Missouri Magic

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Out of habit, her feet had traveled up Bird Street, where the grandest residence Hannibal had ever seen was in its second year of construction. John Cruikshank, owner of the largest lumber company west of the Mississippi, was building a home that showcased the finest woods and most lavish appointments money could buy—at an expense that made tongues wag rapidly enough to dry the paste beneath his imported French wallpaper!

  While running errands for Patrick and Eula, she’d watched the house rise up from the high, rocky cliff overlooking the river, wondering how it would feel to afford such luxury. Mrs. Perkins berated her competitor’s inclusion of a Tiffany stained glass window and chandeliers, and automatic electric lights in the hall closets. Such extravagances made her rambling Queen Anne mansion the second finest house in Hannibal now, and it irked Eula sorely.

  Celesta chuckled in spite of her agitation, and wandered closer to watch the workmen. This particular crew was painting the majestic front columns on the entry porch and the woodwork around the arched palladium windows. Most of them had already shucked their shirts and were balanced on scaffolding or ladders, their sun-bronzed backs glistening with sweat. The man closest to her—probably a foreman, because he was watching the others intently from the ground—was just now tugging the tail of his shirt out of his tan overalls.

  It was a provocative gesture, and Celesta watched, mesmerized. The man’s muscular back rippled as he shrugged out of the blue chambray, revealing proud shoulders and a lean, compact body that disappeared into his loosely fitted pants. He gave the shirt a toss, as though he disrobed this nonchalantly every day for the curious folk who stopped to watch the work in progress, and Celesta nipped her lip. Lord, but he was beautiful!

  She chided herself for staring at the man, even as she watched him brush the heavy brown hair from his forehead. He turned suddenly, catching her, and Celesta froze.

  Damon Frye had sensed an observer’s presence, and when he saw who it was he had to clench his teeth to keep from cheering. Fate had delivered the black-haired beauty of his fantasies! Her face was flushed, and she was trembling like a doe cornered by a cougar—and he was ready to pounce!

  He advanced slowly, taking in the dark spots where her calico dress dung to her curves, and the shimmering waves of steam that rose around her where the sun warmed the damp grass. Miss Montgomery was about to learn the meaning of heat, the consequences of gazing so boldly at a man who was removing his clothes.

  Celesta was stunned. Once again Frye had caught her unawares, and she couldn’t flee without drawing even more attention to herself. When her gaze wandered to the powerful bare chest beneath the square bib of Frye’s overalls, she forced her eyes to meet his. And damned if he wasn’t ogling her, fighting laughter as he realized how embarrassed she was! “Wh-what’re you doing here?” she blurted.

  Damon stopped a few steps in front of her, wondering if she’d break that basket handle, hard as she was gripping it. “Smile when you ask that,” he teased, “because you’re talking to the new design consultant from Barnett, Haynes, and Barnett of St. Louis, here to supervise the finishing work on the Cruikshank mansion.”

  Frye was an architect? That explained his return to Hannibal and his presence at this building site, but it did nothing to quell her anxiety. He was looking her over with those rakish brown eyes as though he intended to eat her alive. “I suppose I should be impressed,” she muttered.

  Damon chuckled, pleased that she wasn’t swallowed up by her timidity. His hand ached to retrace the smooth curve of her jaw, to chuck that impudent chin, but he wanted to prolong this delectable game for as long as she’d stand up to him. Celesta’s raven hair was pulled up into a becoming Psyche knot that revealed a neck so tempting and slender, with little wisps of loose hair that curled with the humidity. And those eyes . . . he’d get caught in his own trap if he didn’t keep talking.

  “And what are you doing here, Miss Montgomery?” he murmured. “Taking in the scenery,

  unescorted, can be risky business for a delectable young lady. Even this part of town has its share of lechers lurking in the alleys.”

  “Or standing right out on the lawn,” she retorted, and she turned quickly to walk away from him. Bad enough that he was leering at her, but when he insinuated she’d come here to gawk at—

  “Celesta, please,” he pleaded, grabbing her arm. “That was uncalled for, and I apologize.”

