Devil May Care Part 6/?
Author: Nefret24
Disclaimers and notes- see parts 1-5.
A/N: Historical note- Field Marshall Conrad von Hotzendorff was indeed a real figure in history- though his son, for the purposes of this story, is fictional. I have no idea if the man actually had children much less a son, but Karl's rash nature is one that has been attributed to Conrad.
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"There are two things that are infinite: the universe and human stupidity- and I am not sure about the former." ~ Albert Einstein
"Like anyone would be, I am flattered by your fascination with me/ Like any hot blooded woman, I have simply wanted a object to crave/ But you/ You're not allowed." ~ "Uninvited," Alanis Morrissette
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Nigel Wainwright's Apartments, Late Evening, Same Day
"God, am I fagged," sighed Nigel, sinking onto the sofa after packing in quite the hearty supper.
St. John merely nodded assent, and taking the other end of the sofa, extracted his cigarette case and extended it to his friend. They smoked in companionable silence for a few moments, before St. John's nagging conscience got the better of him again.
"I still can't believe you did that," he said, with a puff of smoke.
"Still harping on it, eh?" Nigel replied, shaking his head and was about to reply further when his aunt's butler entered the room with their coffee and sherry alongside the evening paper on a silver tray. Shoving the paper aside, the two each claimed a beverage and remained quiet until the man was gone.
"Bloody hell, Nigel- this isn't a game!" St. John exploded, saliva flying from his mouth.
"You think I don't know that?" he sneered back.
"I am in enough trouble with the relatives as it is- an accompliceto-to-"
"You'll be fine. No one will ever know you were involved," Nigel said, seeing now his friend's real crisis of conscience. "Besides, if anyone should get an inkling, you can always tell them I beaned you, pushed you down the stairs as you were violently protesting involvement," he added with a twinge of sarcasm and a grin.
"You always were a good egg," St. John replied, now a bit more complacent and partaking of his sherry. He was about to ask Nigel about how exactly they would go about getting the money but was interrupted by a small scratching sound and a faint cough from behind the lounge doors, the tell tale signs of the butler requesting entrance.
Sure enough, the butler made his appearance and announced that there was a visitor in the hall, and should the masters be at home?
St. John looked at the clock- it read half past ten. Who the devil would be calling now?
Nigel echoed St. John's thoughts by demanding to know who the visitor was.
The butler sniffed haughtily and replied, "The lady did not give me a name, sir. She spoke of an acquaintance with you. Shall I send her on her way?"
Nigel seemed to be deep in thought for a moment, then appeared to have reached some decision and told him to send her up.
St. John looked wide-eyed at his friend. What the hell was he doing? "Were you expecting anyone?"
Nigel shook his head and sucked on the nail of his thumb, apparently still thinking about the decision he just made. "No, no but I think I have an idea of who wouldn't want to give their name if they visited-"
He was silenced as the door opened again to reveal their visitor on the threshold.
"Marguerite!" Nigel squealed in delight and leapt off the sofa. St. John rose more slowly, out of politeness.
"Nigel," she said simply, extending her hand that Nigel promptly kissed affectionately.
"You remember my friend St. John -er, Smythe?" Nigel stammered, momentarily recalling social responsibilities.
Marguerite inclined her head towards St. John, which he reciprocated in kind. "Of course- how are you St. John?" she asked in the sweetest of tones, while looking directly at his bruised cranium.
"Very well, thank you," he managed, self-consciously smoothing out his hair on the right side of his head and reseating himself as she took a chair directly across from the sofa.
What a horrible liar, Marguerite thought disgustedly. Nigel began to make small talk which gave her leave to review her plan of attack. Her activities of the day had been primarily directed towards reaching back into the "good ole boys" network of the undesirable and disreputable, to see if she could get a handle on who had pulled the Roxton job- after shrugging off that pernicious little sweeper. How she attracted Tom was beyond her- she was no surrogate parent (probably don't have a maternal bone in my body, she mused) and he would do well to learn that as soon as possible. She had no time to baby-sit and the rest of the afternoon had established her interests with certain influentials but no information was forthcoming. At least, not yet.
