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her bravado to the place where she hid moments of doubt.
    But they were just that. Moments. She never let her doubts last long.
    He broke eye contact again, releasing her from his magnetic hold. “Who are the rest of you?”
    The constables introduced themselves straightaway, but the hired muscle remained silent. “I’m Rand Livingstone, overseer at Winchester Fabrics. And these are the suspects we brought in.”
    “Let me get this straight,” Mr. Christie said quietly. But something warm and exciting shivered up Polly’s backbone. The new master was anything but calm. “You’re the overseer at Winchester . Yet you’re handling the apparent detention of my workers. Under the authority of these constables?”
    Livingstone exchanged a furtive glance with Andrews. Hamish, Les, and the others offered sharp protests. Their voices layered over one another until all that remained was the blurred sound of accusations and masculine shouts. Polly would’ve joined the fray, but she was too busy watching Mr. Christie. His eyes flicked back and forth between Livingstone, the constables, the workers, the brutes, and finally to Polly.
    “He has personal reasons for ensuring I learn my place,” she said evenly, although she felt no such ease beneath her breast. “Even after these accusations, he could have left the matter to the authorities. But I have no doubt he relishes the opportunity to see me punished. Personally.”
    His gaze stayed, but it did not rest. She could feel his attention like a touch. His expression shifted. Apparently all that searching and probing led to a conclusion, but his features did not soften. If anything, he appeared even harder. He unfurled those big hands, shook them as if to return the blood to his fingers, and turned away from everyone. Beneathhis fine white shirt, the taut line of his back seemed hewn of iron.
    Briefly, he stood at the lone, wide window and looked out to the darkening sky. Gray shadows and the blue light of a fading afternoon competed for dominance over his strong brow and sharp cheekbones. Only then did Polly notice the coat he should have been wearing, tossed over the back of his chair. Her rebel mind insisted on playing out that moment. How had his body moved as he shed an encumbering layer of civility? Even now, poised in that tense moment, she admired how the revealing cotton stretched between his shoulders. Her gaze followed where twin shirttails disappeared into the snug waistband of his trousers.
    She shut her eyes. Not that closing them would stem the rush of images. She feared what her mind would conjure come nighttime. Although she secretly led the union in her father’s stead, she was still a young woman in the presence of a stranger who fired her blood. He was the master of Christie Textiles. Her adversary, if not her outright enemy. But he was also a precious novelty in her tiny world: a strong, handsome, intelligent gentleman.
    “I want all of you out,” he said at last. His odd American accent, so low and rough, invaded her darkness.
    Polly opened her eyes on a shiver, oddly disappointed that their introduction was already at an end. She had hoped to glean much more about his character.
    “Pardon, sir?” asked Constable Andrews.
    Mr. Christie swiveled away from the window. “Out of my office. I’m going to chat with Miss Gowan.”
    “You don’t know what the hell you’re doing,” Livingstone snarled. “She bats her green eyes and wraps every Calton man around her finger.”
    “You are radically out of place by speaking to me in such a tone. I’m no Calton man, Mr. Livingstone, and I’ll manage just fine.” At another bare syllable of protest, Mr. Christie strode around his desk. Polly shrank back, out of his way and nearer to Agnes, as he went straight for his target. He stabbed an angry finger against Livingstone’s sternum. “I don’t want to see you in my building ever again. If you interfere with business that relates to Christie Textiles, I