They stood that way, squaring off like opponents on a battlefield as moments turned to minutes and then Sibyl, struggling to pull her shirt over her head while, impossibly, her jacket and boots where tucked under her arm, stamped down the stairs, muttering to herself such phrases as “loony bin” and “danger to society”.
Sibyl stopped, shrugged into her jacket then bent over to pull on her boots and then she strode angrily to Colin. He stared down his nose at her.
He’d seen her earlier that morning, out the window, in her ridiculous outfit (an outfit that still managed to look enticing on her) and it was almost as if he couldn’t control himself. It was almost as if an invisible force pulled him to the front door to watch her cavorting with her damned dog.
She was (he knew, as he was a connoisseur of woman) unbelievably beddable. His hands itched to touch her, his mouth was dry with the effort not to kiss her. Last night, when he found her stubbornly shivering in her sleep, he had the strong urge he almost couldn’t beat back and very nearly warmed her with his own body.
Earlier, every time she’d said “Mallory” it made his gut twitch because it sounded so familiar, as if he’d heard her say it before, many times before.
It didn’t help matters that when the dog licked his hand that seemed bizarrely familiar and welcome as well.
Now, she was standing before him, her eyes flashing that intriguing green when five minutes before, when he looked into her eyes, they were a warm sherry, and she held her hand out, palm up.
“Keys!” she barked in his face, her clearly formidable, and just as appealing, temper flashing like lightning in the room.
He calmly pushed his hand into the pocket of his jeans and deposited her car keys in her palm.
Tamara came forward and held out the red purse to Sibyl who snatched it out of the woman’s hand without a word.
Colin slowly, taking his time, looked between the two women.
Tamara was his type, dark, petite, thin, sophisticated and cool.
Sibyl was not his type, she was golden, lush, curvy and tempestuous.
To his stunned surprise, there was absolutely no comparison. Tamara, he found, was sadly lacking.
Colin decided in that moment that Sibyl was rather magnificent, even if he felt certain that every movement was a studied performance. He had no idea what she and the older woman wished to gain but he was beginning to think that it might be rather diverting to turn the tables on them.
Especially if Sibyl Godwin (if that was, indeed, her real name as the police had assured him the resident of Brightrose Cottage, the address on her license, was named) was as splendidly hot in bed as she was out of it.
The other option remained that she was Sibyl Godwin, the reincarnation of the legendary Beatrice. The fact that option existed, even minutely, Colin knew meant it had to be explored.
He noticed throughout her act that she didn’t even glance at the portraits and he didn’t know what to make of that then Sibyl interrupted his thoughts by speaking.
“Mrs. Byrne, I’d love to have coffee somewhere far, far away from Lacybourne. Please call me if you’d like to do that sometime,” she said to the older woman, her voice lower and more controlled.
“I would be delighted,” Mrs. Byrne replied.
“And as for you,” she turned to Colin, her eyes shimmering emeralds, she finished hotly, “I hope I never see you again!”
Colin studied her knowing he’d see her again.
He was planning on it.
And looking forward to it.
Thus, he did not reply.
With that, and without a comment to Tamara, she stomped out the door whistling to her dog and, when outside, calling to her cat.
They heard doors slam, the car start and the gravel fly as she peeled out of Lacybourne.
“I must say, Mr. Morgan,” Mrs. Byrne was talking and Colin’s eyes slid to the older woman. He read, very clearly this time that her voice held a more than mild rebuke. “That was not very well handled.”
Then, with great dignity, she exited the room.
Chapter Six