No doubt motivated by her silence, the tall and imposing duke turned away from the window to face Yancey. Against the weight of his unrelenting stare and his physical nearness, she felt very small and unprotected. The duke looked down his patrician nose at her and held her gaze. “Cat got your tongue? Surely you know who you are.”
That stung her into speaking. “Of course I know. As do you.” Relief swept over her that her voice could sound so calm.
“As do I?” His slanting expression was pointed, sharp, like teeth … or fangs.
Swallowing hard, Yancey reminded herself to keep her wits about her. “Yes, you do. I feel certain that whatever servant announced my presence to you informed you of my name, since I did give it.”
“Quite so, my little American. And yet I would like to hear you speak it.”
He’d picked up on her accent and had issued a dare. Even as much as she hated saying her detested name, Yancey was determined to do so without any hesitation in her speech. “Very well. I am Miss Sarah Margaret Calhoun.”
His eyes narrowed dangerously. “Not Treyhorne? Not the American Duchess of Somerset? I was told that you presented yourself as such. Which is why you were put in these particular rooms … next to mine.”
Guilt, as well as heated images of bedrooms and lovers, brought a flush to Yancey’s cheeks. She thought it best if she didn’t reply.
“I’m waiting,” he said. “And let me warn you … I am in no mood to be trifled with.”
Yancey believed him. She’d thought the same thing about him only moments ago. “I assure you it’s not my intention to be trifling. I apologize for the confusion, but I am indeed Sarah Margaret Calhoun.” When that got no response from him, Yancey came up with a glib lie. “What I had done, you see, was ask if your mother, the Duchess of Somerset, was at home.”
He cocked his head at a disbelieving angle. “I see. A simple misunderstanding. But one you did nothing to correct.”
Thanking her six years of working undercover that had made her a good actress, Yancey maintained a straight face and an injured air. “Your staff gave me no opportunity. I was swept up by them and carried along, much as if I had fallen into a swift current.”
The duke continued to regard her in an assessing manner. Then his lips curved upward. On anyone else, Yancey would have called the expression a smile. “Have it your way, Miss Calhoun,” he drawled. “Allow me, then, to answer your inquiry. The duchess is not at home.”
How well she knew that. The woman was most likely dead and buried back in Chicago. Still acting, Yancey feigned distress. “Oh. I see.”
“Do you? What exactly do you see?”
“That there’s been a mistake.”
“Apparently.”
Refusing to succumb to her heart-pounding fear born of his unyielding manner, Yancey assumed the actions and mannerisms of someone whose embarrassment compelled her to be industrious. She set off across the room—away from him. “Well, then, as my trunks are not yet unpacked and as it turns out that I’ve made a grievous mistake in coming here”—she headed for her handbag on the bed—“and I have obviously upset your household, for which I apologize, perhaps if you would be so kind as to summon your men to help me with my belongings? And if you can see it in your heart to arrange for a hired conveyance for me, I’ll take myself away from here and relieve you of the burden of my presence—”
“Stop right there. You’re going nowhere.”
Victory. Halfway to the bed now, and with her back to him, Yancey allowed herself a covert smile before turning to the duke. Feigning surprise, and with a hand to her bosom, she said, “I beg your pardon?”
His solid body framed by the window at his back, her host had crossed his arms over his impressive chest. “You heard me. You’re going nowhere.”
“Do I take your meaning correctly? You intend to keep me a prisoner here?” She raised her chin for effect. “Perhaps, then, I should take myself off to the tower I saw from the coach and wrap myself in chains?”
The duke’s sober expression remained so. “I assure you that such dramatics are not necessary. I simply meant I have more questions to ask you, Miss Calhoun. And if I don’t like your answers, you will be leaving. Very soon.”
It wasn’t exactly the invitation to stay that she’d hoped to wangle. But apparently she wasn’t to be tossed out on her nose, either. At least, not just yet. All she knew was that her continuing proximity to the duke could be very dangerous. And for more than one reason. Yancey adopted an expression of innocence, widening her eyes in a way that she knew from experience could disarm men. Most men. “Well, I can now say I understand the rules. But, my goodness, you make this all sound like a mystery.”
“I think it is. And the mystery is you.”
Yancey’s abrupt chuckle reflected practiced disbelief. “I assure you that there is nothing of the mysterious surrounding me. I am indeed Sarah Margaret Calhoun.”
“So you say. Yet I have only your word for that.”
