She tried each in turn, while he continued to stare, as only he could, turning a chunk of apple over and over on his tongue, as if he were going to spit it out.
Except he had never ever stared like that in bed. On deck maybe, when presented with some situation he didn't like. Or on the quay when he wrangled over some chiseling supplier who'd wanted more than Flint was ever prepared to pay. But he never stared like this when confronted with the possibility of boarding a woman, as if this was to much to bear. But perhaps he meant to rattle her? At all costs she needed to beat him down on that score. And she would.
"Do excuse me." She cleared her throat. "I'm just getting comfortable." Heavens, what next? Should she raise her skirts? Or should he?
"You sure about that?"
"Sure about what?"