Two important and contradictory things about the evening stood out clear for her. One was that the job was clearly professional; whoever had pulled it off knew where the safe was not to mention the peculiarities of the townhouse's inhabitants. (In a side excursion, she managed to chat it up with one of the Roxton footmen in a pub. She had discovered that apparently the horribly decorated library had previously served as a study to the late Lord Roxton. This gentleman had been overly concerned with security in his London flat- all the more sensible for him, in the footman's opinion, especially seeing the results of the previous evening- than at his Avebury estate. It was his practice to keep his wife's jewelry in his safe with his important papers- not only for security, but also it seems, that he had always enjoyed retrieving them and assisting his wife with adorning herself. As the footman had put it, "the master always was somethin' of a romantic, doncha know? 'Is son's just like 'im- won't give up tradition- ever so kind to 'is mum.") The unknown cracksman had known the layout of the house, known there would be a party as suitable distracting cover, and may have even known that she would be there- another colleague to take the blame for the heist.
The second thing - which concerned her more- was the injury to St. John and Nigel's sudden turn around from forlorn young puppy to ebullient sonnet-spouter. As she sat there listening to Nigel recount the day's events, she noticed that St. John seemed particularly on edge- kept shifting in his chair and darting his eyes about the room, like a caged animal looking for a way out. Yes, they were hiding something, these two young idiots. She was certain that Nigel had been the imbecile the Old Man had spoken of.
And that was part of the problem. If it was a professional job, they couldn't have done it. No way on this earth, short of supernatural intervention or possession. Unless they paid someone to do their dirty work for them, of course but then why should St. John have gotten knocked out? Their plans go awry? And yet Nigel seemed happy enough
Absolutely maddening. She decided to get it over with; she had had quite her share of chit chat and politics. "Dreadful about the Roxton's, isn't it?" she said bluntly.
Nigel froze mid-piffle and St. John appeared to get even more rigid. A terrified expression crossed his face as his head swiveled towards Nigel. Nigel himself tried to pass it off- but he couldn't hide that blush or the stutter: "Oh, y-yes. Dread-dreadful, yes."
"Lady Roxton, so I've heard, is very upset. Have you spoken to her?"
"Oh, no. No," Nigel squeaked, while St. John made a show of nodding his head vigorously.
"The papers speculated that it might have been an inside job. To be burgled by one's one servants like that!" she scoffed in a theatrical manner. "It's absolutely horrible!"
"Is that what they're saying- that- that the servants did it?" St. John said, concerned.
At Marguerite's nod of assent, St. John got up abruptly and began to pace, nervously biting off his practically non-existent fingernails, while Nigel affixed a singular attentiveness to his shoes. When Nigel looked up, he seemed close to tears.
"Nigel- what is it?" Marguerite asked, bringing concern into her voice. Yes, Nigel, do tell.
"Ohmygoodness," he whispered to himself, then jerked his head up to look at St. John. "Oh God- I am so sorry- I didn't- " his head swiveled back to Marguerite, "Oh Marguerite- I I"
Marguerite suppressed a grimace as she watched him try to control himself. She went over to the sofa and cooed softly to him, hoping to calm him down. She'd never get any information from him if he chose to have hysterics now.
Meanwhile, her ears were well aware of St. John's mutterings- some of which were more intelligible than others. "No one would know, you said accomplice no inkling what will aunt say? prison for sure, no doubt about it Mabel won't marry me "
Finally, Marguerite's control snapped. "What the devil is going on here, boys? What do you know about the robbery that you're not telling anyone?" she asked loudly, shocking them both.
Nigel resumed his quaking on the sofa and St. John was too petrified to pace. Finally, the latter extracted his fingers from his mouth to spit at his companion: "Show her, then, man. Make her proud," he sneered, these last words aimed to sting and showing their effect clearly on Nigel's countenance.
He got up from the sofa and approached his writing desk, extracting the self same parcel from the secret compartment that he had shown St. John only hours before. Pensively, he walked over to Marguerite and placed it in her hands. "I did it for you, you know. I only wanted to help"
Marguerite gaped at him. It couldn't be! Nigel and St. John? Slowly, she unwrapped the parcel in her hands and peeled away the fabric holding its contents. When she saw what it was, she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She folded the cloth back up and folded her hands in her lap. Clearing her throat and with a vain attempt to control her violent thoughts and emotions, she gave both men critical looks.
