He thumped it against his thigh as he stalked to the library, barking out orders for scotch to be brought immediately. Captain John Frances Cameron. He’d thought there was something familiar about the whipcord lean figure when they’d been introduced in that artist’s lair. But before he could pursue the sense of recognition, he’d allowed himself to be distracted by the man’s offensive overtures. He saw now that it had all been a clever diversion, a ruse to keep him from looking too closely at him. And it had worked. Still, he couldn’t judge himself too harshly. One of the only times he’d seen Cameron, the man had weighed a full stone more than he did now. The Captain Cameron he’d glimpsed in the Sudan had been a vigorous, ramrod-straight officer tanned the very color of the beastly dune he’d been straddling, his expression keen, hawk-like. He’d been bearded then too, a full bronze-colored beard. But his eyes were the same. Yes. He should have recognized Cameron from those damned arctic-colored eyes of his.
