Lacybourne Manor by Kristen Ashley Page A

knew him
to be.
    “Let me pass,” she demanded
once his laughter quieted.
    Mallory was seated half a foot
away, looking up at Mr. Morgan, his tongue lolling out of his
mouth, his tail still wagging. Before Colin Morgan could reply to
Sibyl’s demand, the dog leaned forward and licked his hand.
    Sibyl stared in disbelief.
    Her dog had always, always
hated men (except her father).
    “Mallory!” she snapped and the
dog whined then he licked Mr. Morgan’s hand again. ‘Mallory! Stop
that!” she scolded the dog and then, to her surprise, she found her
arm in a vice-like grip and she was yanked through the door.
    It was slammed behind her and
before she could get her bearings, she was roughly pushed backward
until she hit door.
    And again, before she even
realised what was happening, Colin Morgan stepped into her, not
even a foot away, cutting off any escape. Then he dipped his face
to hers and he was so close she could feel the heat from his body
through the coat and the warmth of his breath on her face.
    “The police just called,” he
told her.
    She blinked up at him and there
was something about him being there, so close, all she could see,
almost like he was everywhere and everything, her entire world. His
presence simply overpowered her.
    And this was an odd,
frightening familiar sensation too. It was as if she’d looked up into
his clay-coloured eyes so near she could count his eyelashes and
she’d not done it once or twice but countless times.
    Countless.
    She could also smell his
cologne (a nice woodsy, musky scent, she noted with professional
detachment, with hints of cedar). She could see his lashes, very
thick and long. And she noticed for the first time that his lower
lip was, surprisingly, sensuously full.
    “I have a friend at New
Scotland Yard. He did a search on you last night. It appears you
are who you say you are,” he was saying.
    That got her attention and her
gaze snapped from his lips upward. “Of course I am who I say I am.
Who else would I be?”
    He watched her, his eyes
strange and glittering and again he had no response.
    After several very long moments
of silence, Sibyl realised she was holding her breath but she also
knew it was either that or pant. Although she had just been out in
the chill morning air, suddenly her body felt very hot and her
heart had begun to pound.
    “I still don’t trust you for a
moment,” he informed her.
    She had no idea what to make of
that comment so she simply told him exactly what was in her
mind.
    “You’re mad.”
    He proved her right by
responding to her insult with, “What’s that smell?”
    Sibyl looked wildly around for
Mallory, hoping that she didn’t miss something during his morning
business when Morgan’s voice came again. This time softly, so
softly she thought she could almost feel it on her skin.
    “It smells like lilies.”
    Her eyes jerked to his and his
were still glittering. But instead of anger, she was shocked to see
(and her heart began pounding all the more insistently at the
sight), there was an odd, sweet warmth there.
    Something was happening
to her, something she didn’t understand and something she
definitely couldn’t control. She felt the tenseness slide from her
body and her bones felt like they were softening. She felt
compelled to touch him, to get closer to him, to move her body into
his. Her eyelids lowered and she looked at him from underneath her
lashes.
    Her voice came out, just as
soft as his. “It’s my perfume.”
    He watched her for a second,
his head slowly, nearly imperceptibly, descending to hers and she
thought, hysterically, that he was going to kiss her.
    And she braced for it.
Ready for it. Wanting it.
    Then he stopped, she watched
his eyes blink and then, his tone back to cool civility, he
remarked, “God, you’re good.”
    And this was not a
compliment. She knew this comment was meant to be insulting, knew
it right to the very marrow of her bones.
    It felt like she was sitting in
a dunking