume.

“The gas.” Meena squirmed under him. “It’s back on. Close the valves.”

Crane rolled off of her and jumped to his feet.

Meena sprang up after him and ran for the safe. The sharp tang of raw gas bit at the back of her throat.

Just as she moved to toss the journal into the open safe, Crane reached past her and slammed it shut. “Oh no, you don’t.” A quick spin of the dial reset the tumblers.

The journal clutched to her chest, Meena kicked him in the shin.

“Ouch! You little—”

When he reared back, she ducked under his arm and ran for the door.

But he beat her to it.

With one hand pressed tightly against the door, he used the other to turn off the gas to the wall sconce by his head.

The dreadful hissing stopped, but the thick, noxious air was making her dizzy. Feet ran to and fro in the hallway outside the door. Between the noise and the dizziness, her brain was moving too slowly.

She couldn’t think.

Light filtered in from under the door behind Crane. No time to reopen the safe. She glared at him in the weak light. “Damn you!”

“Most assuredly so.” Crane stalked her.

Book clutched to her chest, she retreated until the edge of the desk stopped her progress.

It was his expression, an odd mix of determination and maybe—she hoped—a small spark of regret, that signaled just how deadly serious he was about relieving her of her prize.

She shoved the small book down the front of her dress.

A wicked grin pinned her to the spot. “This is going to be fun.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” She folded her arms across her chest.

Crane threw her a pitying look.

Meena swallowed, hard. Much to her everlasting shame, a tiny part of her wanted him to reach into her bodice and take it.

Out in the hall, footsteps pounded toward the study. Crane put a finger to his lips. The running stopped just outside the door. Deep breathing, and then the telltale snick of the lock opening.

He grabbed her, dragging her toward the drapes. “Hide.”

Meena pulled back. “No time.”

One option remained.

It would cost her dearly. She had no doubt of that.

As the door swung open behind them, she pulled his head down toward her and kissed him for all she was worth.

* * *

It had been years—four, and some months, if he was honest with himself—since Spencer had been kissed like that.

He shouldn’t have missed her.

He didn’t miss the other women he’d bedded, didn’t miss their special scents, didn’t miss the way they felt in his arms. Meena was the only one who’d ever left him wanting.

Left him wishing he were a better man.

Curved where he was taut, and delightfully rounded exactly where he wanted to place his hands, she fit perfectly against him. Spencer wrapped his arms around her, splaying his hands across her lower back. He pulled her closer, tight enough to feel the hard edges of the journal between them.

He tilted his head and slanted his mouth more fully over hers, deepening the kiss, enjoying the sweet, clean scent of her. She still tasted of strawberries. Sweet, with an intriguing bite. After all that time.

Astounding.

Spencer slid a hand to the back of her neck. His thumb grazed the soft hair at the base of her hairline. It could have been his imagination, but he would have sworn the smallest sigh escaped her lips as she nestled more firmly against him.

Real or not, the tiny sound smacked him straight in the heart.

“Crane. And Miss Sweet. How perfect.”

Spencer froze, his mouth atop hers. Sweetness turned to vinegar.

Not that voice. Not now.

He pulled away from her and glared at the figure in the doorway. “Damn it to hell.”

For an instant, she stared up at him, eyes soft, mouth parted, welcoming, willing, wanting. He hoped he’d be able to remember that look, to savor it for a while.

He wasn’t likely to see it again.

Blinded by the bright light now pouring in from the hallway, Spencer blinked. Unfortunately, the underfed figure in the doorway didn’t disappear. “Ramsay.”

“Indeed.” The other man slipped into the room and shut the door behind him.

An instant later, the sconce was lit. Ramsay had a pistol aimed at his chest.

He wanted to hit something. Ramsay. Here. With a gun. Not a turn of events he had anticipated. Spencer dropped his arms from around Meena’s waist and shoved her behind him.

“Jamison Ramsay?” Meena peeked around him. “I thought you were dead.”

“Why does everyone think that?” Ramsay waggled the pistol ever so slightly, clearly impatient. He held out his free hand, palm up. “The journal?”

“We couldn’t open the safe.” Meena responded before Spencer could finish calculating how to handle the situation. He was quick, but she’d always been quicker.

“Really?” Ramsay shook his head as if deeply saddened by her ploy. “Crane could do it one handed, and you’re far better than he is.”

Spencer stared at the gun. “Give him the journal, Meena.” If Ramsay’s attention wavered for even an instant, he’d spring.

