The little girl studied Maggie in amicable silence for some time and then went back to her toy, a small, colorfully painted metal horse with wheels.

Maggie knew the child had heard her question and was puzzled by the lack of response. She was about to ask again when the door of the magnificent house opened and Reeve McKenna came out, striding down the walk.

In light of the odd obsession she seemed to be developing for this man, Maggie considered bolting and running. But that was silly; he had given her her freedom, after all, proving that he was not the fiend she had thought, and she did need to learn the way back to the house in Victoria Street.

“Hello,” she said, remembering the woman in the book, leaning back against the wall. Hot color flowed into Maggie’s face, for in her dream that woman had been herself and the man kneeling to please her had been the one walking toward her at this very moment.

Reeve saw the blush on Maggie’s cheeks and smiled a secret smile, as though he knew what she was thinking and was amused by it. Of course, Maggie told herself firmly, he couldn’t possibly know.

“I’ve lost my way,” she blurted out when Reeve was suddenly standing just the other side of the fence, his hands close to hers, his chest so near that she could feel the warmth of it. Not daring to look up into his face, she focused on the ever-present brass charm glistening in the dark hair covering his chest.

“I was hoping you’d changed your mind about working for me,” Reeve replied, and Maggie could feel his breath on the crown of her head even through her thick hair. She shivered, though she was warm rather than cold. Oh, entirely too warm.

Maggie forced herself to look up into those dangerous aquamarine eyes. “In truth”—she was appalled to hear herself saying this—“I’m at sixes and sevens about that. I did work hard at learning my lines on the way out and—”

At Reeve’s slow smile, Maggie’s words dried up in her throat. Almost idly, he tangled an index finger in a curl of her hair, just beneath her right ear, where the skin was sensitive.

“And?” he prompted her.

Maggie blushed all over this time, feeling the heat in her face and under her clothes as well. Those damnable pictures towered in her mind, not as drawings, but as flesh and blood. Her flesh and blood, and Reeve’s. “Well,” she managed to choke out, “none of that matters anyway, now, does it? I’ve agreed to teach Mr. Kirk’s sons and I always keep my word.”

“Do you?” The two words, spoken in a low and rumbling tone, somehow affected Maggie like a bold caress.