"It's Lady Roxton's letter opener," she stated. Wrapped so delicately and hidden with such care a bloody letter opener! Sure, the handle was gilded in gold but her knowing eye knew it wasn't solid through or even 24 karat.
"I know, I know" Nigel shook his head, ashamed.
"It was all his idea," St. John said, pointing an accusing finger at his friend.
"You stole her letter opener?" she repeated incredulously. Really, this was too absurd.
"It was his idea!" St. John repeated emphatically in a high pitched squeal.
"I'm sorry- I don't understand," Marguerite said frankly. "What about her necklace, the rings, the brooch? Did you steal them too?"
"What?" Nigel went almost blue and St. John choked on a fingernail.
"You mean, there was another burglary?"
With an exaggerated sigh of annoyance, she picked up the paper that the butler had brought in earlier and turned to the page of the story, before handing it to St. John. "I naturally assumed you had read this evening's paper. Second column," she pointed and waited to see his reaction.
Nigel read over his shoulder. Mr. Malone certainly did have a tendency towards exaggeration and lurid metaphors, but he could write with competency and clearly outlined what the police had discovered concerning the burglary.
Marguerite watched as St. John turned green and fumbled for a handkerchief to raise to his lips while Nigel meanwhile turned as pale as death.
St. John pulled himself together first. "Lady Roxton's jewels were stolen?" he whispered.
"Did you really think Scotland Yard would be called up for a missing letter opener?" she scoffed accusingly. Curiouser and curiouser
"It's gold!" Nigel defended himself plaintively.
"It's worth a few pounds at most. Now, I think you boys owe me an explanation- what exactly what happened last night?"
And so it was that Nigel and St. John unfolded their story. Apparently, Nigel had visited the pawn shop earlier in the week upon the loss of his wallet and pocket watch. He needed the extra cash for an automobile and was considering pawning off some dusty knickknacks of his aunt's, hoping she'd never miss them. However, with the knowledge of Marguerite's desperate situation last night, Nigel had decided that more drastic methods must be pursued and decided that Lady Roxton's knickknacks must be of greater value than his aunt's. He enlisted St. John as a guard dog, promising him a share of the money for the items.
Nigel had crept upstairs at one point during the party and had entered one of the parlors- not many knickknacks were to be found, but he did discover the Lady's writing desk and thus made off with her letter opener, concealed within his jacket's inside pocket. St. John, meanwhile, who had been keeping watch on the landing, at one point was knocked ass over teacups down the stairs. This was a point of dispute between the two- St. John maintained he was struck by an unknown assailant and Nigel held that he tripped and whacked his skull on the railing. Both remained open options in Marguerite's opinion.
As they talked, she fought for control over her facial expressions. The sheer lunacy of the scheme itself, tempered with its lousy execution and her own momentary notion that they possibly could have carried off the real burglary made her want to laugh, weep and scream furiously at the top of her lungs simultaneously.
The moronic twits!
They finished and nervously awaited her reaction. She stood up without warning, causing them to stumble to their feet. "I am leaving now," she said curtly. "But before I do, let me make something very clear to both of you. Do not, do NOT, under any circumstances, tell anyone of what you've done. Do you understand? Right now, they don't know it's missing and they probably won't even realize that it is- unless the two of you put your foot in it and lead them up your garden path- then it's goodbye auntie and hello constable," she spoke in a rapid monotone, glaring at both of them alternatively, with a tone that could chill the blood in one's veins.
Their only response so far were audible gulps, their Adam's apples bobbing up and down in extreme nervousness. She turned and stalked off to the door, confident that her point had struck home. At the door, she turned back with a grin. "Don't worry- you can count on my discretion."
Both continued to remain dumb-struck, but Nigel finally got up the nerve to rush towards her. "I didn't mean to cause trouble, I just wanted to help my love, dearest"
"Oh, please, Nigel, spare me the theatrics tonight," Marguerite said wearily, waving him off. Nodding her head to St. John, she said dryly, "Pleasure seeing you again." And with that, she swept out of the room.
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Marguerite had passed up the hansom cab awaiting her departure in favor of walking. Besides, her destination was not one where cabs generally trespassed; she was planning on returning to her safe-haven in the East End. She had realized the usefulness of such a location early in her 'career,' and the comfort of knowing there was more than one place to hide. It had been her saving grace numerous times and she had been firmly in the belief ever since that serial stories were not completely worthless; in fact, she occasionally picked up the odd copy of The Strand still, looking for Doyle's accounts of the illustrious Mr. Holmes, the inventor of the bolt-hole.
