Free Ransom Redeemed by Jayne Fresina

outside the shop had Ransom returned to his senses and, out of her spell, realized she had separated him from his money with as much skill as a gypsy dancing girl. He had no doubt she'd sneakily added a few extra pounds to the bill. Who knew what else she might have winkled out of him if he’d stayed longer? Even the shop door had tried to block his escape, no doubt working in mystical alliance with her very strong will.
    In short, he felt pushed and pulled about like a child's toy.
    So who was this woman? She claimed to have no inkling of his notoriety, but then he'd known nothing of hers either, he mused, and he was sure she must have some. A woman with tempting lips like hers, and more than a spoonful of cunning impudence, definitely had a past littered with conquests.
    My concern is that you and I would have nothing to talk about.
    No, but she'd take his damn money, wouldn't she?
    "You seem out of sorts, sir," the valet remarked as he put away his razor.
    Ransom ran a hand over his smooth cheek. "I suffered a long night and an abrupt awakening with little sleep between." But that was nothing unusual.
    "You ought to get more rest, sir, if you don't mind me saying. It cannot do your health any good to burn the candle at both ends so often."
    Ah, but when he slept, Sally White was waiting.
    He gave the valet a tense smile, a very good tip, and then got on with his day.
    Miss Ashford's brown paper parcel remained on his desk, in his peripheral vision, something to be circled warily but not approached. Which is what he should have done with her. Never should have stayed to buy her rotten books.
    So why did he? Something had drawn him to her, and it wasn't great beauty or charm or any seductive quality. She did not gaze up at him with shy admiration or coy invitation. Her expression, in fact, was akin to that of a woman who had just turned in the street to see a large, muddy, wolf-hound galloping playfully toward her with its eager, slobbering tongue hanging out. She did not know whether to flee or brace herself.
    Of all the ways women had ever looked at him, that one was hitherto unknown.
    But despite that bemusement and faint horror, her fingers had held his sleeve boldly to stop him leaving— those same fingers that had a knack for opening doors other folk struggled over. Her hands were chapped and in need of some tender care. His father said you could tell a lot about a woman from her hands, but what would he make of this coal mine daisy with her wry humor? She was, in fact, as mysterious as the contents of that tightly wrapped package. Possibly as dangerous too.
    He scratched his left eyebrow as he passed the corner of his desk again.
    Did he hear the paper whisper? No, must be his imagination. Or the fire in the hob grate. Or rain dashing at the window in a sudden gust.
    He turned his attention to the sooty view of London rooftops. On this grim day, plump pigeons kept warm atop the chimney pots, fluffing their chests and letting out the occasional chortle.
    Miss Ashford's eyes were grey— at first they had seemed as dull and drab as the color of those pigeons and overcast skies, but by the time he escaped her presence they were a shining, lively silver grey, like mercury in a thermometer. Apparently, he had succeeded in raising her temperature to some degree. Was it that hint of something breaking through, some small success achieved that made him feel as if his business with her remained undone?
    She was wretchedly tenacious when she set her mind to something, as proven by that tidy, smug brown parcel of unwanted books on his desk. But she could do even better if she had someone with business sense to encourage her. Currently the shop interior was dim, full of shadows that did a good job at hiding her in the gloom. A dust mop could work wonders, as could some proper organization and a good window cleaner. A new sign outside with brighter paint would draw more attention to the place. It was purely by chance that he’d