“You have no reason to assume that I would lie to you.”
“In fact, I have every reason to assume that you would.”
Only too aware that she was suddenly more excited by this dangerous game of words than it was wise to be, Yancey nevertheless upped the stakes. “Meaning, I take it, Your Grace,” she said pointedly, finally using his title despite his not having introduced himself to her, “that I am not the Sarah Margaret Calhoun you expected me to be?”
The man’s gray eyes blazed. Had his stare been a weapon, Yancey figured she would already be dead on the floor. “I expected no one. But what I suspect is that you are fully aware of that, too.”
Yancey matched the duke—a more than worthy adversary—stare for stare and word for word. “You assign me many motives, sir. I assure you that I am a simple woman who—”
“The one thing you are not is a simple woman. I would be disappointed if you were.” Having said that, he relaxed his posture, rubbing his chin with his thumb. “Now, allow me to begin my questioning, keeping in mind that if I don’t like your answers, you and your baggage will be set on the side of the road.”
What could she say? “Fair enough. Begin.”
“Thank you,” he said with exaggerated grace. “Tell me, Miss Calhoun, how did it come about that you presented yourself on my doorstep? As far-flung as Stonebridge is, I hardly think you acted on whim or caprice.”
Just listening to him talk, to hear how he used words, excited Yancey beyond anything she’d ever felt before. She fought to stay in character, that of an aloof woman. “Neither caprice nor whim, as you stated. Instead, I arrived here only after considerable direction and planning.”
Yancey’s reward was the look of surprise that crossed his features. “How so? What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I was asked to come here.”
He straightened up. His was no longer a casual pose. “By whom were you asked?”
With a smile, Yancey played her ace. “By the Duchess of Somerset, Her Grace Rosamond Sparrow Treyhorne.”
Again, surprise flitted across the duke’s features, raising his eyebrows. “My mother?” He quickly followed this with a scoffing sound that dismissed Yancey and her answer. “I find it hard to believe that my mother would ask you, a virtual stranger, to Stonebridge.”
He’d called her a liar, which at the moment and on this score she wasn’t. Not really. Behaving as if insulted, Yancey raised her chin a notch. “I can see how that would be hard to believe. But do you suppose I merely pulled your mother’s name out of the air—and all the way from America?”
“No, I do not. My surprise and disbelief, however, arise from the fact that my mother is the dowager duchess, not the titled duchess. That honor is reserved for my wife, who is in no condition or position to invite anyone anywhere. So whoever invited you here—”
“The ‘whoever’ was your mother. She invited me. Forgive me my mistake in thinking her the titled duchess instead of the … dowager, did you say?”
“Yes. Put simply, a duchess becomes a dowager when her husband dies and the title passes to her son. His wife then carries the title of duchess.”
“I see. Thank you for that lesson.” Of course, she knew what a dowager was, and she knew that the woman who’d written to her was the dowager. It just better suited the half-true story she was telling him to pretend otherwise. “I plead being an American not fully versed in the protocol of the British peerage.”
He said nothing, only silently considered her. His gray eyes moved restlessly, as if in time with his rapidly developing thoughts.
Forced to await his conclusions, Yancey watched him, only belatedly realizing that her gaze had slipped to the dark, crisp, and curling hair on his muscled chest that his shirt, open at the neck, revealed. She forced her gaze upward to his face and her mind back to his answers. Specifically, he had spoken of his wife in the present tense. So either the duke believed his wife to be alive, or wanted Yancey to think he did. Yancey realized she hoped it was the former. Why? Was it because she didn’t want him to be guilty of murder?
“Then she wrote to you, I presume? My mother, I mean.”
He spoke so suddenly that Yancey blinked, having to first replay in her mind his question before she could answer him. “Yes. Of course.”
“Then you have with you the letters from her?”
“Her letters?” A sudden alarm sounded in Yancey’s head. Lightning-quick conclusions flitted through her mind, one after the other. He hadn’t known until just now that his mother had written to his American wife. As Yancey had already suspected, this confirmed that the dowager had kept her letter-writing a secret from her son. Was he dangerous? What if he was the mastermind behind the events in America that had seen one woman dead and her own self attacked? What if his mother hadn’t known that?
But all that aside, how could Yancey let him read one, given their contents—the dowager’s desperate pleadings and the unfavorable allusions to her son? There was no telling what sort of response that might spark in the man. The truth was the dowager had written secretly for some good reason. Yancey concluded that she too should keep the woman’s secret until she could speak with her.
