A Valentine from Harlequin

we’ll have them as a bargaining chip of sorts.”
    “Agreed.”
    She turned to get to work, and the hem of her gown caught on a pile of debris. “Bother. This dress is going to be a hazard in such a tight space, and there is hardly enough room for my bustle. Besides, being trussed up for a few hours at a ball is one thing, being trussed up for two days is another kettle of fish. I hope you don’t mind?”
    She deftly began unhooking the numerous clasps on the back of her dress but froze when she caught the expression on Alistair’s face. His jaw tightened, his warm, hazel eyes going hot and bright, to a poison green. His gaze trailed a molasses path from her face down the length of her neck and lingered on her breasts before he looked away. Charlotte’s stomach dropped, need pooling low in her belly.
    But surely she must have been mistaken. Had Alistair ever desired her? He knew all he had to do was ask and she’d be his. She’d made it very clear more than a year before how she felt about him. And he had rejected her. Her cheeks burned at the memory.
    “Are you certain that is a sound idea? What if Rotham takes your state of undress as an invitation?” His voice sounded as if he’d swallowed something sharp.
    Charlotte considered his reaction. What had started out as a mere practicality had suddenly become ripe with possibilities. There had been many times over the past several years of their friendship when Alistair had stared at her in a way that warmed her insides, or when he’d stiffened when she’d brushed by. But after she’d offered herself to him so plainly and he’d insisted that they could never be more than friends and colleagues, she’d put it off to imagination…wishful thinking.
    But if they truly had only two days to live, she wouldn’t let the time pass without making certain he wasn’t lying to her—or himself—when he’d said he only cared for her as a friend.
    “There are many layers beneath this dress. Surely Rotham will not be driven to madness by the sight of me in a petticoat, Alistair.” She kept her tone light, but her fingers trembled as she began to work on the tiny hooks again.
    “You don’t have a maid,” he continued, his words coming more quickly now. “And I don’t have a hand to help. Perhaps when Rotham returns you can ask for more suitable attire. For now, just leave—”
    She’d gotten only a third of the way through the hooks, but it was enough to cause the front of her dress to fall forward, revealing her petticoat with its fitted bodice and even lower neckline.
    Alistair sucked in a breath and his protests abruptly ceased. She dared a glance in his direction, but his eyes were locked on her breasts and the bright white thatch of cloth barely restraining them. She’d planned to don her shawl again once she’d gotten out of the dress, for modesty’s sake, but that intention evaporated under the heat of his gaze. His pupils were so dilated that his gold-flecked eyes appeared almost entirely black. The pulse in his neck throbbed and his nostrils flared. He looked positively wicked. She’d dreamed of the day he would view her like this.
    Her fingers grew more sure as she stretched to reach the middle hooks. His breathing grew harsh. Her heart pounded as the truth settled deep in her soul.
    Alistair wanted her. In spite of his earlier words, he wanted her badly, and she wasn’t going to leave this room until he admitted it, Rotham be damned.

Chapter Four
    With only half a day remaining, Alistair realized he wasn’t going to survive this. He knew it with grim certainty. If Rotham didn’t kill him, then Charlotte would. Frankly, he was surprised he hadn’t succumbed already.
    As he stared down at the delicate convex lens before him, all he could see was creamy white skin, full raspberry lips and a tumble of dark curls that had long ago escaped their confines. Surely if he was to finish these damned goggles he’d need an ounce of blood in his brain. Instead, it had all traveled south, and he’d been as useless as an addled boy since.
    “How are they looking?” Charlotte called to him from the corner. Rotham had returned that morning to bring them food, take them to the privy and then force them to trade places. Charlotte had been manacled ever since.
    Reluctantly, he faced her. Her arms were behind her back, thrusting her glorious breasts forward, and he swallowed hard to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “Not yet. Close,