Native Hawk (California Legends Book 3)

by Glynnis Campbell

  Then tall, dark, handsome Drew Hawk had come striding into her room as if he belonged there. Oozing masculine confidence, he’d taken her breath away and left her speechless. He appeared to be a bit travel-worn, but he was well-dressed, in snug brown wool trousers, a white cotton shirt, a brown brocade vest, a long oilcloth duster, and quality leather boots.

  Yet despite his civilized attire, he looked nothing like a manageable regular. In fact, he looked about as manageable as a wild stallion.

  His hair was black like hers, and the thick curls teased at his neck. He was clean-shaven, though it looked like it had been a few days since he’d shaved. His skin was a rich golden color, and his teeth shone white against his face when he smiled. But it was his dark, sparkling eyes that captivated her. They were so compelling that she couldn’t look into them for too long, fearing she’d lose herself in their shimmering depths.

  “Cheers,” he said, handing her a glass and clinking it with his. “This time, just sip. Watch me.” He winked, making her heart skip.

  Maybe she needed that whiskey after all.

  He took a small sip to show her.

  She raised the glass to her lips in imitation, taking a tiny sip. Then she caught her reflection in the mirror and choked again. Santo cielo! She was standing beside the tall, handsome, fully dressed man in nothing but her camisole and drawers, with her hair loose over her shoulders, sipping whiskey. She looked just like all the other soiled doves of The Parlor. How quickly she’d become a fallen woman.

  “You okay?” he asked with a chuckle. It was a delightful sound.

  She nodded.

  But she was still startled by the difference in their size. How she ever dreamed she could manage such a man, she didn’t know. He was so big, he could carry her off in one arm.

  “Just how do you plan to finish off that bottle if you keep chokin’ on it?” he teased. He tossed back the rest of his glass and set it, empty, on the dresser.

  While she cautiously sipped at the contents of her own glass, he boldly seated himself on the edge of her bed.

  She stiffened, suddenly feeling violated. This was her room. A stranger shouldn’t be sitting on her bed.

  Then she remembered the twenty dollars he’d paid for the privilege.

  Was it really so terrible to have him here? He wasn’t doing her any harm. He’d promised not to bed her. He wasn’t even insisting that she get undressed.

  Still, his presence was affecting her. She wasn’t sure whether the warm glow in her cheeks was from the whiskey or the thought of the man making himself at home in her room.

  He waggled one of the bedposts, as if testing its strength.

  She gulped down the whiskey all at once and instantly poured herself another. This time, she managed not to choke, but she winced as it seared a path down her throat.

  “So what brought you to California, Miss…” He screwed up his brow. “Tell me your name again?”

  What had she told him before? It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t notice it was different. Besides, after tomorrow, she’d never see him again.

  “Catalina Isabella Fortuna di Rosetti Cesare Bertolini.”

  He smirked. There was a knowing twinkle in his eye. “If I had a name that long, I might not remember it either.”

  She couldn’t stop the color flooding her cheeks. She hoped he’d think it was from the whiskey. To be honest, she wasn’t sure it wasn’t the whiskey. It was starting to warm her in the most curious way.

  She took another sip. This time she let the liquor swirl over her tongue. Beneath the fire of the whiskey was a sweet taste, almost like caramel.

  “If it’s all right with you, I think I’ll just call you Cat.”

  “Cat?”

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Like the little animal?”

  “Yeah.”

  A giggle escaped her. She clapped her hand over her mouth, trying to catch it, but it slipped through her fingers.

  “Is that funny?” he asked.

  She nodded. It was—a little. She peered at him over the top of her glass. “You are Drew Hawk, yes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And the cat, she hunts the hawk.”

  He chuckled. “I suppose so.” Then his eyes twinkled, like a spark at the heart of a coal, contained yet dangerous. “Unless it’s a little cat like you. Then the hawk swoops down and carries her off.”

