She’d spent the past week sleepy and distracted. “Mr Sexton, my sister, Miss Elizabeth McConnell,” Charlie said. She jerked her gaze up. Sure enough, there he stood. Her breath caught and she set the mug on the counter with a heavy crash. Dressed in a plain, brown broadcloth jacket and nankeen pantaloons, he could have been any tradesman from the neighbourhood. Yet his height and arrogant bearing set him apart. Those silver eyes focused on her, the momentary heat there reminding her of being abed with him. After a week spent aching with loneliness in her bed and staying away from City Tavern, tingling warmth suffused her belly. Her eyes traced the familiar contour of his angular jaw. She remembered their last meeting. When he had made her come over and over and how she had pressed a frantic rain of kisses upon that jaw. Remembered the taste of his sweat, the scent of their mutual arousal. Now wetness began to flow between her legs. Her eyes flickered to her brother’s bland, pumpkin-shaped face and she prayed he could not read the ardent hunger on her face.