When Yancey spoke, it was with a show of sincere regret. “Oh, I am so sorry. Having no idea I would be required to defend myself like this, I didn’t keep the letters your mother sent me.”
Yancey barely kept her guilty gaze away from her handbag on the bed. The letters were in the handbag. Mere feet away. So was her gun.
“I do apologize, Miss Calhoun, for causing you to feel a need to defend yourself. But you have to admit that this is a most unusual circumstance.”
“Unusual? In what way?”
“Please don’t play at ignorance. It’s insulting to us both. For one thing—and as I suspect you well know—you bear the same name as my wife, if that is truly your name. And for another, you say my mother wrote to you. If she did, it’s obvious her letters were somehow misdirected. Otherwise, how exactly would my mother know someone like you?”
Offended by his last statement, and ignoring his other correct conclusions, Yancey narrowed her eyes. “Someone like me? You mean an American? Or the fact that I’m what you would call a commoner?”
His smile broadened into an absolutely treacherous grin that had nothing to do with humor. “Both … of course.”
The insult only increased. Yancey felt her cheeks growing warm. “If nothing else, I do applaud your honesty. How difficult this must be for you to have to deal directly with someone so far beneath your usual notice.”
He shrugged his magnificent shoulders. “It’s not as dire as all that.”
“It isn’t? Well … lovely, then. Still, I don’t see why we need letters. If you could simply ask your mother if I may have an audience with her, I feel certain she can verify my invitation to come to Stonebridge. After all, it was her I came to see. And her I asked for when I arrived.”
Yancey meant to reveal to his mother, in private, that she was a Pinkerton agent. She would then question the dowager to ascertain what the trouble here was and if she, the dowager, was in any danger from her son.
But the duke ended that hope. “Like you, I would like nothing better than to question my mother. However, she is presently not in residence, and I don’t expect her to be for two to three more days.”
Yancey frowned, worrying that the duke may have already done away with his own mother, too. “Oh, dear. Well, that does make things awkward, then, doesn’t it? Perhaps you could send a message to her apprising her of my arrival?”
“I could. But it would be pointless. She is visiting her sister, a trip of two or more days, depending on the weather. As luck would have it, she planned to be starting for home at about this time. So, you see, a messenger from me would merely meet her on the road.”
Yancey pronounced herself heartened by the amount of detail in his narrative. His mother was alive. The details he’d offered lent truth to her conclusion. Or maybe the duke knew that, too, and was as accomplished a liar as she was. Yancey smiled and, knowing they were at a pivotal juncture, looked directly into the duke’s eyes. “I see. Then I find I don’t know how to proceed from here.”
“Luckily, I do. I will endeavor to get to the bottom of your presence here, Miss Calhoun. And at the end of my inquiries, I think it is safe to say that I will be sending you away.” He narrowed his eyes. “And you can count yourself lucky if that is all I do.”
His open threat charged the air between them. Yancey half expected to hear thunder roll and to see lightning blaze across the room and strike her dead. As it was, she found it hard to breathe. With her heart in her throat, she was unable to give him an answer … not that one was required.
“However, in the meantime,” he said, with a mercurial change in demeanor and tone of voice, “and as you are, to all appearances, an invited guest of my mother’s, I will honor her invitation and welcome you to Stonebridge. A lady’s maid will be up presently to assist you in settling in to your room. When you are refreshed, I ask that you attend me in my study in one hour. Is that clear?”
Yancey’s gaze narrowed, and her jaw tightened. He had a funny way of asking. But what this man, this powerful duke, didn’t know was that those things that scared her only made her more determined to see her way past them—a lesson her father had finally and fatally learned. Yancey nodded. “It is perfectly clear.”
* * *
Pushed back in his chair, with his feet up on his desk and his legs crossed at the ankles, Sam sat brooding in his first-floor study. He hadn’t changed his attire from an hour ago when he’d left the lady upstairs. That didn’t make him much of a gentleman, he supposed. But then again, he hadn’t ever been accused of being one. No, he was not one to stand on ceremony, much to his mother’s chagrin, since he’d returned from America. A smile hovered at the corners of Sam’s mouth. America. His taste of independence while there remained sweet on his tongue. He’d embraced the freedom offered him, the freedom to live out his life as he chose instead of being a slave to his birthright.