  She gasped. But to her surprise, the gasp turned into laughter. This whiskey was having a strange effect on her. She took another drink and arched a challenging brow at him, declaring, “I may be small, but I am fierce.”

  He sank back onto his elbows and gave her a lazy grin.

  Something melted inside her. Maybe it was the magic of the whiskey. Maybe it was a trick of the lantern light. But Drew Hawk suddenly looked very attractive. She didn’t think it would be so bad to sleep next to him.

  “Maybe you’d better take it easy with that whiskey,” he suggested.

  She didn’t think so. It made her feel more brave and sure of herself.

  “Maybe you should drink more,” she decided, filling his glass and handing it to him.

  He didn’t drink it. Instead, he set it down on the bedside nightstand. Then he rose, towering over her, and took off his duster.

  Her fingers tightened on her glass. He’d told her she could keep her clothes on. He hadn’t said anything about his. She’d seen men in all stages of undress since she started working at The Parlor. But she hadn’t been this close to one. And she’d never been alone in her room with a man—dressed or undressed.

  “Think I can make it this time?” he asked her, bunching his duster in one hand and nodding toward the coat rack.

  She frowned and shook her head. The oilcloth was too heavy.

  But he gave her another wink and tossed his duster, collar first. It caught perfectly on the hook of the coat rack, which tipped for a precarious instant and then righted itself.

  “Bravo,” she said, drinking to his success.

  But when she turned back to him, she saw what he wore under his duster. A heavy leather gun belt hung low on his hips. The holster was knotted with rawhide around his thigh. In the holster was a large pistol.

  The whiskey glass clacked against her teeth as she stumbled back a step. He didn’t seem like a cold-blooded killer. But she didn’t know him. And the fact that he had a gun within reach…

  Miss Hattie usually didn’t allow strangers to take their guns into the rooms with the girls. She must have overlooked his weapon in her excitement over the twenty dollars.

  “Don’t you worry, Cat. It’s just for protection,” he volunteered. “Here, I’ll take it off, all right?”

  He untied the rawhide thong and unbuckled his gun belt. Then he wrapped the belt around the holster and set it on the nightstand next to his whiskey.

  But taking off his gun didn’t trouble her nearly as much as him taking off the rest.

  Drew knew by the tension in Cat’s jaw that she’d prefer he keep his clothes on. But he damn well didn’t intend to sleep in his boots. She’d just have to put up with his bare feet. Hell, he’d grown up in Hupa, where everyone ran around barefoot.

  He sat down on the mattress and crossed his right ankle over his knee. Then, with a scheming glance, he began tugging at the heel of his boot, grunting and grimacing as if it were stuck fast.

  After watching him for a moment, she asked, “You need help?”

  “I’d be much obliged, ma’am.”

  She knelt before him, took his big boot in her small hands, and pulled, inching it off slowly.

  “So…” she asked, nodding to his Colt. “Are you a gunfighter?”

  He chuckled. “Naw.”

  “That is too bad.”

  “It is?”

  “I would sleep much better with a man who is a good shot beside me.”

  “Well, I am a good shot. At least I can keep the varmints at bay.”

  She screwed up her forehead. “Varmints? Wha
t is this…” She was interrupted when the boot slid off. She set it aside.

  “Varmints,” he said. “Pesky critters?” She still looked puzzled. “Never mind. Don’t you worry. I’ll keep you safe.” He gave her his left foot. “This one’s usually a mite tighter.”

  She rubbed her palms together, then braced them on his boot. She pulled and pulled. But he was enjoying the sight of her, so he flexed his foot to make sure the boot wouldn’t come off.

  Her brow was furrowed in concentration, and the tip of her tongue was wedged in the corner of her lip. The strap of her camisole had slipped down her shoulder, and at this angle, he could glimpse the subtle shadow of cleavage between her breasts.

  After a few minutes, she began muttering something in her language, something he was pretty sure were curses. So he finally took pity on her and let his foot go limp.

