Sheen on the Silk - Anne Perry [139]
He did not answer, but she saw the muscles tighten in his jaw. Whether he admitted it or not, she still had power to arouse him. It was a great pity he had to die.
He moved a step away, distancing himself a fraction.
She allowed her smile to widen, laughter into her eyes. “Too little, or too much?” she asked softly.
Anger flared up in the stain of blood in his cheeks. He put out his hand and caught her arm, his fingers hard and tight. She could not have escaped, even had she wanted to. Physical memory of passion was suddenly so sharp that it ran hot through her body.
She looked up at him. If he did not give in to the temptation and make love to her, she would never forgive him. Then killing him would be easy, hardly even regrettable. If he did, and it had all the old passion and strength, then dear God, killing him would be the hardest thing she had ever had to do.
He kept his grip on her arm and strode out, half dragging her along until they were beyond the public rooms in some private quarters with chairs and cushions. For an instant, she was frightened. If she screamed here, not even the Varangian Guard would come. She must not let him see that she was afraid.
But he had seen; he knew it as if he could smell it in the air. He smiled slowly, then allowed himself to laugh, a deep, rich sound of pure pleasure.
She drew in her breath and let it out very slowly. The seconds seemed to be caught, suspended one by one.
Then he let go of her arm and placed his hand on her chest and pushed. She fell backward, surprised and a little ashamed, landing hard on the cushions. She stayed motionless.
“Frightened, Zoe?” he asked.
She still did not know if he was going to make love to her, or kill her, or possibly both. Any word she said might be the wrong one. What was he waiting for?
She let out her breath in a sigh, as if bored.
He tore open her tunic and kissed her, hard, over and over, as he had done in the days when they had loved. Then she knew that at least he would not be able to kill her, not tonight. There were too many old hungers to answer, too much present fire.
For both of them it was easy, as if the years had never happened. They said nothing. Afterward they kissed once, and both knew it would be the last time.
Forty-nine
ZOE KNEW BEYOND ANY DOUBT THAT SHE WOULD HAVE only one chance to kill Gregory. If she lost it, she lost everything. He would not fail.
She was thinking of this on her way home from the baths, her servant Sabas a few feet behind her, when she was bumped unexpectedly hard by a messenger running around a group of women talking in the street. Zoe lost her balance, and in trying to regain it without falling over, she stepped out into the path of the traffic. She was struck by a cart that had just started moving forward. She fell heavily and felt a sharp pain in her lower leg.
There were shouts of alarm and sympathy around her. People rushed forward, Sabas among them, and a tangle of arms thrust out to help her, pushing and shoving to get the cart backward without startling the horse into bolting. Arms pulled her up, tearing her robe, and she was unceremoniously put down on the ground with her back to the wall of the nearest shop while an old woman wagged her head and looked with alarm at the blood staining the fabric.
Then Sabas was there, bending over her. Without asking permission, he tore the hem off Zoe’s tunic and used it to bind the wound.
“Look where you’re going in future,” an old man said waspishly.
Zoe was too shaken to retaliate, but she looked at his face so she would remember it, and one day she would repay his insolence. He saw something in her gaze and hurried away.
Sabas found a carriage and helped her in, and she was carried home, angry and for the moment consumed with pain.
As soon as she arrived, she sent Sabas off again at a run to fetch Anastasius. He was obliged to ask Simonis where Anastasius was and then follow her to another patient who was not seriously