She only hoped, as she began to get closer to that part of town, that the brat wouldn't be continuing his vigil outside. She had come close to ruining a good pair of shoes coming out the back way to elude him earlier in the day.
She brooded on the case at hand, none too pleased with herself. Someone out there had those jewels
As she turned down a dark corner, the realization hit her full force. More people knew of her new identity than she had planned. 'Jack,' whom she had always known by Specter, had known who she was masquerading as and at what hotel she stayed at. It was entirely possible that others had discovered this as well- others who had the means, the capabilities and the will to pull off a job such as this
She suddenly felt acutely aware of a prickling sensation at the back of her neck. At first, she was all too willing to shake it off- yet another token reminder of her days as a spy- reminiscent paranoia- until she heard soft footfalls behind her, as if someone was trying to be quiet and failing miserably.
She kept at the same brisk pace but instead of veering off to the next right, the way to her flat, she went left instead, heading into the more notorious section of town. The footfalls followed and faster now, trying to keep up as she expertly maneuvered past alleys and open doorways, drunks and ladies of the night.
She had outwitted him, she knew, but that in and of itself was no good; she had to know who it was and what he wanted. She double-backed her trail on a parallel street, and after skirting through a tight space and divesting her hair of someone's hanging laundry, she found herself behind her pursuer.
The hunter becomes the hunted, wasn't that the popular phrase? She surveyed her quarry from behind, and as she slowly approached, she patted her purse to remind herself of her protection. The man himself was dressed in dark clothing- hard to tell the quality in the dark- and a dark cap. He was of medium height and build, but that proved little.
He was reaching a corner and approached it slowly, as if he expected her to be waiting for him on the other side. Instead, she slowly withdrew a hat pin from her hair and then she let her steps forward resound in the night air. He whirled around in surprise but before he could speak, she had him up against the wall with the metal tip at his throat.
"Looking for someone?" she whispered dangerously, pressing the sharp point ever so close to his jugular.
"Baroness," he managed, his eyes warily watching her hand poised to strike. He spoke with the barest hint of a German accent and the eyes that looked up at hers were not unfamiliar.
"What do you want?" she hissed.
"Your presence is requested," he said formally, beads of sweat forming on his brow. She raised her eyebrow. "I was sent to take you to him- no weapons, no weapons!" he ended more anxiously, as the hat pin began to draw blood.
Marguerite slowly withdrew her hold on him, and stepping back, she replaced the pin in her hair, her eyes never leaving his face. "Schroeder, you never were good at sneaking up on people," she said with a wry smile as he tried to recover his composure.
He gingerly touched his neck and drew back his fingers to see the tiny flecks of blood that she had drawn. She bared her teeth in a smile as a way of reply to this gesture. "Lead on, then," she ordered and followed him into the night.
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Schroeder had led her to what she had assumed was an abandoned warehouse. Upon entering the building through a half-boarded up side entrance, she realized how wrong she was. She should have known though. She should have known about a lot of things.
Schroeder was one of the many top level German spies known to Parsifal in the days of the war. He spoke English very well, almost completely free of any accent, and had worked in the British Communications Offices- intercepting British messages for the Germans. He was a poet and a romantic, harmless really, just a patriotic intellectual who had been recruited by chance. It now seemed that Schroeder had been reduced to the demeaning status of a messenger boy for one of the more powerful individuals in the German spy ring operating in England.
Her second surprise of the evening came when she entered the lushly decorated office, formerly of the foreman of the factory, she supposed, without the trimmings. And the trimmings were extensive- a polished mahogany desk, a sofa piled high with pillows, two elaborately carved chairs, Persian carpets covering up the rickety floorboards, a side bar cart topped with glasses and bottles of varying sizes, a newly hung crystal chandelier dangling from the high ceiling, and a portrait of the Field Marshall on the wall.
The occupant of the chair behind the desk was also an old acquaintance. His name was Karl von Hotzendorff, the son of the Field Marshall whose mustached face hung on the wall.
"You've been promoted," she remarked as a way of greeting.
