She’d spent a good bit of her life wary of people’s motives but had no cause to be suspicious of his. He might manage a den of vice, but he was honest in what he offered—and he’d been honest with what he was on the verge of delivering. No games from him.

She wished she could claim the same.

The echo of grinding metal alerted her he was opening a door. The action barely slowed him as he pushed the wood aside, creating a crevasse through which he pulled her into a dimly lit hallway. She hardly had time to note doors beyond them before he was escorting her up a set of stairs lit with sconces here and there.

At the landing, she could see more stairs beyond, but he ignored them and dragged her through an open doorway into another corridor and then into a room that contained a red velveteen fainting couch. He released his hold on her and she wandered farther inside. Paintings—nudes—of solitary women, solitary men, couples, and groups adorned the walls. Suggestive statuettes of naked couples caressing or kissing were nestled in the corners.

The snick of a door closing, being locked, caused her to swing around. His arms crossed over his chest, he leaned against the door and simply watched, waited.

She turned her attention back to the fainting couch. For some reason, she’d assumed he’d require a massive bed, that they would loll about in it and—well, her imagination had never taken her beyond the lolling. The couch seemed inadequate. Was it even called being bedded when it was done on a fainting couch? Or was it being fainting couched?

He was the expert, she the novice, in spite of her seven years of marriage.

“Not exactly what I was expecting,” she said honestly, facing him.

“I thought you’d appreciate the couch when your knees give way.”

“As I mentioned before, my knees are made of stern stuff.”

His grin was cocky and all male. “Never challenge me, sweetheart, unless you’re willing to deal with the consequences. Remove the mask.”

“No.” She stated it firmly, resolutely.

“There’s no one here to see you, to recognize you.”

He would see her, although he probably wouldn’t know precisely who she was. Still, she suddenly felt a need to remain incognito. Baring her face would make her too vulnerable, would make her feel exposed. What she was doing was wrong on so many levels, and she needed to remain as secretive about it as possible. “I can’t.”

She’d expected him to give her an ultimatum, to force her to remove it in order to gain what she wanted. Instead, he merely pushed himself away from the door and prowled toward her, determination darkening his eyes.