Free Reckless Wager: A Whitechapel Wagers Novel by Christy Carlyle

with him. Pain in others always drew her. But he also exuded an air of raw masculinity that Kate found as disturbing as it was irresistible.
    Though his tone was light, his husky voice sparked images in Kate’s mind—bare flesh, heated lovemaking, lingering kisses—experiences she could only imagine, as she’d never found them in the marriage bed. She knew her face was red and flushed, and his steady gaze kindled the flames.
    “Let me accompany you to find Rose. I can assist you.”
    He ducked his head and Kate wasn’t certain if he was laughing at her again.
    “Trained as a detective, are you?”
    Kate weighed her words. She had to strike a balance between persuading him and offering a challenge he’d accept.
    “Of course I have none of your skills. But I have noticed, when tending women at the clinic, some are more willing to tell the truth to another woman than to our doctors. And the truth of their injuries is the only way we can help them properly.”
    He lifted a fist to his mouth and stared at her, sweeping his gaze down her body and then back up again. His inspection unnerved Kate, but she stood still and lifted her chin a fraction, hoping he would read determination in her gaze and stance, and detect nothing of the way his perusal set her pulse racing.
    “I can find Rose on my own. I won’t expose you to harm.”
    Kate closed her eyes and let go of the breath she’d been holding. What could she say to convince him?
    She took a step closer and he tensed, standing up straighter, arms at his sides.
    “I’ve been volunteering in Whitechapel for months and I’ve come to no harm. Please, detective. I couldn’t help Rose last night. Let me help her now by assisting you in your inquiries.”
    His mouth opened slightly, and Kate prayed he meant to relent.
    “And if your assistance proves futile? The wager. What do you wager?”
    “Money? I have some funds of my own.”
    He smirked again, and it bloomed into a smile, a flash of white in the morning haze.
    “I’ve already told you I don’t want your money.”
    Kate’s pulse thrummed, her heartbeat echoing in her ears. “What do you propose, detective?”
    He glanced around them and then dipped his head, speaking quietly. “A kiss.”
    His face was so near, only a few inches separated them from a kiss then and there.
    Kate opened her mouth to reply but no words came. How could she agree to a kiss? It was wrong, reckless, wholly inappropriate. She looked up at him, noting the steely glint in his dark eyes, the way his gaze kept slipping down to her mouth. She’d already kissed him once. No, he’d kissed her. And he specified nothing about this wagered kiss. She could offer him her hand, the edge of her cheek. Most of the kisses in her life had been chaste. Surely a chaste kiss was worth the opportunity to help find Rose.
    She nodded, one quick nod of her head.
     
    Detective Quinn didn’t respond, except to turn away from her and hasten his pace. As she’d accepted his terms, she assumed he expected her to follow, but Kate could barely match his long-legged stride. When they reached a hansom cab, he didn’t speak a word to her, merely clasped her by the waist and lifted her so that she could seat herself inside without ever touching the single step. A cold chill set her teeth to chattering and she realized how his nearness had warmed her. She glanced at him, but he stood to the side barking directions at the cabbie above.
    Then he made her shiver for another reason altogether.
    He hopped up into the cab and sat beside her. Kate scooted as far to the left as she could, but their bodies still touched—arm against arm, hip against hip, thigh against thigh. Her skirts draped across one of his boots and part of his trouser leg. The tail of his black coat lay partially in her lap. They merged, and it would have taken an effort to determine where he ended and she began. His nearness was an expected balm. He smelled of warm man and shaving soap, and somehow,