"Baroness von Helsing, you grow in beauty every time we meet," he said gallantly, rising and kissing her hand. His accent was very noticeable. Karl was never very intelligent though he had made powerful friends in the upper echelons of command- most due to his father's influence. She had met Conrad von Hotzendorff only once, at a officer's dinner in Berlin that she had attended with the head of the Secret Police, and besides being predictably worse-for-the-wear drink-wise, she had found him hotheaded, temperamental and conceited. His son, unfortunately, possessed much of his father's traits. It now appeared as though he was in charge of operations here- a considerable step up from his former position as secretary to the head of Secret Police.
"Not that I wish to deprive you of your view, Karl, but is this meeting necessary? The war's over, you know," she said, dropping elegantly into one of the chairs and making a show of yawning.
His countenance darkened, making Marguerite sit up a bit straighter in her chair. The man was a fool but he had a temper, not to mention a considerable reputation for violence. Best not irritate him, she reminded herself.
"No- it is not," he said through clenched teeth.
Marguerite raised an eyebrow at this but said nothing. He's more unstable than I thought, she mused.
He got up and began to walk around the room. "The fighting may be finished, but the war is not. The motherland's honor will be restored."
"I take it you've decided not to let bygones be bygones?" she remarked wryly.
"Not just I, Baroness, and you would do well to remember that," he replied with a sneer. "My superiors still have interests in this country and I have my orders," he stopped to rest in front of his desk and leaned back against it. "As do you, my dear."
Her eyes widened in shock but she pressed her lips together to stifle the curses hovering so near the surface. She composedly contemplated the finish on the mahogany desk before she raised her eyes to his and spoke in a cool, clear voice. "How can I be expected to do anything? The British consider their victory complete. Most of their employees have been demobbed already."
His nostrils flared in annoyance. "You will follow your orders, Baroness. Or you know what follows," he threatened, returning to the other side of the desk.
Marguerite licked her lips ever so slowly as his back was turned. She did so hate those vague death threats. And with Karl at the helm, she had no compunction about admitting she was terrified if he ever got the chance to make good on it; his experimentations with torture methods during the war had granted him a certain reputation, which he, in his twisted way, was absurdly proud of.
"And what is the mission?" she asked.
He responded with a grin and began to shuffle through the papers on the desk, until he found a telegram from Berlin and passed it to her.
It read: BARONESS TO FIND ALICE IN WONDERLAND STOP ACQUIRE AT ONCE AND FORWARD TO BERLIN STOP UTMOST SECRECY STOP HIMMELFAHRTS KOMMANDO STOP.
Marguerite's hand was trembling ever so slightly by the time she had finished. The day continued to get more and more bizarre. The telegram, signed by the chief of the Secret Police himself, made absolutely no sense. Why should the Germans need her to get a copy of Alice in Wonderland? Last time she was in Berlin, she was pretty sure they had bookstores left in the city- why label the mission top secret? The last line chilled her blood; cynically classified as a "Journey to Heaven" mission, this little shopping excursion was expected to have a very slim chance of survival.
She looked up questioningly at Karl who stared back at her blankly. She handed him back the telegram. "I take it this was all that was sent?"
He nodded, extracting a lighter from a desk drawer. "I have no further instructions. You are to bring the book back here in three days for shipment. If not" he trailed off threateningly as he set fire to the paper and with a wave of his free hand, Schroeder reappeared in the room to escort her out.
"Auf wiedersehen, Karl," she said with one of her best scowls, rising and following his secretary out. Karl did not look up but merely watched captivated as the ends of the paper began to curl as it burned black in his ashtray.
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Marguerite had returned to the flat and spent a mostly sleepless night there, smoking cigarette after cigarette in annoyance, confusion and anxiety. She didn't know what to do- she, of all people, was completely without a plan of attack. The past thirty six hours were becoming more and more a blur the more she thought about them. Oddly enough, she found herself thinking more and more about the Roxton household and its handsome master.
Viciously stubbing out another cigarette, she scolded herself. That's all you can think about? Lusting after a Lord? Your mark is gone and you're getting the blame, a reporter's asking questions, two idiots are screwing things up, Specter and MI5 is still bothering with you, a brat wants your tutelage, Karl just assigned you a mission, Xian's men can still be following you all things that have to be dealt with and fast. Not green eyes, or long brown hair that curls ever so slightly at the ends, or a tall, lean, muscular body
She scrubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands and sighing, took a long look at herself in the cracked mirror above a small bureau she kept. She thought she looked as strained as she felt, her eyes getting red from lack of sleep and smoke.