Ramsay stepped closer, his free hand out, fingers grasping. “We have an agreement. Hasn’t he told you?”

Meena sagged against his back. Her shock, her disappointment, stabbed him between the ribs.

“No reason to believe this lying pig,” he said over his shoulder. As if there was any way in the world she’d believe him, either.

A deep voice bellowed out in the hallway. “Collect the kitchen staff. Mr. Blackborough wants to know what happened to the gas. Check below stairs. Now.”

“Time to go.” Ramsay shoved the pistol closer to Spencer’s chest. “Give it here and we’re square. Just like we said.”

It killed him to do it, but Spencer turned his back on Ramsay and his pistol and took Meena by the shoulders. “Give it up. If it’s that important, I’ll get it back for you.” He stared down into her angry face, willing her —for once in her damned life— to give in.

It took less than a heartbeat for her expression to move from confusion to anger to outright fury. “Fine.” She yanked the little book out of her bodice and threw it over Spencer’s shoulder at the other man.

Ramsay caught it easily and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat. “You always were a sensible girl.”

If the scowl on Meena’s face was any indication, his compliment had less than impressed.

Ramsay reached in the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a length of rope. “Tie her up.” He pointed at the leather chair facing Blackborough’s massive desk.

Spencer laughed. “Not likely.”

Ramsay aimed the pistol at Meena’s heart and pulled back on the hammer. “Tie her up.”

Anger pulsed through Spencer’s chest, spreading like liquid fire with each beat of his heart. He ached to launch himself across the room and squeeze the man’s absurdly thin neck until it broke.

Outside, voices rose in fear and confusion. “We need a doctor. Quickly. The maid’s fainted.”

“Heaven help us!”

“What’s going on?”

Meena dropped down in the chair and laid her forearms along the arms. “Do as he says,” she ordered Spencer. “Hurry.”

The rope hanging slack in his hands, Spencer studied her face, hoping for a hint at what she was thinking, but she refused to meet his eyes. Nothing for it then but to do the lady’s bidding. He wrapped one end of the rope around her wrist, binding it to the arm of the chair.

“I can’t believe you made me give it to him,” she murmured as he bent over her to secure the other arm.

“Not a lot of choices at the moment.”

Spencer felt her muscles tighten beneath the ropes. The frozen glare in her eyes made it clear who she blamed for that. “We’ll discuss this later,” she warned.

Ramsay stayed on the far side of her, careful to remain just outside of Spencer’s reach. He chuckled. “That won’t be possible, love.” Cruel amusement crinkled the skin at the edges of his eyes. “Blackborough’ll be the one to find this particular gift.”

Spencer’s hands shook so hard with the effort not to pummel the other man that he couldn’t finish the delicate knot he was tying. He took a deep breath and tried again. He’d wrapped the ropes as loosely as he’d dared. If he could make the slipknot look sturdy, she might be able to slip free.

He eyed the pistol. Ramsay was probably planning to shoot him the minute they left the mansion. He wasn’t at all confident he’d be able to get away in one piece, let alone get back to her before Blackborough’s men found her.

“That’s good enough.” Ramsay waved him away with the barrel of the pistol. “Now you sit over there.” He pointed at Blackborough’s desk chair.

Spencer thought about simply tackling the useless liar to the ground, but he suspected he’d take a bullet before he could accomplish it. He couldn’t leave Meena defenseless. He sat.

Blackborough’s men could barge in any moment. Then the fat would really be in the fire. Better to take on one undersized convict than a handful of Blackborough’s well-fed thugs.

Ramsay pulled another coil of rope from his pocket and dangled it in front of Spencer’s face. The wooden arms of the massive chair creaked as Spencer crushed them with his fingers. How he wished it were Ramsay’s bones he was grinding together. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked.

“I am.” Ramsay smirked and continued around behind the chair. “Quite a good bit.”

A smile welled up from deep in Spencer’s chest. He fought to keep it off his face.

Ramsay should have tied him up first. That had been a grievous error. Spencer tensed, waiting for the moment when the man would be close enough that he could launch himself backwards and smash the back of his head into Ramsay’s nose.

He watched Meena’s face, trying to gauge the moment by her expression.

Silent and wary, her angry gaze promised a blazing dose of retaliation. Spencer wasn’t entirely sure her anger was meant strictly for Ramsay, but before he could decide, her eyes widened in fright.

“Don’t!” She screamed.

Spencer tensed, ready to jump backwards, but before he could move, pain exploded at the base of his skull.