‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. He was—a millionaire. "Suppose we go and have tea? I'd like to take you to a teahouse I know, but we'll go to the Victoria instead. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. ” He smiled, and she felt love for him in that moment as the smile lit up his ebony eyes, eyes whose blackness seemed unfathomable.
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