  She had no choice but to face him, a prisoner in his grip. Damon’s tone was polite enough, but those eyes! They mocked her, and she refused to become a laughingstock in front of his crew. “You were absolutely right, Mr. Frye. I had no business coming here alone—”

  “Which is why I’ll walk you back.” He turned and gave the painters a wave, calling out, “Carry on, boys. I’ll return shortly.”

  Their knowing grins only exasperated Celesta further, and she took off at a trot. The nerve of this conceited cad, to grab her in public and—

  “May I carry that heavy basket?”

  “No, you may not.”

  “May we at least slow down and talk like civilized people?”

  “Civilized?” Celesta whirled around to glare at him, which was a grave mistake. Frye blocked her retreat down the street, and now that they were out of the workmen’s sight she was even more vulnerable than before. “Do you call pawing at me—at my mother’s funeral—civilized? And what about accosting my aunt in town—”

  “She loved it. Blushed like a schoolgirl.”

  “—and now you’re grabbing at me again!” She yanked her elbow from his grasp, but that only made the muscles in his shoulders ripple beneath his tan overall straps. What right did he have to be so blatantly male, challenging her to step around him? “And quit laughing at me, damn it! Why are you pestering me this way?”

  Damon could think of several reasons, and right now finding out how her sweat-beaded, full upper lip would taste was the most compelling. He cleared his throat, trying to resume proper decorum.

  “It’s because I’m so pleased to see you again, after all these years, that I’ve forgotten my manners.” He glanced down at the basket she was clutching, noting the skeins of yarn atop a stack of paper and envelopes. “I see you’ve been shopping. Planning to work on some stitchery and catch up on correspondence while you keep your aunts company, by the looks of it.”

  Celesta shifted the basket’s leaden weight to her other hand. “The yarn’s for Aunt Katherine’s new sampler, and—”

  “How is Katherine?” he asked quietly. “Your mother’s passing was hard on her, and I’m sure she’s been pleased to have your company these past few days.”

  How did he know so much about her schedule? And how could his rudeness have turned so quickly into sincere interest? She didn’t trust Damon Frye any farther than she could kick him, and no matter what his intentions, she couldn’t have him trailing along like a pesky pup all the way to Ransom Manor.

  “Thank you for your concern,” she replied, and then she started down the sidewalk again, toward North Fifth. “Katherine was the only family member kind enough to keep in touch with us these past several years. And now that her husband’s gone, consoling her’s the least I can do.”

  Damon hadn’t heard about Ambrose Junior’s death, and he filed the information away with an inward smile. Celesta’s change of direction signaled she was up to something—perhaps a ploy as devious as his own—and her game intrigued him. “I don’t imagine she slept well during the storm, then. She doted on Ambrose, as I recall.”

  “Then, you’ll understand why I must be heading home,” Celesta said with pointed sweetness. “A huge limb destroyed the gazebo, and I’ve gotten the name of a carpenter who . . .”

  She’d just handed him the key to Ransom Manor, and Damon could hardly keep from grabbing her up and kissing her. He admired her catlike aloofness as she chatted about inconsequential matters—and damned if she wasn’t planning to put him off by disappearing into the Perkins place! They were only yards away from t
he elegant turreted home he remembered from his boyhood . . . where Patrick might be sitting down to his noon meal about now.

  “...so after I talk with Eula for a moment, I really must be on my way.” Celesta stopped in front of the white stairway and looked directly at him with a coy yet cunning gaze. “It’s been a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Frye. Thank you for your escort. I’m sure your men must be wondering if you’ve gotten lost.”

  I’m not the only one about to lose his way, he thought as he studied her lovely face. It was framed by wispy tendrils that tempted his fingers, the fluttering of her long, black lashes betraying her agitation. Celesta turned toward the back entrance, but he wasn’t finished toying with her. He continued along the path beside her, walking closer now so that he wouldn’t step on the pansies and violets that spilled over the edge of the bricks.