She went over to the window, dark with grime. With a spare handkerchief, she rubbed away a small circle to reveal the first light of dawn. Turning slowly, she idly glanced around the room for where she had tossed her hat. After finding it in a corner, she secured it in place and smoothing out her dress and quickly checking the mirror again, she determined she was suitable to be seen. She needed to return to the Ritz, clean up, take a long, luxurious bath and treat herself to some of their lovely, buttery scones before she entangled herself any further.
She left the room and using one of her lockpicks from her purse, relocked the flat door. Why pay for a room when you can simply break into one? Replacing the pick, she quietly exited the building, passing on her way out one very asleep would-be purse snatcher.
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The Ritz Hotel, Just after Dawn
Lord John Roxton, too, was sound asleep, curled up very uncomfortably in an armchair in the Ritz lobby. He had first arrived at the Ritz late the previous evening looking for the elusive and mysterious Miss Krux. The concierge had graciously informed him that she was not in at present and would he care to wait?
So wait he did. Through a late dinner, after dinner drinks, and a nightcap, he waited, badgering the desk and scaring the porters with menacing glares. He hadn't stopped thinking about her since the moment their eyes had met across that crowded parlor room. Those haunting grey eyes Frustrate with anger, at her, at his own desire, at the brash robbery of his home, he bellowed at every member of the hotel staff he came into contact with. No one knew where she was or when she would be returning.
He knew she would come back and when she did, he'd want some answers. He had spoken with the reporter Malone late in the afternoon and somehow, it served only to make him more certain that she had somehow perpetrated this crime. Malone had wished him luck with trying to get her to confess; Roxton had to admit he would need it, especially after his near miss the night before. He hadn't slept a wink after what he considered, his only brush with death on the homeland.
He paced and he smoked and he read the evening papers. She didn't come.
Eventually he had ended up in his current position, and with the porters gradually acquainted with his temper all evening, they decided it was best to let him be, for fear of his wrath. He slept fitfully, every once in a while awaking with a jerk and scanning around the lobby as if a predator were stalking him nearby. (This caused the employees of the hotel to become even more terrified of him though they were not permitted comment, as he did rank as a Lord, as the concierge often reminded them. The concierge himself tried to take cover in the back offices for as long as possible. He was considerably uncomfortable being surveyed by the man known as The Great White Hunter as some sort of foe to knock down. He asked the cleaning ladies to be extra quiet lest he startle again and make a lunge for their throats.)
It was not long after dawn when he awoke with a start once again. Lowering himself back into the chair and readjusting his limbs in what had become an on-going quest for comfort, he lazily looked towards the doorway.
And there she was. Strolling in without a care in the world going to the desk to ask for messages the concierge pointed over in his direction. One sleek eyebrow went heavenward as she turned and stared at him, expressionless.
Going red in the face, he scrambled to his feet and endeavored to smooth out his now-wrinkled clothes. His tie was well, who knows what had happened to the blasted tie, and his hat now had quite a large dent in it, from masquerading as a pillow.
She marched right up to him, confident as ever. "I'm sorry, my lord, did I wake you?" she asked sweetly, an impish grin spreading on her face.
"No, not at all," he said confidently, running a hand through his hair to smooth it back. He looked her up and down, wondering where the hell she had been all night. Had she a lover? His stomach lurched oddly at that thought, as he refocused his attention on her. He'd need all his wits if he was to get out of this unscathed.
"Visiting a paramour, are we?" she said with a chuckle as she began to move towards the elevator.
He followed her, jaw set firm. Fine, he thought, we'll play your little game. For now. "Wrong again. Was looking for you, actually," he replied with a grin as he stepped onto the elevator with her.
"Floor, miss?" the operator asked.
"Five," she said with annoyance, flaring her nostrils at Roxton.
They stood in tense silence, staring one another down as the floors slowly passed. The operator boy had begun to get very nervous and let out a sigh of relief as they came upon their destination. "Fifth- er- floor," he said, his voice cracking.
