Page 5 of How To Tempt A Bodyguard

She shifted on her seat, angling her body towards him, her knees almost brushing his. "Ah, so you are familiar with her operation."

Matthew said nothing. He wasn’t about to give anything away if she was fishing for information.

He watched her hand drift to her wrist, fingers hiding the bruise beneath the lace sleeve. "Were you involved in the rescues? Helping women assume new identities? Find new homes in the Continent?"

Matthew's jaw tightened. He kept his eyes fixed on the page, though the words had blurred to meaningless shapes.

The woman scoffed faintly. “You can tell me. I know all about it. Mrs Raines and I have been friends for almost a decade.”

"You can ask her then," he replied.

Silence.

He could feel her stare boring into him, could practically hear the gears turning in that head. He braced himself for outrage, for another volley of sharp words.

She bristled. “You lied to me.”

When he finally glanced up, she had turned back to the window, her expression unreadable. One hand still rested on her bruised wrist, her thumb tracing slow circles over the fabric.

“About?”

“Not caring about beauty. Why, I recall Mrs Raines telling me a few years back that you were friendly with the village beauty.”

Her arrogant eyes met his, a smug smile on her lips. He suddenly had a feeling the chit was testing him. He couldn’t explain it, but he always erred on the side of caution. He couldn’t give anything away if he said nothing. He returned his attention to the book although he’d abandoned reading a while ago.

She broke the silence again. "How many times have you broken your nose?"

"Does it matter?"

"Maybe."

He looked up at her with a weary sigh, letting his book fall closed on his thumb. "In what scenario would it matter?"

She shifted in her seat, the movement outlining the flare of her hips against her small waist. She smoothed her skirts, an unnecessary gesture that drew his eye despite himself. He forced his gaze back to her face, conjuring the memory of her disgusted expression when her dress had touched his boots. It was a technique he'd honed over years of protecting beautiful women, a necessary discipline for a man of his appetites. Usually, it worked.

This time, he had to dig deeper.

"If you've broken it twice, I'd say you're clumsy or accident-prone, perhaps in a fight." She counted off on her gloved fingers, a surprisingly practical gesture for such a decorative creature. "Three to five times, I'd say you have issues with temper. An unpleasant personality." Another finger. "More than that, and I'd say you're a prize fighter."

Reluctantly, he felt one corner of his mouth curve. "Not bad."

He turned a page, though he hadn't absorbed a single word of the previous one.

She shrugged one dainty shoulder, the movement making her pearl earring catch the light. His traitorous gaze traced the elegant line of her neck, the gentle curve where it met her shoulder, before he wrenched it back to the illustration of Osoto Gari.

"Which is it?"

"Still doesn't matter."

She was quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice had lost its edge, gone soft and almost wondering.

"You're quite extraordinary, you know."

He snorted. "I'm really not."

"A literate, women-escorting, truth-telling former pugilist?" A smile played at the corner of her lips. "That's not—"

The thunderous crack of splintering wood shattered the afternoon quiet.