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Quin’s smile came back, bright and teasing. And false. ‘I want those apricot pastries.’
‘I don’t think you deserve them,’ Cleo retorted. If he was going to pretend everything was all right, then she was going to let her resentment of his teasing out. ‘I only brought them because I was sorry for dragging you into a fight and now I discover you enjoyed yourself and tried to make me feel guilty.’
Quin leaned to the side and stretched out his arm, snagging the box off the bed before she could snatch it away. ‘Hmm. Two. I’m prepared to share.’
He offered her the box and then took the remaining piece. For a few minutes they ate in silence. Quin seemed focused on the pastry, catching crumbs, using his tongue to find the escaping fruit in the corner of his lips, his eyes half-closed like a cat enjoying its dinner. Sensual.
I’ve never seen that side of him. Perhaps there were not so much many sides to him as layers, like this flaky pastry. And somewhere there was the real Quin, the one that perhaps she had never glimpsed yet. He was a master at hiding his feelings. He was honest when he told me about his father, she argued with herself. Or was he? another part of her wondered. She had felt sympathy, liking, but those could be manipulated as easily as hate or love. Or desire. Somewhere was the real man and she had to find him because he was the one she needed to trust.
The silence when they finished eating felt heavy, loaded with unsaid words. Cleo shifted on the bunk, restless.
‘You’ve a crumb.’ Quin reached towards her face. ‘Just here.’ His fingertips brushed at her cheek and then stopped. He leaned closer as his palm cupped her cheek.
Cleo made herself meet his gaze and saw that the light was back in his eyes. It was as if embers had leapt into flame. His whole focus was on her and she swayed, leaning into the warmth of his hand. ‘What is it?’ It was a whisper, all she had breath for.
‘I fear I am not going to be able to give you what you want when we reach England.’ The brief blue fire had flickered and gone now. His gaze met hers, heavy and dark. ‘I fear you will be disappointed.’
‘In what I find there, or in you?’ His hand was still touching her face, the fingers caressing her cheek.
‘Both. I think you will be confused because I do not think you know what you truly want. This world I am taking you to is so very different to what you are used to.’
‘I know what I want.’ It was hard to form the words with the mesmeric movement of his fingertips sending her nerve endings into tingling confusion. ‘Why will I be disappointed in you? Should I not trust you?’
‘You never have, have you?’ His fingers stilled.
‘No.’ She shook her head and his hand dropped to rest on her shoulder. ‘And I was right, was I not? You hid the reason you came to Egypt, you were selective with the truth about who you were. There is still something that you are not telling me, I can sense it. And you even deny this.’ She reached for his hand and brought it to her lips, savouring the texture of his skin.
‘Cleo—’
‘You want me and I want you and yet you will not admit it.’
‘I admit it.’ Quin made no move to free his hand. She could feel the pulse, strong, steady. Perhaps a little fast for a fit man.
‘Then why do you not do anything about it? I am not some sheltered virgin. I am a widow, I am of age and I am travelling to London to start my own life on my own terms. Why cannot that include a lover?’
‘I would be taking advantage of you,’ Quin said. Behind the words she sensed his mind working furiously. Seeking for excuses.
‘You are not trying to seduce me, you do not coerce me, so how would you be taking advantage?’
‘I am virtually the only man you have been on familiar terms with since your husband died, other than your father and Laurent. It is only natural that there is a certain...awareness between us.’
‘Such sweet reason. Shall I then wait until I arrive in London and find a variety of men to choose from? You will secure me invitations to all the best parties so I may view the cream of the available gentlemen, perhaps.’
‘Only if you wish to set up as a high-class courtesan!’ Quin tugged his hand free and stood, stooping under the low deck. He shifted the chair further away and sat down again. ‘How do you expect to make a suitable marriage with that attitude?’
‘You think I want a marriage? You sound like Madame da Sota. You and she might think that is what all this is about—keeping me respectable so I can catch a second husband—but I do not.’
‘Of course that is what should happen.’ The colour was high on Quin’s cheeks, as though she had somehow embarrassed him or caught him out in some way. ‘You are of good family, you are still a young woman. A beautiful young woman. Of course you will marry, and marry well, once you have settled into London society.’