His birthright? No. Not his. Geoffrey’s. Sam’s smile faded and he shied away from that recent hurt. Instead, holding a crystal glass of whisky in his hand, he focused his gaze across the way at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and gave free rein to his wayward thoughts of his unexpected guest.
She was very intelligent. And no innocent. Everything about her said she had her own secrets and harbored those of others, as well. She was also too damned beautiful by half to be anything but dangerous. Never before had Sam seen such green flashing eyes. Never before had he seen hair the color of hers … a rich, deep red shot through with burnished gold. Beyond that, he hadn’t the skill to do her crowning glory justice. Only an artist with an extensive palette of colors stood a chance of that.
Still, Sam tried to imagine her hair unbound, with sunlight glinting off it. The vision shortened his breathing. He slowly shook his head in sensual wonder, recalling now how he’d found her peering out the window. Magnificent. The truth was she excited him beyond measure, even as his senses warned him away from her, telling him that she was danger personified. After all, she had presented herself here using his wife’s name. That told him she was up to no good. Perhaps she was an opportunist bent on extracting money from him for her silence. Maybe somehow she knew about his wife and what he’d done.
Sam frowned. Who was she really, this woman ensconced upstairs in the rooms next to his? Not for the first time since he’d come downstairs did Sam remind himself that it was the specious story behind the American’s appearance here that deserved his attention. And not her womanly attributes … which she indeed had in good measure. Very good measure. Not too tall but shapely—not lushly so, slender yet curvaceous.
There. I’ve done it again. Exasperated with his mind’s masculine though thoroughly understandable wanderings, given the heady subject, Sam exhaled, shaking his head as if that would rid his mind of lascivious thoughts of the woman going by the name of Miss Sarah Margaret Calhoun.
Instant guilt tightened Sam’s chest. That name. Sarah Margaret Calhoun. His wife’s name. He closed his eyes against the memories of her, even pinching the bridge of his nose in hopes of expelling the images in his mind. Poor Sarah. You left me no choice but to do what I did, what I had to do.
When that old and familiar ache threatened to tear at him, Sam muttered a curse and sipped at the strong spirits in his glass, concentrating on the whisky’s pleasant burn as it slid down his throat and warmed his stomach. He glanced at the ornate shelf clock atop the mantel over the fireplace, noted how much time had elapsed … and smiled his grudging respect. So the American woman thinks to keep the British duke waiting.
Every tick of the clock past the one-hour deadline he’d given her further raised Sam’s ire. Not so much because she’d defied him, but because she’d given him too much time to think—and mostly about her. Sam narrowed his eyes, recalling how he’d first found her. Her slender back had been turned to him and he had not yet seen her face. Even so, a shock of numbing force had traveled through him, leaving him speechless. And then, when he’d spoken to her and she’d turned around, his breath had damned near left him.
He’d known in that instant that this woman would be his undoing. Or perhaps she would save him.
That thought had Sam tensing. Save me from what? he demanded to know of tormentors unseen. I’m not lost. I know exactly where I am. Yes, he knew—in his brother’s house and bearing his brother’s title and carrying his brother’s responsibilities. Sam clenched his jaw. What a turn his life had taken. First, and because of Sarah, he’d lost everything in America that he’d been working so hard to achieve. Then he’d had to abandon America and Sarah altogether because of his brother’s death. In essence, he’d been forced to walk away from life as he had chosen to live it to come back here to a life he’d never wanted.
Grimacing, Sam closed the mental door on that path. He’d already traveled it until it was worn with worrisome ruts. There was nothing he could do about what had happened in America, so this brooding was getting him nowhere. Impatient now, he marked the present time yet again and frowned. Has the damned clock stopped? The hands didn’t appear to have moved since the last time he’d looked at them.
Well, of course they hadn’t, he chastised himself. He’d only just glanced its way a few seconds ago. And in the woman’s defense, Sam now argued with himself, little more than the allotted hour had passed. Still, patience and excuses be damned. His muscles bunched as if urging him to jump up, storm out of the study, charge up the magnificent sweep of stairs to the third floor, drag his uninvited guest out of her room and back down here to his study—
And then what? he asked of himself.
Why, exact some answers from her, of course. Sam tried to convince himself that the only reason he didn’t act accordingly and accost his guest was because such behavior would hardly be worthy of a duke. A scoffing chuckle put the lie to his caring how it would seem. He didn’t give a damn. But such a scene would upset his staff. And this irony amused Sam. His own servants were more expectant of proper behavior on his part than he was. So, that being true, and the proprieties being what they were, he would sit here and wait.