  At the same moment, she wrenched at his boot with a vengeance. It popped suddenly off of his foot, and the momentum knocked her backward.

  He inhaled sharply as she rolled onto the Persian rug. He hadn’t meant to do that.

  But then she began to laugh, lying there on the rug, clutching his boot to her like a hard-won prize.

  And then he began to laugh.

  Their laughter tumbled together like dice in a cup, spilling out to fill the room.

  After a while, it subsided, and she sat up, wiping at her watering eyes. Drew was left breathless at the sight of her in a puddle of white lace, still cradling his boot.

  He wondered if she knew how beautiful she was. Maybe where she came from, all the ladies were that beautiful.

  “You should not look at me like that,” she said, clucking her tongue.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you wish to devour me.”

  He did wish to devour her. “You do look a little like a cream puff, sittin’ there.”

  “A cream puff,” she repeated, lighting up. “I know this. They have the cream puff at the bakery.”

  She gave him his boot, and he offered his hand to help her up. Her hand felt warm and small in his, but she had a strong, steady grip.

  Now she was staring at him.

  “You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he told her, still holding her hand.

  “Like what?” she breathed.

  “Like you’re about to do somethin’ you ought not to.”

  It was probably just the liquor, but he could see smoky seduction in her gaze, like she wanted to do something completely reckless. Maybe kiss him.

  Chapter 8

  It was probably just the whiskey, but Catalina felt giddy. It was the first time she’d felt so deliriously happy since she’d left Italy. She liked this American, Drew. He was funny and handsome, with his swarthy skin and big white teeth and hearty laugh.

  “You are very pretty, Mr. Drew Hawk,” she blurted out.

  “Pretty?” he said with a grin. “Why, ma’am, in some circles, those are fightin’ words.”

  She didn’t know what that meant. But the fact she’d made him smile again made her heart beat faster.

  He laughed, and she laughed at his laughter.

  Then he took off his jacket and began unbuttoning his vest.

  Her breath caught.

  He didn’t seem to notice.

  “So what brought you to California, Cat?”

  “I…” She hesitated, wondering how much of his clothing he planned to remove. “I came to make a new start.”

  Her nostrils flared as she watched him unbutton the vest, exposing the crisp white shirt beneath. She didn’t think she’d ever seen such broad shoulders. She forced her gaze away.

  “A new start. In a brothel?” he asked.

  “No!” she hastened to say. “No, no.”

  “Then what?”

  He unfastened the last button and slipped the vest off carefully so as not to spill the contents of the pockets, hanging it on the bedpost.

  “I am a designer of clothings.”

  He tugged his white shirt out of his trousers. She swallowed.

  “Ah, well, that explains it,” he said.

  “Explains what?”

  “Why you can’t seem to take your eyes off my clothings.” He gave her a crooked smile.

  She felt the color rise in her cheeks. She’d been staring. She knew she had. And he probably knew it had nothing to do with the cut of his shirt.

  “So if you’re a designer,” he said, “why are you workin’ at The Parlor?”

  He started unbuttoning his shirt. She tried very hard not to look. But she didn’t do a very good job of it.

  She was definitely feeling the effects of the whiskey now. Her eyelids were growing heavy. But it was a rather pleasant feeling. And when she spoke, her voice came out low and husky. “To be a dressmaker, I must have a sew-” Her breath caught as she saw how deftly he managed the buttons. “Sewing machine,” she finished.

  He paused. “You can’t just…” He made a stitching motion with his hands.

  A giggle bubbled up inside of her and nearly escaped. If that was how Drew sewed, he was lucky his clothes did not fall apart.

  “It is too slow,” she explained. “But to get a sewing machine, I must have money.”

  “Money? How much money?”

  “With the delivery?” The vee of his shirt was widening with each button he unbuttoned. It was quite distracting. “Almost one hundred dollars.”

  “A hundred dollars?” he said, incredulous. “That’s as much as a pair of pearl-handled revolvers.”

