She pulled his shirt from its tucked belted state and snaked her hands around his waist. She came to her one day and pulled on her apron. "Not my king's," returned Wood. He knew it absolutely, as if he had the check in his hand. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. She felt anger at Sebastian, anger at the thrill that she felt in her loins upon seeing him, anger at herself for never having the courage to end her own life. He smothered it down with such a good will that the reaction set his heart to pounding. He comforted himself, however, with the certainty which he felt of capturing his prey on the Sunday.
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