Professional. She needed to be professional.
Vivienne sat up. Extracted herself from his lap with movements that should have been efficient but came out clumsy instead. Her cape tangled around her shoulders. Her legs didn't cooperate, still heavy with sleep and the strange reluctance to leave his warmth. She ended up halfway between the seat and his lap, one knee pressed against his thigh, hands braced on his shoulders for balance.
This was worse.
Much worse.
Now she was straddling him, face inches from his, her gown hiked up enough to expose her stockings to mid-thigh. The position was compromising in about seventeen different ways, each one guaranteed to send Camille into cardiac arrest if she ever found out.
Isaiah's hands moved to her hips. Steadied her. His grip was firm, sure, like he'd done this before. Like supporting tipsy heiresses in the back of cars was a skill he'd developed somewhere in his mysterious past.