  “Miss Hattie gave me a position as a housekeeper.” She absently coiled a lock of her hair around her finger. “But it is only one dollar a day. It will take me many days to make enough money.”

  “Which is why you decided to fleece me for twenty days worth o’ wages in one night?” he teased.

  “Fleece? I do not know this word.”

  “The hell you don’t,” he said, laughing.

  He finished unbuttoning his shirt, took it off, and hung it on top of his vest. Now there was only a single thin layer of white cotton undershirt to keep him from being indecent.

  Looking at him with languid eyes and a limp jaw, she reached for the whiskey bottle again. How many glasses would it take to make her stop thinking about what was underneath that undershirt?

  When he unbuttoned the top button of his trousers, she took a big gulp straight out of the bottle.

  He smiled and shook his head. “You know, you keep drinkin’ like that, Cat, and you’re liable to get yourself in a heap o’ trouble.”

  She was already in a heap of trouble. At least while she was drinking, she couldn’t be distracted by…

  Ohime! Now he’d undone the second button.

  She should avert her gaze. She knew that. But her eyes were not cooperating. They kept drifting back to the man who was so brazenly undressing before her.

  “So what do they drink in Italy?” he asked as his fingers moved toward the third button.

  Forcing her brain to focus, she answered, “Vino, wine. My father is known for his wine. The vineyards of Ferrara are…are…” She stuttered, realizing she’d blurted out the name of her home. “Ferrararianna…are the best in the country.” She grimaced at her clumsy improvisation. There was no such place as Ferrararianna. Hopefully, he didn’t know the regions of Italy.

  He paused before the last button. “Well, you may have noticed, whiskey is a mite stronger than wine.”

  She nodded. That was true. She’d never once choked on a glass of wine, nor had she ever become so giddy on so little.

  She gulped as he undid the last button and slid the trousers from his hips. He was still wearing his drawers—white cotton with long legs, tied and fastened with buttons. But to her consternation, they did little to hide what was between his legs. And that part of him seemed somewhat more pronounced than anything that would fit beneath the fig-leaf-covered statues in Rome.

  While she tried not to look, he shook out his trousers and hooked them on the bedpost along with
the rest of his clothes.

  Per carità! She hoped he was finished. Between the whiskey, her own state of undress, and the alluring magnificence of his body…

  She set her drink down and tried to walk as casually as possible to the opposite side of the bed. There she knelt, folded her hands, bowed her head, and began to pray.

  Mostly she prayed for her own salvation, because she was having the most impure and sinful thoughts. And she didn’t think she could entirely blame the whiskey.

  Drew stood with his hands on his hips, dumbfounded. Was she actually saying her prayers? He didn’t know much about the religion of his mother, but he was pretty sure working in a bawdy house wasn’t on the list of commandments.

  While he watched her with curiosity, she genuflected and then started to rise on unsteady limbs. Her eyes widened when she looked at him again, as if she’d prayed he’d be gone and he wasn’t.

  Placing her palms on the mattress, she pushed herself up. But her camisole tie was under one of her hands, so when she rose, it came untied.

  She didn’t notice, and for a few seconds, Drew battled with his own morality, debating whether to tell her. Even though he carefully avoided glancing down, he could see the luscious, deep hollow between her breasts and imagine the kisses he could place there.

  In the end, his damned conscience guided him. He cleared his throat and nodded to the ties.

  She furrowed her brow. She didn’t understand.

  “Your…” he said, waving a vague hand in the direction of her camisole.

  Her frown deepened.

  He tapped his own chest.

  Finally she got the message. She glanced down and gasped, slamming her hands to her bosom.

  “I didn’t see nothin’,” he assured her, thinking that was the strangest remark he’d ever made in a brothel.

  She tried to tie the camisole then, but between her drunken gaze and her fumbling fingers, she made no progress. Then she started giggling.

  He couldn’t help but grin. Her laughter was as pretty as a music box.

  “Do you need some help, ma’am?”