Quinn had to have reserved those luxurious rooms weeks before, since the hotel was full to the rafters. And he hadn’t even known Melissa when he’d made romantic plans; obviously, he’d meant to share the suite with Gillian.
Melissa whirled, now beyond caring what anyone else thought, and started back down the stairs. Quinn brought her up short by stepping in front of her and barring her way.
“Not so fast, Mrs. Rafferty,” he said, taking one of her hands in his and kissing the heel of her palm and then the more sensitive underside of her wrist. “You’re not going anywhere.”
With a toss of her head Melissa started around her husband, but he proved impassable, like a rockslide on a narrow mountain road. “I want to go home,” she hissed through her teeth. “You will let me by, Mr. Rafferty, without further delay!”
He merely laughed. “My God, where do you get that boneheaded confidence of yours? It must be bred into you Corbins, like quick tempers and blue eyes.”
Melissa would have spat on him if it weren’t for the fact that that was definitely an unladylike thing to do, and she didn’t want anyone saying that the editor and publisher of the town newspaper was no lady. She lifted her chin. “For the last time, Mr. Rafferty, let me pass. If you don’t, I will make a pure hell of your entire life.”
“You’ve already done that,” he crooned as a group of couples moved by them on the stairs, on their way to rooms and suites of their own. “Now come with me, sweetheart, and I’ll finish what I started earlier.”
Melissa felt a heated jolt go through her at the suggestion, and she was furious, not only with Quinn, but with herself for responding so readily to every innuendo and scurrilous promise the man uttered. She was angry with him, and she had to remember that.
His brown eyes were caressing her now, and one of his fingers traced the delicate choker of amethysts and diamonds that graced her neck. “Surrender, little soldier. You’re already beaten.”
“I’m leaving,” she insisted, and she moved around him and started down the stairs. She was just congratulating herself on her fortitude and daring when Quinn, apparently lacking her desire to avoid a scene, hoisted her awkwardly over one shoulder and started back upstairs.
“I never got to carry her over the threshold,” he explained to the staring onlookers.
Having seen their expressions, Melissa buried her face in Quinn’s back, not wanting to look again. When he set her down in the privacy of their room, however, she hurled herself at him, wild in her outrage, and would have bitten and clawed him to pieces if he hadn’t imprisoned her hands at her sides and thus subdued her.
She was still breathing heavily, her hair falling from its pins, when he finally released her. The moment he did she was a mountain cat again, scratching, kicking, and doing her best to bite him.
With a rumbled swear word he wrenched her around so that her back was to his chest and held her fast with one steel-like arm. With his free hand he tugged downward on her bodice so that her breasts spilled out, warm and lush, eager to become his playthings.
He began to caress her very gently, all the while holding her against him, and Melissa gave a little cry of mingled rage and submission. She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against Quinn’s shoulder, murmuring, “I hate you—oh, God—how I hate you.”
Quinn was kissing the ivory length of her neck, occasionally flicking her earlobe with the tip of his tongue, and Melissa was dizzy with wanting him. She could only hope now that he would not make her need him terribly and then desert her, as he had before.
His hand left her swollen breasts to begin lifting her skirts, then dispensing with the ribbon ties on her drawers. Thus loosened, the slippery taffeta bloomers slid down over Melissa’s trembling legs of their own accord.
She shivered as he began to stroke and tease her, bringing her back to the same fever pitch of desire that she had known before. The word “please” swelled in her throat, but she would have died rather than say it.
Presently the caresses stopped, but only briefly. Quinn had unfastened his trousers, and he sat down in a chair, drawing Melissa with him. Now, however, as she descended she sheathed him in her femininity, and Quinn let out a lusty groan.
Melissa was by this time so aroused that the first thrust of Quinn’s hips set her body to buckling with sweet spasms of release. The whole while he spoke softly to her and caressed her full breasts.
The realization that she had taken command of the situation was heady as wine to Melissa. Drunk with power, she began moving upon Quinn in a way she knew would render him mindless. She gloried in every moan he uttered, and in the senseless words he gasped as his own fulfillment was reached.