  This man wouldn’t know a hint if I hit him over the head with it! Celesta sped up, rounding the corner of the house away from the street. Ordinarily the shady seclusion was welcome relief on a hot day, but her temperature was rising with her temper. Ignoring him—all but impossible, with his bare arm brushing against her—she bolted toward the back stairs.

  But Frye was faster. Athletic from years of balancing on ladders and hoisting heavy beams, he reached the porch when she did and once more took her in a possessive grasp. “You act like you’re afraid of me, Celesta,” he said in a low, knowing voice. “Why is that?”

  “I—I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean.”

  His chuckle sounded wicked even to his own ears, and the tender pulse that was fluttering inside his grip only coaxed him on. “It’s because I’m a man with an unsavory past,” he answered. “A man who fascinates you anyway. I’m everything your family ever warned you against, Celesta, and you can’t resist the ... danger I represent.”

  Not only had he backed her toward the wall of the house, but he’d read her mind! He was unsavory, and indecently handsome, and dangerous—and all the more alluring because of it. A hundred times she’d relived his caress in the cemetery, telling herself Damon Frye could only bring her trouble and pain, yet here they were alone on Eula’s back porch, in a dim corner where the clematis sheltered them from any passersby and the solid wall of the house kept their secret from anyone inside. It was a frightening moment, standing close enough to smell his musky sweat and study the shadowed cleft of his chin . . . and by far the most exciting moment of her life.

  He paused, regretting that he’d forced her into a position they might regret. But the sweet cleanness of her, and the rapid rise and fall of her chest as she gaped at him, offering up her innocence despite her fear, erased any honorable way out. This was, after all, the moment he’d been waiting for: the meeting he’d promised her two days ago.

  He inched forward until she was flat against the house—not that she showed any inclination to escape him. “May I ask you something, Celesta?” he demanded in a husky whisper.

  She opened her mouth, but Damon’s kiss stifled her reply. He pressed into her, sending all rational thought skittering like leaves before the hurricane force of his desire. The basket dropped from her hand—she heard its contents slip out across the slick wooden floor—and still he was kissing her with an intensity that stunned her.

  Even more stunning was her body’s reaction to him. Schoolboys had stolen an occasional kiss behind the stairs, but nothing had prepared her for the all-consuming fire this man was kindling inside her. His mouth was opening and closing, leading hers in an exchange mere words couldn’t describe. His broad hands rested on her shoulders, kneading, massaging. . ..

  What was that sound from inside the house? Weakly Celesta reached up to push him away, but Damon caught her by the wrists and then trapped her even more effectively by parting her thighs with his knee. With a low moan, he released her lips and gazed pointedly at her. “If you scream,” he murmured, “someone’s bound to come out here and see what you’ve allowed me to do to you.”

  Damn him and his arrogance! Celesta gasped for breath, glaring at him with all the wrath she could muster. “How dare you threaten me by—”

  “Ah, but the threat’s only just begun, Celesta,” he murmured back. She was trembling beneath him, but he sensed her awakening passion was partly to blame. He kissed her fingertips, allowing her to catch her breath before his next onslaught, because now that he held her captive he wasn’t about to let her go before he tasted more.

  Grinning subtly, he drew her hands down over his chest, brushing the dark curls with fingers that quaked but didn’t pull away. Celesta, you’ll soon be mine, he vowed as he watched the wonder and apprehension battle upon her face. We both know it, and we know we’ll regret it. Just as we know it can’t happen any other way.

  She swallowed hard. Why was she allowing him liberties no decent man would ask of her? The hair on his chest tickled her palms, and then he was dragging them down the front of his twill overalls, along the firm, muscled ridge of his rib cage and the flatness of his stomach. Lord, if he went any lower—

  But he sucked in his breath, shifting as though he was more caught up in this devious escapade than he’d planned, and guided her arms around his waist instead. “Who would’ve thought you’d grow into such a temptation?” he breathed. “Who could’ve guessed we’d meet again at this house, to satisfy our passions right under Patrick’s nose?”