Sam narrowed his eyes … he didn’t wait well. And a certain American woman was about to find that out if she didn’t put in an appearance soon. He didn’t know whether to applaud the very striking Miss Calhoun—if that was really her name, and he still had his doubts—for her pluck or to berate her for being so headstrong. A grin toyed with the edges of his lips. Probably applaud.
Sighing, forcing himself to relax, Sam looked about, finally settling his gaze on his desktop, or more exactly on the cluttered stacks of papers under his nose. He knew that he should be using this time to go over the accounts and contracts that needed his attention. Earlier he’d abandoned these same onerous obligations for the simple delights of a rainy day out in the horse barn. Well, he hadn’t gotten far, had he? Here he was right back where he’d started and here his obligations were, dutifully awaiting him.
“Let them wait.” His jaw tightening, Sam arrowed a glance up at the room’s vaulted ceiling. He wished he could see through it to the floor above and then to the ceiling above that, all the way to the third floor and down the long west hall and into the woman’s room to see exactly what it was that she was doing that was taking her so long and was so important that she thought she could keep a titled duke, no matter his opinion on the proprieties, awaiting her presence after specifically having been told—
A knock on the closed door cut off Sam’s burgeoning tirade and had him staring its way. His gaze focused narrowly on the door. At last. The American.
Well, my lady, turnabout is fair play. Glowering now, his temper simmering, Sam took a slow sip of his smooth whisky, savoring it for a long and purposeful moment. He then eyed the near-empty glass appreciatively, wondering if he wanted a refill. Perhaps. Thus he passed a few pleasurable moments. Only when he decided that he’d kept his guest waiting long enough did he call out a gruff invitation.
“Enter.”
The door opened. In stepped the woman. She closed the door behind her and stood across the way, her hands folded primly in front of her. She struck a penitent pose, yet she boldly met his gaze, her chin raised a notch, her green eyes defiant.
Sam ignored his suddenly thrumming heart, blaming impatience and anger for its quick pacing. She’d taken off her traveling coat, he noticed, and had arranged her hair. A very striking woman. Yet, even from across the room, he could see that she looked tired. Try as she might to disguise it, she still gave herself away. Her shoulders weren’t as squared as they could be. Her chin didn’t tilt up to the degree she’d managed only an hour ago upstairs. She looked ready to drop. And she said nothing. That in itself was very telling.
Sam held her gaze, content for the moment not to break the silence between them that threatened to burst into desire and have him striding across the room to her and—stop it. His grip on the whisky glass tightened with his self-remonstrance. Never looking away from her, Sam inhaled deeply, held the air in his lungs as long as he could, and then exhaled softly. Have the decency, man, to be a good host and not lust after your mysterious guest, uninvited though she may turn out to be.
That brought him around. Shouldn’t he at least offer her a chair? Ask her to sit? A simple courtesy, really. Offering a chair didn’t have to mean that he cared one way or the other about her. Because he didn’t.
But his conscience would not allow him to lie to himself. It told him differently: he cared that this woman looked drained of stamina. But why he should, and so quickly, was the part that he didn’t understand. It was also the part that made him very uneasy. He bristled defensively and broke the silence by behaving like an ass. “Do you know who I am?”
She started and her eyes widened. “I believe so. You’re the Duke of Somerset.”
“Exactly. Do you know what that means?”
Frowning, she shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t take your meaning.”
Rudely not arising from his chair, not even putting his feet on the floor, Sam sought to educate this American. “Etiquette, Miss … Calhoun, if that is your real name.”
She stiffened, her expression hardening. “I assure you that it is.”
“So you continue to say. But that is a discussion for another time. Namely, when my mother returns to either confirm or deny your story.”
“It’s not a story. It’s the truth.”
“Of course it is. Which brings us back to my point. The proper behavior and form of greeting to be used when one comes into the presence of a duke.”
“I see.” She tilted her head at a challenging angle. When she did, a curling lock of copper-red hair freed itself of its pins and fell softly to her shoulder. Sam could not take his eyes off it. Then she spoke, bringing his attention back to her perfectly oval face with its pink and creamy skin. “Perhaps you’d care to instruct me in those areas where I’m lacking?”