His breath was ragged as he kissed the nape of Melissa’s neck. Deep inside he was still stroking her, however slowly, and her body betrayed her with a suddenness and power that left her breathless. With a cry, her eyes wide with surprise, she convulsed in incredulous pleasure.
Melissa was hardly aware of being carried to the bed, so sated was she, though she knew when Quinn stripped off his clothes and crawled in beside her, taking her into his arms and tucking her against his torso. She yawned and slipped into a fathomless sleep.
When she awakened Quinn was poised above her, looking down at her with a wicked grin. She started to protest, but her body was instantly ready for him. With a soft laugh he eased into her, and she could not help welcoming him. They moved together in ferocious unison, clothed only in night shadows, until passion seized them both and wrung hoarse cries of surrender from their throats.
Quinn realized that he was alone even before he opened his eyes, and the knowledge produced a strange sense of vulnerability inside him. Sunlight pooled around him, making him blink and mutter a curse as he groped for his pocket watch on the bedside table. Eight-fifteen.
Laughter and cheers, punctuated by an occasional cracking sound, came to him through the windows, along with a springlike breeze. He sat up, grumbling, and rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger until the room came into focus. A knock sounded at the door, and he prayed for coffee before calling out, “Come in!”
His father, grizzled and rough and smelling mightily of the whiskey he loved, loomed in the chasm. Quinn would not have been more surprised to see the devil himself.
“What the hell—?” he ground out, reaching for his pants.
Eustice Rafferty stepped into the suite and closed the door. His dark brown eyes, representing virtually the only resemblance he and Quinn bore to each other, scanned the sumptuous room. His face was seamed with dirt, and his bushy gray beard stood out from his face like bristles on a coarse brush. He smiled, showing rotten teeth. “You’ve done all right for yourself, son,” he said, as though they’d been the best of friends. “It’s a far cry from that shack up on the mountain, ain’t it?”
“What do you want?” Quinn demanded. He scrambled out of bed and pulled on his trousers when Eustice looked away.
His father had gone to stand in the open doorway leading out to the stone terrace. “She’s a pretty little thing, that wife of yours. For a while there I thought you was never going to marry up with anybody.”
Quinn drew a deep breath and let it out again in an effort to gain control over his emotions. Surprise had put him at a disadvantage. “Never mind Melissa. I asked what you were doing here.”
“That her name? Melissa?” There was another loud crack outside, followed by more cheers and whoops of delight.
Curiosity drew Quinn to the window, and he smiled at what he saw. There was a baseball game going on in the field just beyond the hotel, and Melissa, clad in a pair of checkered bloomers, was hopping back and forth between second and third bases, good-naturedly taunting the pitcher.
Finally the batter, who, like every other player on both teams, was female, got a base hit. Melissa streaked past third and made home in a glorious belly slide just before the catcher would have put her out.
It was Eustice’s appreciative laughter that brought Quinn
back to the reality of the situation. “You’ve got a hell of a nerve coming back here, old man,” he said, “after what you did.”
Eustice’s voice took on the whiny note that had always nettled Quinn. “There’s such a thing as forgivin’ a man, ya know,” he complained. “It’d mean a lot to your ma, our buryin’ the hatchet and all.”
Quinn moved out onto the terrace and grasped the stone railing in his hands. Melissa was still engaged in the baseball game, and he wondered idly where she’d gotten those God-awful bloomers.
His father was beside him immediately. “All I really need is a little grubstake, boy—then I’ll be outta here for good.”
“That’s what you said last time,” Quinn reminded him. He felt a tickle near his deaf ear and rubbed it with his fingers. “Just get out of my sight, will you? The temptation to throw you over this balcony is almost more than I can stand.”
Eustice moved a step further away. “You wouldn’t do that,” he muttered, but he didn’t sound entirely sure.
“Get out,” Quinn repeated quietly.
