association with her husband and she also knew he would not apologize for them either. He was a man of action. Once he evaluated the situation and made a decision, he did not look back.
Instead of moving away, he pressed closer. “Do you miss him?”
“Would it matter if I did?”
“No.” His eyes remained hard, but his voice grew rough. “But I would like to know, all the same.”
She shook her head. “No, Sebastian. I stopped missing him a long time ago.”
He brought his hand up to caress the line of her jaw. “Ashcroft served his country well. First as a messenger, then as an intelligence agent. He saved lives, helped avert disasters. He was a hero. Remember that, Catherine. And one day, when Sophie is older, tell her. Tell her how her father helped save England during its bleakest hour.”
She knew from experience that such knowledge did not soothe the hurt of missed birthdays and holidays, of not witnessing a daughter’s first big catch or her first gallop across the meadow. The Navy had been Catherine’s father’s life, his one passion above all else, even above his family. All his colorful medals and his crew’s effusive praise had done nothing to mend the many breaks in her heart.
But she appreciated what Sebastian was trying to do. Catherine folded her hand over his and kissed his palm, afraid to meet his gaze or express her gratitude. Because if she had done either one, he would have seen her fall in love with him.
Sensing her distress, he framed her other cheek and claimed her mouth. His kiss was passionate, full of volatility. The bone-deep chill that had invaded her body began to thaw, warming beneath his sensual assault. For the briefest of seconds, he let her burrow beneath the iron casing protecting him from harm. Beneath the casing beat the noblest of hearts, the purest of intentions. Beneath the casing she found hope.
Catherine pushed deeper, needing to learn more about this complicated man. But he discerned her attack and nudged her back, closing the small portal.
Lifting his head, he leveled his burning, yet resolute gaze on her. “What do they want?”
“Sebastian, I’m so sorry—”
He placed a finger across her mouth. “There’s no need.”
“But—”
The pad of his finger smoothed over her lower lip. “Answer me one question.”
She nodded, and he drew his hand away. He said nothing for several seconds, seeming to debate the merits of asking his question.
Then, “At any time, did you enjoy my touch?”
Catherine’s throat ached for the courage it took to ask such a question. She brushed the backs of her fingers along his unshaven jaw. “Every time, Sebastian. Every time.”
Beneath her caress, a muscle jumped. She returned her hand to her lap, unwilling to reveal any more of her blossoming feelings. For she knew, despite their shared passion, he would leave. And she would be alone again. This time, however, she knew better than to wait, for this man would not return.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead and rose. At the corner table carrying an array of spirits, he paused. His stillness disconcerted her. “Are you unwell?”
“I’m fine.” When he turned back, he asked, “What does Cochran want?”
His expression, his tone, his stance—it was all reminiscent of the day she had visited him at his London town house. That meeting now felt as if it had taken place an eternity ago. Catherine fought to hold back an indelicate shiver.
“A list.”
If she thought he was still before, she had been wrong. The man who faced her was hewn of solid marble, not a hair or muscle moved. All warmth was gone. “What sort of list?”
“The one cataloging all trait—agents of the Nexus.”
Fury twisted his handsome face into a mask of hatred. He grasped something off the table and propelled it across the chamber; a monstrous shattering of crystal followed. “Bloody Reeves!”
Frowning, Catherine asked, “Reeves?”
But his anger made him deaf to her query. He prowled the length of the chamber, muttering recriminations and casting Reeves to the devil.
Catherine rose and placed the chair between them. She did not really believe the chair could protect her, but the meager barrier gave her a sense of comfort all the same.
He stopped. “Who the hell is Cochran?” White flames licked the outer edges of his steel-gray eyes.
Catherine clenched her teeth. “Supposedly a friend of Jeffrey’s. Someone who worked with my husband at the Foreign Office.”
His eyes narrowed. “When did Cochran first approach you?”
“In London. The afternoon following our meeting. He caught me