“Indeed?” Sam allowed an arch and frankly sensual expression to claim his features as he blatantly raked his gaze over her shapely person. When he heard her intake of breath, he met her eyes. They blazed with anger. Sam sent her a triumphant grin as he raised his whisky to her in a salute. “It would be my pleasure to instruct you in whatever you wish.”
She started to say something—no doubt, some tart comeback that would roundly put him in his place—but apparently she thought better of it and closed her mouth, firming her lips together.
Sam bit back a chuckle at her response. No doubt, his intended etiquette lesson, given what he knew of independent-thinking Americans, would not sit well with her. Especially since he meant to exaggerate the customs greatly.
“Very well, then. Lesson one,” he began, managing to sound quite pompous. “The proper forms of address are, as you may know, ‘Your Grace’ or ‘Duke.’ Now, when you enter into the presence of a duke, Miss Calhoun, you are to curtsy and keep your eyes downcast. You may say ‘Your Grace’ as a greeting, but other than that you await the duke’s pleasure. Meaning, you speak only when spoken to. And you certainly do not question him or speak sharply to him.”
“I will endeavor to remember that … Your Grace.”
Enjoying himself too much, Sam admonished, “And never interrupt a duke. Now, lesson two: you stand unless asked or told to sit down. In short, you remain subservient at all times. Is that clear?”
From under lowered yet far from subservient brows, Miss Sarah Margaret Calhoun met his gaze. Her vividly green eyes flashed fire that should have left Sam charred. Instead, he felt triumphant, much as if he’d won a battle. No doubt, with her answer, she would begin the war. An exciting war, one he admitted he was intentionally goading—not simply for sport, but because he felt compelled to do so, for many reasons. Among them was her odd presentation here with that highly improbable story and name. Add to that the instant antagonism that had arisen between them. And the attraction. Yes, the attraction … the desire … the mutual wariness. In some ways, he and this woman were like circling dogs sizing each other up.
Her continued silence finally goaded Sam into speaking. “I’m waiting, Miss Calhoun.”
As if that were her signal, she hunched her shoulders and lowered her gaze. Her hands remained clasped together in front of her. “I apologize, Your Grace, for keeping you waiting. I also apologize for my ignorance of your customs and do heartily regret my embarrassing faux pas. Would Your Grace please allow me to correct my mistake by removing myself from your presence and then executing a proper entrance?”
Sam frowned. How disappointing. This was not what he’d expected or wanted. But now he was caught. “Certainly. Leave the room, then knock, and await my reply as you did before. We’ll proceed from there.”
“Very well, Your Grace.” Still not meeting his gaze, she curtsied awkwardly and all but sidled meekly over to the closed door. Fumbling with the knob, she finally got it open and fled the room, closing the door behind her.
Alone now with only the ticking of the clock and his surprise, Sam shook his head, chuckled, and waited for her to knock …
And waited for her to knock. Only silence greeted his ears. Slowly, his grin faded. He shifted his weight about in his chair and finally put his drink down atop his desk. Still no knock. “What the bloody hell?” he muttered.
In one agile movement, he had his booted feet on the floor and was standing, staring at the door across the way. Still no knock sounded. And still he waited. He glanced at the clock and then eyed his bookcases, as if they could provide a clue. His jaw slowly tightened and his eyes narrowed. She was toying with him. She wouldn’t dare. There had to be another explanation.
Instantly into his mind popped images of him and his abominable behavior. And her meek response. Why, he’d scared her, the poor little bird. Even now, she was perhaps gathering her courage, perhaps even rehearsing what to say and how to curtsy properly. He pictured her out there, nervous and scared, trying to remember the protocol. The vision she made in his mind unexpectedly affected Sam’s heart and had him urging her on. Come on, you can do it. Don’t be frightened. Don’t disappoint me.
And so, feeling magnanimous, he waited longer, wanting to give her more of a chance to take this brave step and face him again. But all too soon, given the continued lack of a knock upon the door, he became agitated. Why didn’t she knock?
Sam skirted his desk and stood in the middle of the room, planting his hands at his waist and staring at the damned door. Maybe he needed to say something. Maybe she was waiting for him to tell her to knock. Of course. That was it. Feeling slightly ridiculous, he called out, “You may knock now.”
But she didn’t.
“What the bloody hell…?” Sam stalked over to the door and jerked it open. “I said you may knock—”
He cut off his own words. The hallway was empty.