“I need money,” Eustice insisted, standing his ground.
Quinn turned from the balcony and went back into the suite. He’d felt Melissa’s gaze on him for a moment there, and he hoped devoutly that she wouldn’t decide to come back inside and investigate. Play your baseball game, Calico, he thought. But stay away.
He took his wallet from the inside pocket of the cutaway coat he’d worn the night before and counted out a respectable sum. Every time Eustice showed up it was the same; Quinn gave the old man money in return for a promise that he’d stay away.
But promises were never any better than the man who made them, and Eustice was, in Quinn’s opinion, just barely human.
The old man snatched the money from his son’s hand. “You got trouble up on the mountain,” he mused, flipping through the currency with grubby, practiced fingers. “Old Jake Sever, he’s of a mind that you been tossin’ up his wife’s skirts now and again. Means to kill you and her both, to hear him tell it.”
Quinn sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “You have your money,” he said wearily. “Now get out.”
Eustice started toward the door, tucking the folded bills into the pocket of his dirty plaid shirt. “Wonder what that fancy little lady of yours would think if she knowed that you got me for a daddy. Bet it’d come as a shock to her delicate senserbilities.”
Quinn closed his eyes for a moment, and in his mind he could hear his mother crying, see Mary crouching in a corner of that shack up on the mountain, scared to death.
Eustice left, finally, but he must have encountered Melissa in the hallway, because she came in smudged with dirt, hair all atangle, and asked, “Who was that strange old man?”
“Never mind,” Quinn replied a bit too brusquely. He saw that he’d hurt her but didn’t know how to make up for it. He grinned sadly. “Where the devil did you get those trousers?”
Melissa had already recovered from his rude answer to her question. “From home, of course. They were in one of the boxes Mama sent.” She whirled. “Do you like them?”
Quinn laughed and held her close; she was like a cool and soothing breeze moving through his mind and heart, carrying away all the grief and insanity of the past.
“I thought you and I were at war,” Melissa said, looking up at him with puzzlement in her beautiful azure eyes.
He kissed her forehead. “We were,” he answered as a sweet, thundering pain filled his chest. “You win, Calico. You win.”
Fifteen
Melissa had washed her face and straightened her hair, but she was still wearing the bloomers and loose blouse that she’d rushed home to fetch before organizing the baseball game. Quinn commented on neither her clothing nor the game, and Melissa didn’t push for an opinion. She simply allowed him to escort her down the stairs, past the sparkling, merry fountain, and into the dining room.
There her unconventional appearance did attract some notice, and defiant color rose in her cheeks as rich women from all over the state made whispered comments behind their fans. Quinn was still distracted and moved along the buffet table without noticing that his wife had caused a stir.
Melissa was ravenous, and she helped herself to sliced peaches, a flaky roll, a sausage patty, and some scrambled eggs. She and Quinn were both seated, Quinn staring bleakly into space as he chewed, when Gillian and Mitch entered the room arm in arm.
When Gillian nodded at her, Melissa realized that she’d been staring and looked away, embarrassed. She turned to Quinn after a moment of recovery and said brightly, “Tomorrow I’ll begin gathering stories for the first issue of the Port Riley Clarion. The hotel opening will be front-page news.”
At last Quinn came out of his reverie to smile at her. “I’m honored,” he said.
Melissa didn’t know whether he was being kind or contemptuous, and that nettled her. “You behave as though this newspaper were some childish game of mine,” she protested. “You don’t think I can do this.”
Quinn raised one hand in a plea for peace. “I think,” he began diplomatically, “that you don’t have the first idea of what’s involved. I’m also aware that you’ve probably never suffered a really notable failure in your life, and you therefore have no conception of the fact that not every idea that rises to the surface of that formidable mind of yours is going to work.”
Melissa stopped eating and folded her arms, but before she could say anything Gillian and Mitch arrived, holding their plates.
“May we join you?” Mitch asked.
“Sure,” Quinn replied in masculine fashion—thoughtless of Melissa’s reaction.
