Free The Trouble With Moonlight by Donna MacMeans Page B

don’t know you well enough to trust you.”
    She had a point, though he was loathe to admit it. Perhaps tricking her was not the most efficient way to win her confidence. Even if under the circumstances it had been necessary, and—he stole another glance at the curvy, molded form that sashayed so pleasantly beside him—evocative. A heat, similar to that which had flared on her cheek, burned a path up his chest. He glanced away. His life held no place for a woman. No commitments, no entanglements, put no one at risk.
    “Tell me,” he said, taking a deep breath, “given that you felt obliged to eavesdrop upon my meeting, which”—he held up his hand to stop her verbal protest—“was unwarranted, at best, why didn’t you do so in your alternate state?” The word “transparent” had lingered on his tongue, but given their public presence, he thought it best to be a bit allusive.
    “I can only do that at night.” Her gaze appeared to be focused on the pavement ahead, so she missed the interested raised brow of the man passing on their left. James flashed the bloody bugger a warning glare before he guided Miss Havershaw across the avenue to a quieter stretch of pavement. Her reputation would suffer if they were observed alone together in a hired hack, so they would need to continue the journey to Kensington House on foot.
    “Yes, of course, I’d forgotten,” he said. “You did mention something about moonlight the first night we talked.”
    What was wrong with him? How could he forget such a vital fact? The colonel’s reminder about maintaining his distance, coupled with her appearance in his bedroom last night, must have thoroughly rattled his brain. Given her blunt reference to her lack of clothing and her tendency to wander about unclothed, she was no innocent miss. Was she interested in developing a more intimate relationship with him? Was that her purpose in his private rooms? If so, he should dissuade her of that notion right now. Nip it in the bud, as they say. He cleared his throat.
    “Last night, when you appeared in full flesh in my bedroom . . . am I to assume that it was your intent to—”
    She was no longer by his side. He stopped his forward stride and glanced back over his shoulder. Her icy glare proved a relief both to the humid summer temperatures and to his own heated thoughts. One could clearly see by her rigid stance alone that she harbored no passion of an amorous nature for him.
    “What are you suggesting, Mr. Locke?”
    Given her frosty rebuke, he couldn’t actually tell her now, could he? He shook his head. No matter how he approached the topic of her various states of dress and undress, he did little more than paint himself as the most base sort of rascal. Which, in retrospect, was probably just as well as it caused her to keep her distance. He regarded the pert indignant goddess with her bustle in an uproar and smiled. Distance would definitely be needed to keep his errant thoughts in check and her alleged virtue intact.
    “Miss Havershaw, you have already stated that you neither trust me, nor know me. Might I say that to certain extents, I harbor similar concerns about you. I am merely trying to understand the nature of your abilities and the amount of control you exercise over your various states.”
    He stepped closer and took her two gloved hands between his own. “In a very real sense, I will be placing my life in your hands, as you have already placed your existence in mine. Might we place the events of the past few days behind us and move forward in a spirit of cooperation so that we can develop the necessary trust we will require to succeed?”
    Lusinda lifted her gaze to his and battled the temptation to allow the protecting press of his hands to comfort her. Had she been hasty in her reproach? Had her need for wary vigilance eroded her ability to trust? How truly wonderful it would be to let someone else carry that burden. Yielding a bit to the charismatic pull of his