Color and sound moved around her at dizzying speed. All around, bodies spun by, and she could see no way of escape. The room seemed to grow smaller around her.
“I’m Graeden Sinclair,” he said. “Grae to my friends.” He stepped back into her line of sight and reached for her hand. His gaze bore into hers and again, the urge to tell him her real name—to ask for passage on his ship—was overwhelming.
The loss of control shook her to the core.
“I’m sorry.” Arista drew in a ragged breath, and when a wave of dancers passed by, she dove among them, putting the crowd between her and the man who had nearly destroyed her defenses. She stood on the outskirts of the room, forcing the errant feelings back inside, where she hoped they would eventually die.
Grae. Like his eyes. Like the thunderclouds that filled the sky before a storm.
She pressed her gloved fingers to her lips to keep from saying it out loud.
A hand appeared on her arm, and another at her back. For a moment she thought Grae had followed her, and an unexpected rush of anticipation made her skin tingle.
“You okay, gypsy? Thought I lost you there for a minute.” Nic stood in front of her, partially shielding her from the crowd. Always the protector. Always looking out for her, like he’d promised to do so many years ago.
Arista closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. Not Grae. Nic.
“You know I hate when you call me gypsy.” The words came out rough, betraying her still-fragile control. Where had the highwayman gone? She could not see him over Nic’s shoulder, which meant he had not followed her. The bitter sting of disappointment made her close her eyes.
“Well, we still have work to do—gypsy. You feeling up to it?” Though Nic asked, she knew there was no choice. It didn’t matter that her composure had slipped dangerously out of her control. She had a debt to collect. A job to do.
She cleared her throat, took a deep breath to clear her thoughts, and nodded. “Where is Lord Huntington now?”
Nic flicked his eyes toward an archway where Lord Huntington stood. Arista already knew it led to the library, just as she knew every exit in the house. The first few minutes of each job were spent getting the feel for their surroundings. Unless they had been there before. “It’s time, then.”
They walked side by side around the edge of the room. Little by little, her composure returned. Each step took her away from what had happened on the dance floor.
Lady A had regained control once more.
Just steps away from Lord Huntington, Nic stopped her with a slight touch on her arm. She could not help the immediate comparison to how Graeden’s fingers had affected her.
Arista stared at Nic’s hand, waiting, hoping for something more, but there was only the familiar feeling of safety, not excitement.
“Really, is everything okay, gypsy?” He stared at her, his eyebrows drawn with concern. No trace of humor remained in his eyes.
For the briefest second, she had an overwhelming urge to cry. She had not cried since she was six years old, and it had been in Nic’s gangly eight-year-old arms. She’d sworn it would never happen again. Tears were for the weak—the powerless. She was neither.
“I’m fine. Let’s go.”
Nic looked as though he wanted to say something more, but Arista turned away before he could. No more distractions.
Lord Huntington saw them coming and quickly disappeared down the hall. After they entered behind the earl, Nic checked to be sure they were not followed. He switched to bodyguard mode seamlessly.
An enormous pair of carved-oak doors took up most of the wall at the end of the hallway. Nic pushed them open soundlessly and locked the doors behind them after they entered.
Arista’s skirts rustled in the quiet of the room.
Lord Huntington stood in front of the large mantelpiece, his back to them. Arista waited several long seconds before he turned and acknowledged her—a tiny play for control on his part. She gave it to him. She let him think he had a choice, at least for the moment.
Lord Huntington’s mask had been carelessly tossed aside on a polished side table next to his ridiculous hat. The seams of his silk jacket were even more strained up close, and it seemed as if the buttons would fly off at any moment. It took him three tries to clear his throat enough to speak.
“Lady A.” His voice sounded hoarse, like he’d only just started using it.
She inclined her head slightly. He took a long swallow from the glass of brandy clutched in his fat fingers. Just like that, she had the power again.