Melissa and Gillian, equally uncomfortable, exchanged a look.
By the time Mitch had seated her, however, Gillian was in fine fettle. “Remarkable,” she said, with a deprecating glance at Melissa’s dusty blouse.
The men, involved in a conversation of their own, paid no attention to the small drama being played out at their table.
“Thank you,” Melissa replied, as though Gillian had complimented her.
Gillian gave a little twittering laugh that was devoid of mirth and speared a strawberry with her fork, chewing it delicately before inquiring, “I must know, darling—were you part of that spectacle in the field this morning?”
Melissa smiled at Gillian’s reference to the baseball game. “Oh, definitely—darling. My team won, in fact.”
With a knowing glance at Quinn’s profile Gillian replied, “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, if I were you. Tell me, though. Wherever did you get enough harridans to make up two teams?”
Melissa longed to throw something at Gillian; instead, she smiled again. “Why, I advertised, of course,” she answered sweetly. “I put up fliers that read ‘Harridans Wanted for Baseball Game.’ And I must say, we were all surprised when you didn’t apply.”
Gillian had the good grace to blush and look away, and Melissa turned to Quinn, hoping to make a place for herself in his conversation with Mitch. Instead, she watched in round-eyed horror as her husband’s friend poked his fork into a slimy mess of raw oysters and swallowed one with relish.
Nausea erupted in Melissa’s stomach like a geyser, she clapped one hand over her mouth and fled toward the nearest exit, the French doors leading out into the side garden.
Fifteen minutes later, when she let herself into the suite, Quinn was there, pacing, looking as colorless as Melissa felt.
“Sweetheart, where were you?” he asked, taking her shoulders in his hands. “I looked everywhere.”
“I didn’t want you to see me,” Melissa confessed in a small voice, and when she started toward the bathroom Quinn let her go.
She scrubbed her teeth and splashed cold water over her face. When she looked into the mirror she saw that Quinn was standing behind her, leaning against the door jamb, his arms folded.
Although he didn’t speak again, his stance and expression said that he would wait as long as he had to for an explanation, prob
ably blocking the bathroom doorway the whole time.
Melissa sighed and faced him squarely. “I was throwing up in the shrubbery, if you must know,” she announced. “I probably have the grippe or something.”
Quinn was staring at her in much the same way she’d regarded Mitch’s raw oysters at breakfast. “Or you could be pregnant,” he said.
His feelings concerning fatherhood were perfectly apparent in the way he spoke—he wanted no part of it—and Melissa felt as though he’d run her through with a sword. She turned away to hide her reaction, only to realize that he could see her face clearly in the mirror above the sink.
“Melissa—”
She stiffened, sensing that he was reaching for her, not wanting to be touched. “Go away, Quinn,” she whispered despondently, hunched over the sink. “Please. Just go away and leave me alone.”
He lingered a while and then left, but Melissa didn’t move until she heard the door of the suite close behind him. Then she went out onto the terrace, letting the fresh breeze revive her and dry her tears.
When she felt ready to pass through the lobby and bear the inspection of any guests who might be lingering there, she went downstairs. She was outside and well down the road that led toward town when she was nearly run over by a buggy rounding the curve.
Mitch Williams drew his horse and rig to a stop beside her, grinning at her and touching the brim of his hat. “Hello, sunshine,” he said. “Like a ride home?”
Melissa’s stubborn nature urged her to walk, but she was still feeling queasy and undone, and she wasn’t sure she was up to covering the distance on foot. She nodded and had climbed into the buggy before Mitch could wrap the reins around the brake lever and assist her.
He chuckled, taking in her bloomers and soiled blouse with far more interest than Quinn had shown. “You are an independent little mite, aren’t you?” The words were more of a comment than a question, and since he didn’t seem to expect an answer, Melissa didn’t offer one.
“Where’s your friend?” she asked instead.
Mitch looked baffled for a moment, before a revelation struck him. “Gillian?” he said.
My Darling Melissa Page 19
