Free My Fallen Angel by Pamela Britton

solicitor’s door. If he weren’t so irritated with her he would have applauded her cunning. He paused before the solicitor’s front door. His whole body tingled from his contact with her, his manhood suddenly as hard a fishing rod. His frown deepened. Hell, he’d lost his own wits.
    The door jingled when he entered; after the brightness of the street, momentary blindness dimmed his sight. Garrick stood for a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust and inhaling the smell of day-old bread and the musty odor of long-fallow books. Slowly, his eyes adjusted. Three windows lined the front of the shop, the blinds drawn to allow for wide bars of light to stripe the floor. A man sat behind a desk, his balding head beaded with sweat, his corpulent girth crammed into a too-small chair. He looked Garrick’s fit body up and down, his eyes narrowing.
    “What do you want?” he grumbled.
    Garrick pinned him with his most commanding stare, a look that had sent grown men scurrying to do his bidding, a look that was guaranteed to intimidate.“I’m here to see Mr. Barrows.”
    The man’s watery blue eyes narrowed.“Oh? Do you have an appointment?”
    “No.”
    “Then go away.”
    Garrick’s stiffened. Leave? Who was this little pea-ant to tell him to leave? Obviously, Mr. Barrows.“Sir,” he snapped, “what I have to ask will only take a moment.”
    “I don’t have a moment.”
    “Make one,” he growled.
    “Not if you were the King of England.”
    Garrick was just about to reach his hands across the desk and place them around the little rodent’s neck when the door jangled.
    He turned.
    Lucy stood there, a Lucy who had removed her cloak to reveal a dress so tight he was sure she wore nothing beneath it. The fabric was red—red as sin, red as her painted lips, red as her cheeks as she stared right back at him. She straightened, pulling that pride of hers around her as if it were her missing cloak. Her breasts thrust out, big breasts, Garrick noted, lovely breasts. Their creamy skin bulged over the low neckline. He wanted to touch them, to see if they felt as soft as they looked.
    And like a hound, he caught a whiff of her. His manhood tingled. Roses.
    Bloody hell.
    “May I help you?” Mr. Barrows asked.
    Garrick glanced at the little rat, his fury increasing when he noticed the leer on the man’s face.
    “Why, yes, you can,” Lucy said in a small voice that picked up strength at the growing look of admiration in Mr. Barrows’s eyes.“I’m looking for Mr. William Barrows.”
    Mr. Barrows smiled.“I am he.”
    Two things irritated Garrick. One, Mr. Barrows had apparently forgotten his presence. Two, Lucy had apparently forgotten his presence, too. Not only that, but when she finally
did
recall it, it was to shoot him a look of satisfaction mixed with…hope?
    “Oh, how lovely,” she cooed.
    Mr. Barrows nodded proudly, his eyes never straying from her cleavage as he slowly rose from his seat.“Can I help you?” he asked, coming around the front of his desk, his belly preceding his arrival.
    “You certainly may,” Lucy crooned.
    Garrick wanted to shake her senseless, except he was afraid of dislodging the pea she had for a brain, or her nearly exposed breasts. When he eyed the low décolletage of her dress, his fury increased. She moved and the sweet swell of her breasts jiggled tantalizingly; the scent of roses filled the air to tease his senses. Unfortunately, he remembered all too well the feel of her flesh. He glanced at the solicitor again. The little weasel smacked his lips.
    It was too much.
    “What
the hell do you think you’re
doing?”
Garrick roared. How dare that little worm stare at Lucy in such a way? How dare
she
let him? He reached into his jacket, crossed the room to her side, and without even thinking about his actions, stuffed his handkerchief down the front of her dress.
    Lucy gasped.
    Mr. Barrows choked.
    “How dare
you,
sir!” she spat, pulling the cloth out, her face reddening—if that