Stealing Mercy by Kristy Tate Read Free Book Online Page B

hit a dry spot. Stunned by the woman’s sudden silence, he’d left, but the next time he returned with flowers and a heavy arsenal of charm. To no avail. Mercy wasn’t sick, wasn’t married, and wasn’t in.
    And now he found her outside Steele’s hotel room, fumbling with the door, and any second the goons would reappear and find her trying to pick Steele’s lock with a bent hair pin. She wore a black gown that looked like it belonged to her barge shaped aunt, the lace and crinoline sagged around her shoulders. He found the ribbon bunching the fabric around her waist unattractive and yet alluring.
    She couldn’t be Steele’s accomplice, could she?
    He had plans for Steele’s room and didn’t want an audience or interference. Although he had sought out Mercy, he didn’t want her here, in harm’s way. He watched, waited, and hoped she’d grow frustrated and return to her aunt and to a life without Mr. Steele.
    Mercy paused, looked around, pushed the spectacles back on her nose and resumed her work. Trent stepped away from the plant for a closer look. Her dark hair had been tucked into a simple bun, but escaped strands curled down her neck. A pink flush stained her cheeks. She caught her lower lip between her teeth.
    The floorboards creaked and Trent turned to watch Steele’s henchmen, Lector and Orson, amble down the hall. Mercy had also seen them, and when she started, the black dress slipped and exposed a rounded shoulder. She pushed her back against the door and straightened the dress. Despite his impatience, Trent smiled as the bifocals slid down her nose.
    He wondered what she would say to the goons. Did she know them? Did they have a working relationship? He considered what they could do and say to her and then abandoned his place behind the potted plant.
    “Wrong room, my dear,” Trent said, his voice thick with false laughter. He held out a hand, praying he was a better actor than his sister. “We’re over here.”
    Mercy’s cheeks flamed red. She groped the lock behind her skirt, undoubtedly trying to extract the hairpin. “Goodness,” she said. “That would have been embarrassing.” She let Trent take her hand and pull her across the hall, away from the burly men.
    Her hand, cold and small, shook in his grasp. She radiated with nerves. Not Steele’s accomplice then. Unless, of course, she was trying to double cross him. Interesting.
    Trent bristled under Orson and Lector’s stares. He pulled her to him. “Hand me your key, darling.”
    “Pardon?” she stammered, clutching the hairpin.
    Trent gave the goons a tight lipped smile and then met her gaze. “Your key,” he repeated, grasping her arm. She felt soft and fragile and smelled of cinnamon. Her eyes widened in surprise and alarm when he tightened his grip.
    “Of course,” she said, slipping him the hairpin.
    Within seconds he’d unlocked the door to room twenty and pulled her inside. He closed the door and locked it with loud click.
    She shook off his hand and he let her go. She rounded on him, her voice a whisper. “What are you doing?”
    Trent took a step back, but couldn’t help grinning at her. He liked the flash in her eyes. She reminded him of his sister’s fiery tempered cat. “I’m saving you.”
    She placed her hands on her hips. “From what? From you?”
    “I say,” he said. “This isn’t much of a thank you.”
    “I’m supposed to thank you for pulling me into a strange hotel room?”
    Her voice rose an octave and he smiled, remembering her practiced baritone. Put that way, she did have a point, but he wasn’t about to concede. “You’re much safer here with me…although, if you’re worried you should have brought your measuring stick. And you still owe me for the shipboard tussle with Wallace.”
    She stopped glaring and for a moment looked contrite. “Thank you.”
    “My pleasure.”
    Mercy rolled her eyes. “I thought so. What is it with men? Always squirreling for a fight?”
    Squirreling? If he