  Patrick! He could be eating his dinner now, just on the other side of this wall. “Damon, please let me—”

  “Oh, I’ll let you,” he said with a devilish grin, and he shoved her hands beneath the back of his overalls, forcing her to embrace him even more closely.

  He had nothing else on! When her hands met the smooth, damp skin of his behind, Celesta jerked as though she’d been branded by a red-hot iron. Damon anticipated her yelp and stifled it with another searing kiss, this time plunging his tongue between her teeth. He was hot and virile and brutally delicious, but damn him, he was trying to get caught! Mr. Frye was as set on flaunting his prowess for Patrick as he was determined to steal the last shreds of her respectability.

  Celesta thrashed, her head thumping against the wooden siding as she struggled to escape. The knee between her legs moved higher. She could feel his maleness pressing against her stomach, could feel him shaking with laughter and passion, and still she couldn’t break free. Now Damon had entwined his fingers between hers and was placing the backs of her hands on the wall, sliding them upward until the full length of him was resting against her, his arms atop hers, as though their bodies were stretched flat against a mattress.

  Then he raised his face to gaze at her. “Celesta,” he whispered fervently, “Celesta, you’ve been more than sporting about all this, so I’ll let you go after one more kiss—if you promise me I can see you again.”

  What kind of deal was that? If she agreed, she’d subject herself to these dangerous trysts for as long as he cared to entrap her. And if she refused, Damon Frye would do what he pleased with her anyway. Celesta lowered her eyes. “All right,” she sighed, figuring it was the quickest way not to get caught here by either Eula or Patrick.

  He smiled ruefully. “Has it been that terrible, sweetheart? Kiss me now,” he coaxed in a throaty voice. “Take the lead, and I’ll prove what a gentle lover I can be. Your wish is my command.”

  As though changed by magic, the man who held her captive waited patiently for her to take him prisoner in turn. A tiny rivulet of sweat had trailed down his cheek and pooled in that maddening cleft. His eyes were now as soft and sweet as melted chocolate ... a treat she’d craved since she could remember.

  When Celesta closed her eyes, he moaned softly and let her tender, unstudied kiss take control of him. Her tongue explored the satiny wetness of his inner lips, and now that he’d regained a fragment of her trust, Miss Montgomery was complying with his plan as playfully and seductively as he’d hoped.

  When she drew away, he claimed her mouth again ever so lightly, nibbling at the fullness of her kiss-swollen lip
s until she sighed against him, sounding utterly content. Next time she’d surrender far more to him, but for now he was satisfied that he’d planted the seed of her desire, and that with careful, constant attention it would blossom into a passionate need that only he could fulfill.

  Celesta was gazing raptly into his face when the screen door flew open and Patrick Perkins stomped onto the porch. “And what the hell’s going on here?” he demanded.

  Chapter 4

  She felt her face go clammy, yet it could’ve been worse: it could’ve been Eula who found her wedged between the wall and Damon Frye’s half-naked body. “I—I was stopping by to pick up a few things, when—”

  “Mother said you were here earlier,” Patrick challenged, his blue eyes accusing her of every sin she could name. Then he glared at Frye, who slowly lifted himself off her and knelt to pick up the papers and yarn that were strewn across the porch. “And what are you saying about this?”

  Damon looked up from his task, shrugging. “I escorted her here, and she gave me a kiss in return. A favor few men would refuse, I imagine.”

  Patrick heard his smugness and suspected he’d warped the truth, probably to reopen the wound that had festered between them since they were young men. And as he took in Celesta’s guilty flush, noting the extraordinary beauty of her awakening passions, he also knew he’d have to win her now or lose her, along with the ambitions he’d only recently dared to dream of. She was his ticket out of a tight spot, and he would not let Frye steal her away.

  “I didn’t mean to insinuate you were to blame for this,” he said as he approached her. “Apparently ten years’ absence has done nothing to improve Mr. Frye’s code of honor. Did he hurt you, Celesta? Are you all right?”