Demon stared at her-she stared ingenuously back. Deliberately, he thrust both hands into his trouser pockets-against the temptation to lay them on her. "Do you often flit through the twilight dressed like that?"

"Of course not. But I didn't know whether I'd be able to reach you without knocking on the door. Luckily, I saw your shadow on the curtains."

Demon clamped his lips shut. There was no point expostulating that her calmly knocking on his front door and asking his housekeeper, a matronly woman with sharp eyes, to show her into his parlor would have been unwise; she would only argue. Swinging on his heel, he strode back across the room; in the circumstances, the least he should do was put some real distance between them.

Regaining the fireplace, he turned to face her, propping his shoulders against the mantel. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "I came to discuss the situation, of course."

He raised one brow. "The situation?"

Flick held his gaze for a moment, then looked down and, with patent determination, removed her gloves. "It seems to me that what we learned today raises a number of issues." Laying the gloves on one thigh, she raised her hands and ticked each point off on her fingers. "First and foremost, if another race is to be fixed, should we warn the authorities? However"-she proceeded to her next finger-"there's the consideration that if we tell the stewards, they may alert the contact and he'll simply disappear, along with all connection to the syndicate. If that happens, we'll lose any chance of redeeming Dillon. Even worse"-she moved to her next finger-"if we inform the stewards and they question that man, it sounds, from what Dillon said, that he'll simply implicate him, and very likely cast him as the instigator of the scheme, thus protecting the syndicate from exposure."

Lifting her head, she looked across the room at the long, lean figure lounging, all brooding elegance, against the mantel. If she'd harbored any doubts that he intended to curtail her involvement in their investigations, his present attitude dispelled them; resistance poured from him in waves. His eyes, his attention, were fixed on her, but he showed no inclination to respond. She tilted her chin. "So, are we going to inform the authorities?"

He continued to study her intently, unwaveringly, but he said nothing. Lips thinning, she raised a brow. "Well!"

"I haven't yet decided."

"Hmm." She ignored his clipped, definitely pointed tone. "That man offered the jockey one hundred and twenty-five pounds-a small fortune for a race jockey. It seems unlikely the jockey will change his mind."

He humphed; she took it as agreement.

"Which means your horse is almost certain to win." Eyes wide, she met his gaze. "That places you in a rather awkward position, doesn't it?"

He straightened; before he could speak she went on. "It's a horrible fix-with Dillon to rescue on the one hand, and your responsibilities to the Jockey Club on the other. I suppose it's a clash between loyalty and honor." In the same even tone, she asked, "Which will you choose?"

Hands sunk in his pockets, he stared at her, then looked down and paced before the fire. "I don't know." He shot her a glance, one dark with irritation. "I was considering the matter when you came through the window."

His look was lightened by a hint of curiosity; she grinned. "I came to help." She ignored his derisive snort. "We need to weigh things up-consider our options."

"I can't see any options." He continued to pace, his gaze on the floor. "That one of my horses is involved is irrelevant-it simply makes things worse. Having learned of an attempt to fix a race, my duty as a member of the Jockey Club is clear. I should inform the Committee."

"How absolute is that duty?"

The glance he sent her was hard. "As absolute as such things can be. I could not, in all honor, let a fixed race run."

"Hmm. I agree it's impossible to let a fixed race run-that's quite out of the question. But…" She let her words trail away, her gaze, questioning, fixed on Demon.

He halted, and looked her way. Then he raised a brow. "But can I-" He broke off, his gaze on her, then briefly inclined his head. "Can we legitimately withhold the information until closer to the race, to give ourselves time to follow this contact back to the syndicate?"

"Exactly. That race is next month-more than a couple of weeks away. And the stewards could stop it even if we told them just before the start."

"Not quite, but if we hold back the information until the week before the race, it would leave us five weeks in which to trace the syndicate."

"Five weeks? That's plenty of time."

Demon suppressed a cynical humph. Flick's face was triumphantly aglow; although it was partly at his expense, he had no wish to dim it. When she'd come through the window, he'd been thinking solely in the singular; he was now talking in the plural. Which was what she'd intended; that was why she'd come.

Now she sat, perched victorious on the arm of his settee, one boot swinging, a satisfied smile in her eyes. Her understanding of the honor and responsibilities involved in his position intrigued him. She understood racing, the fraternity and its traditions-not something he'd encountered in a woman before.

But discussing such matters with a sweet innocent felt odd. Especially late in the evening, in his front parlor.

Entirely unchaperoned.

He resumed his pacing-this time, in her direction.

"So"-she almost bobbed in her eagerness-"how do we find the man we saw this evening? Shouldn't we be trying to locate him?"

He halted beside her, his gaze on her face. "We are. At this instant, three of my men are rolling around the town, searching the inns and taverns."

She beamed at him. "Excellent! And then?"

"And then…" He reached for her hand; she surrendered it readily. Smoothly, he drew her to her feet. "Then we follow him"-holding her gaze, he lowered his voice to a deep purr-"until we learn all we need to know."

Trapped in his gaze, her hand in his, eyes widening, she mouthed an "Oh."

He smiled intently. Wrapping his fingers about her hand, he waited, just a heartbeat, until she trembled.

"We'll find the contact and follow him." His lids veiling his eyes, he lowered his gaze to her lips, soft, sheening, succulent pink. "Until he leads us to the syndicate-and then we'll tell the stewards all they need to know."

When he spoke of "we" he didn't mean her-but he'd tell her that tomorrow; no need to mar the night.

Raising his lids, he recaptured her gaze, marvelling at the softness of her clear blue eyes. The two of them stood, handfast, gazes locked, mere inches distant, with her trapped between the settee and him. Without conscious thought, he shifted his fingers, brushing the backs of hers.

Her eyes widened even more; her lips parted slightly. Her breath hitched-

Then she blinked, and narrowed her eyes. Frowning, she tugged her hand free. "I'll leave you now."

Blinking himself, he released her.

She stepped sideways, heading for the window.

He followed. Close.

She glanced back and up at his face, eyes very wide, her breathing too rapid. "I dare say I'll see you tomorrow at the stables."

"You will."

With fluttering hands, she pushed at the curtains. He reached over her head and drew them wide.

She tugged at the sash. To no avail.

He stepped behind her and reached for the handles, one on either of the pane's lower frame.

Trapping her between his arms, between the window and him. His fingers brushed hers, clasped about the handles. She sucked in a breath and snatched her hands away. Then froze as she realized he surrounded her.

Slowly, he raised the sash-all the way up.