"Looks like this is our stop," Roxton whispered in her ear, loud enough for the boy to hear. He then smiled at the lad, who was predictably red in the face, and placing a hand on the small of her back, pushed Marguerite out of the elevator before him.
She stomped ahead of his grasp and wheeled around, giving him an angry glare before marching fast down the hallway. "Okay, you've had your fun. What do you want, Roxton? Reimbursement for your picture frame?"
She had stopped at her suite door and was fishing for her latch key in her purse when he grabbed her arm. "I want what is mine," he growled.
She looked at the hand on her arm and slowly drew her gaze up to his face, now very close to hers. "If I were you, I'd move that hand pretty damn fast," she threatened in a slow, taut voice.
He removed it upon seeing her face. Who knew what the woman was capable of? He did not, however, remove himself completely, but kept the intimate space between them. He could feel stray hairs from her curls on his face, as she had shifted to open the door to the room.
"Why don't we continue this conversation someplace more sensible?" she remarked critically and held the door open for him to pass through.
"Nice," he commented, looking around the suite. "Yours or someone else's?" he said cuttingly.
"Mine, thank you. Sorry to disappoint you, Roxton, but you'll find nothing of yours here," she remarked flippantly, closing the door and dropping her purse on a side table. She moved to the window to close the drapes, her usual precaution - even when it was only her in the room. Especially then.
"Nothing of my mother's either?" he asked, lowering himself into a plush chair.
"No. Now before you make yourself too comfortable, go away." She out thrust a finger towards the door.
"No, I find this chair quite serviceable, thanks. Where are they, Miss Krux?"
"I don't know what you're talking about and even if I did, I sure as hell wouldn't tell you." She leaned up against the sofa and crossed her arms in front of her, fairly radiating annoyance and obstinacy.
"Sure you weren't getting a head start on dwindling the family fortune, my dear?" he asked rising and moving towards her.
She didn't move but answered him in the same sickeningly sweet tone. "And just what are you implying, Lord Roxton? That I'm some sort of master thief who whisked your mother's jewels out from under your nose?"
He stood toe to toe with her now and looked down on her. "Master thief? No, I wouldn't say that. An amateur, perhaps. Where are they, Marguerite?" he said in a dangerously soft voice.
Keeping her arms still firmly crossed, she looked up at him, fighting tooth and nail to keep an implacable, unreadable expression on her face. One hell of an insult coupled with his stifling closeness it was almost too much. She changed tack and let a small smile play on her lips.
"You don't really think I took anything, do you, Roxton?" she replied with her trademark purr, running a light finger up and down his right lapel. "You wouldn't listen to a self-serving journalist over the real thing, would you? Over me?" Her lips now hovered desperately close to his as she arched her head up.
"I wouldn't believe you if you said the sun rose in the east," he replied huskily.
Two well placed hands and an angry shove sent him reeling backwards. "I will not have accusations flung at me in my home. Leave now, or I will call the concierge!"
"I'm not leaving until you produce my mother's jewels!"
"You must have me confused with someone else, Lord Roxton. And if you do not leave this room, I will have some large porters drag you out," she said, her hand picking up the telephone receiver.
"Maybe you're right. Yesterday I wouldn't have known you from Adam. But as sure as I'm standing here, I know that you're not what you're claiming to be. And I'm going to find out what you're hiding. Good day, Miss Krux."
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He left under his own steam, though she had known that her threat to call the front desk was toothless anyhow. None of the porters were that physically intimidating and who knew if they would have actually done it.
Her skin still tingled where his hand had gripped her arm. She didn't think she would bruise, but she felt like she had been singed with a red hot poker. If I'm not careful, that man could be the end of me, she mused, before lowering herself into a deserved bubble bath.
As she soaked, she found herself thinking of him again. As the steam and the water wrapped around her, she closed her eyes and thought of his breath ever so light on her cheek as she opened the door to the suite and of the fullness of his lips that had been so tantalizingly close.
God, I hope these things get wrapped up fast, she pleaded, mindful of her other obligations. I don't know how much longer I can stand those long glances without doing something foolish.
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TBC
Again, my apologies for not updating faster. Looking ahead, I've suddenly realized that this story really is a lot more complicated than it is on my little plot diagram. More for you to read- lots more for me to write.
Please read and review it does a body good. :P