Chapter One
It had been too long since he had bedded a woman.
Sir Ross Cannon could think of no other explanation for
his
reaction to Sophia Sydney...a response so powerful that
he
was forced to sit behind his desk to conceal a sudden,
uncontrollable erection. Perplexed, he stared intently at
the woman, wondering why her mere presence was enough to
ignite such raging heat inside him. No one ever caught
him
off guard this way.
She was undeniably lovely, with her honey-shaded hair and
blue eyes, but she possessed a quality that surpassed
physical beauty: a hint of passion contained beneath the
frail gravity of her facade. Like any man, Ross was
aroused
more by what was concealed than by what was revealed. And
clearly, Sophia Sydney was a woman of many secrets.
Silently he strove to control his sexual awareness of
her,
focusing on the scarred mahogany surface of his desk
until
the flare of heat subsided. When he was finally able to
meet her unfathomable gaze, he remained quiet, having
learned long ago that silence was a powerful instrument.
People were uncomfortable with silence -- they usually
sought to fill it, revealing much in the process.
However, Sophia did not erupt into nervous chatter as so
many women did. She stared at him warily and did not
speak.
Obviously she was prepared to outwait him.
"Miss Sydney," he finally said, "my clerk informs me that
you would not disclose the reason for your visit."
"If I had told him why, I would not have been allowed
past
the threshold. You see, I have come about the positionyou
advertised."
Ross was seldom surprised by anything, having seen and
experienced far too much in the course of his work.
However, the notion that she would want to work here, for
him, was no less than astonishing. Apparently she had no
idea of what the job entailed. "I require an assistant,
Miss Sydney. Someone who will act as a part-time clerk
and
records-keeper. Bow Street is not the place for a woman."
"The advertisement did not specify that your assistant
had
to be male," she pointed out. "I can read, write, manage
household expenditures, and keep account books. Why
shouldn't I be considered for the job?"
A hint of challenge had colored her deferential tone.
Fascinated and vaguely unsettled, Ross wondered if they
had
ever met before. No -- he would have remembered her. And
yet there was something oddly familiar about her.
"What is your age?" he asked abruptly. "Twenty-two?
Twenty-
three?"
"I am eight-and-twenty, sir."
"Really." He did not believe her. She appeared far too
young to have reached an age that was considered to be
advanced spinsterhood.
"Yes, really." Seeming amused, she moved to lean over his
desk, placing her hands before him. "You see? One can
always tell a woman's age by her hands."
Ross studied the small hands that had been proffered
without vanity. They were not the hands of a girl, but of
a
capable woman -- one who had known hard work. Although
her
nails were scrupulously clean, they were filed almost to
the quick. Her fingers were marked with thin white scars
that had come from accidental cuts and scrapes, and with
a
crescent-shaped burn that must have come from a bake-pan
or
pot.
Sophia resumed her seat, the light sliding gently over
her
rich brown hair. "You don't look the way I expected,
either," she informed him.
Ross arched a brow in sardonic inquiry. "Oh?"
"I thought you would be a portly old gentleman with a wig
and a pipe."
That drew a brief laugh from him, low and scratchy, and
he
realized that it had been a long time since he had made
such a sound. For some reason he could not help
asking, "Are you disappointed to find otherwise?"
"No," she said, sounding a bit breathless. "No, I am not
disappointed."
The temperature in the office rose to a blistering
degree.
Ross could not help wondering if she found him
attractive.
He would soon be forty, and he looked his age. Threads of
silver had begun to appear in his black hair. Years of
relentless work and little sleep had left their mark, and
the reckless pace of his life had left him almost
rawboned.
He did not have the settled, pampered look that many
married men his age possessed. Of course, they did not
prowl the streets at night as he did, investigating
murders
and robberies, visiting prisons, and putting down riots.
He saw the assessing way Sophia glanced around his
office,
which had been furnished in a Spartan style. One wall was
covered with maps, the other fitted with bookshelves.
Only
one picture adorned the room, a landscape of rocks and
forest and stream, with gray hills rising in the
distance.
Ross had often stared at the landscape during times of
calamity or tension, finding that the cool, quiet
darkness
of the painting never failed to soothe him.
Brusquely he resumed the interview. "Have you brought
references, Miss Sydney?"
She shook her head. "I am afraid that my former employer
will not recommend me."
"Why not?"
Finally her composure was disrupted, a wash of color
spreading over her face. "For many years I have worked
for
a distant cousin. She allowed me to reside in her
household
after my parents died, despite the fact that she was not
a
woman of great means. In return for her charity, I was
required to serve as a maid-of-all-work. I believe that
Cousin Ernestine was pleased with my efforts, until..."
Words seemed to clot in her throat, and sudden
perspiration
lent her skin a pearly shimmer.
Ross had heard every possible tale of disaster, evil, and
human misery during his ten years as Chief Magistrate at
Bow Street. Although he was not callous by any means, he
had learned to put a certain emotional distance between
himself and those...
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