Free A Dangerous Liaison With Detective Lewis by Jillian Stone

numbers, resources, finances or weaponry . . . I could go on and on. Would you like me to continue?”
    The farther he leaned in, the farther she leaned away. “I must admit, that is a great deal not to know.”
    His gaze wrinkled with a smile. “Cease-fire, Fanny.” He hooked a finger into his waistcoat for his timepiece. “Half past eight. We have hours of truce left.”
    “Rather ungentlemanly of you to raise your voice to me.” She pressed back into the seat. “And to use vulgar language. And to take the Lord’s name in vain.”
    “You might as well know it all, then. I smoke, curse, and drink in copious amounts. And, as you so often enjoy pointing out, I am no gentleman.” He reached for his cigarette case and flipped it open. “Dash it.” The slim silver container was returned to his inside pocket. “Empty.”
    “Tobacco is not healthy for the lungs.” Fanny blinked at him. “You should give it up.”
    LESS THAN AN hour ago Rafe had promised to quit cigarettes. Still, he wanted a smoke so badly, he would sell Aunt Vertiline to the Gypsies for a single fag. “Vowed to give them up if I might catch a certain runaway caravan in Edinburgh.”
    Those exceptional large brown eyes of hers narrowed. She had always met his gaze boldly, bravely. “Why doyou pretend to like me so much, when you so obviously do not, Raphael?”
    “Now it’s Raphael is it? This is grim. First Rafe, then Detective Lewis. Now you sound like Mother.”
    “If your mother spoke to you.”
    “As much as I’ve enjoyed your disagreeable, unappreciative company, I want you to know, Fanny, I got down on my hands and knees and begged them not to send me to Edinburgh.” He received a huff and a change of the subject.
    “I count four culprits thus far,” she mused aloud.
    “Possibly more,” he warned.
    “The two blokes who abducted me, another two chased us into the station and then leaped onto the train. I shudder to think how many more will be sent after us.” Fanny concentrated on a delicate piece of torn lace at the edge of her sleeve. “Rather likely those men were involved in the murder of Arthur Poole, as well as my father.”
    A deep inhale caused a twinge of pain. “It does look as though the Yard’s suspicions were correct about you and God knows how many other nabobs of industry.” He reached inside his jacket and rubbed a smarting soreness in his side.
    A visible shiver traveled up her body to her shoulders. Shock, Rafe supposed. “Even if you haven’t any plans, might there be a next step?”
    “Send a few wires to Scotland Yard.” He rummaged in his pocket. “I’ll need to get ahold of a blank telegram pad.”
    “We make a stop shortly. The ticket collector should have one.”
    Once again a sudden sharp twinge of pain shot across his torso. He removed wet sticky fingers from his waistcoat. A thick crimson liquid pooled on his fingers.
    Fanny squinted. “You’re bleeding.”
    “Must have caught the tip of a knife.”
    Fanny switched seats and began removing his waistcoat. “You didn’t feel anything?” Blood oozed out of a slash in his shirt.
    He pulled out a pocket square and wiped his fingers. “A dull ache, perhaps.” She leaned close and unbuttoned his collar. “Odd thing about wounds. The pain often grows with a person’s awareness of the injury.” Gentle fingers inched up his undershirt, exposing his torso. Her fingernails traveled lightly over exposed flesh.
    With her lips pursed and brows drawn deep in concentration, her expression triggered memories of a rainy day long ago. Fleeting impressions of a cutthroat game of backgammon in the library. He remembered a fire in the hearth as they lounged on a comfortable window seat. The pale shadow of raindrops, cast from leaded glass, danced across her face. It wasn’t the first time he had gotten an erection watching her pink tongue moisten the way for her pearly white teeth.
    As if on cue, she bit down on a plump bottom lip.
    And here he sat, ten