A Wife in Time (Silhouette Desire)

by Linz, Cathie

  “I’d like a lemon soda, please,” Susannah said, licking her lips in anticipation.

  Beneath the soda-fountain spigot was a sign that said Phoenix, For Your Nerves. Susannah could definitely use something for her nerves, because Kane was certainly getting on hers. The man had an absolute knack for doing that.

  The soda was stronger than she was used to, but it was wonderfully refreshing as she sat on a wrought-iron chair—perched came closer to the truth, actually, due to the damn bustle. But she refused to let that distract her from the pleasure of closing her eyes in ecstasy and sipping her lemon soda.

  Kane was watching her. She sensed that. He was making some purchases of his own—tooth powder, toothbrush, shaving soap, and a straight-edged razor.

  “Do you need anything?” he called out.

  Keeping her eyes closed, she shook her head. She had her lemon soda. That’s all she needed. Not a man with blue eyes and a rare smile that creased his face with sexy appeal. She didn’t need him at all. But it appeared, for the time being at least, that she was stuck with him.

  * * *

  As they got ready for bed that night, Kane was saying, “If you want anything done right, you’ve got to do it yourself or pay for the best in the business. Since we don’t have the money for the latter, we’ll have to do the former.”

  Behind the dressing screen, Susannah was discreetly finishing the last of her candy bars before swallowing her heart medication. “What about Oliver Ogilvie?”

  “Did he look like the best in the business to you?”

  She paused. “All right, I’ll admit he’s something of a character.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “But I have a feeling about him,” she continued as she came back into the room, dressed in her borrowed nightgown.

  “Don’t tell me about your feelings. That’s how we got into trouble in the first place.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “You had a feeling you had to go snooping around in that third-floor room—”

  “I wasn’t snooping!” she interrupted him to deny.

  “And I was fool enough to come after you.”

  “As I’ve told you before, no one held a gun to your head.”

  “No, but they might if we get too close in this investigation. If Elsbeth really was murdered, then whoever did it is out there and they’re not gonna be real happy about us digging around. Personally, I think the other woman did it, the redheaded one in Whitaker’s office.”

  “Excuse me? Where did you get an outlandish idea like that from?”

  “Male intuition,” he drawled mockingly. “She looked the type.”

  “You’ve got the intuition of a computer chip,” Susannah retorted. “And the emotions of a hard drive!”

  “I’ll tell you what is hard—”

  She cut him off. “Don’t be crude.”

  “Crude? To hear you talk, you’d think you were a proper uptight Victorian lady. But we both know you’re not, don’t we?” Kane put his hands on her shoulders, his grip firm and tempting. “We both know that you’re not proper at all.” Slowly drawing her to him, he huskily whispered, “You kiss like a hot Savannah night, all moist heat and pure passion.”

  Susannah figured there were two ways of shutting him up—hitting him or kissing him. She opted for the latter.

  Six

  Susannah was delighted at the astonishment she tasted on Kane’s lips. She felt a surprising sense of feminine power wash over her. Every other time, Kane had kissed her senseless. Not this time. This time would be different, she silently vowed. She’d scramble his brains, for a change. Make him all hot and bothered. And she’d come out of the encounter cool, calm and collected.

  But it was difficult to be any of those things when she was dressed in a thin nightgown and she could feel the heat of his body beckoning her closer. The power she’d felt before was being rapidly overcome by the sheer pleasure kissing him gave her. Feeling control slipping away from her, she forced herself to pull away.

  “But enough of this fooling around,” she said in a collected voice that did her self-confidence good. Inside she felt anything but cool and calm, but she had no intention of letting him know that. “We were supposed to be deciding whether or not to hire Mr. Ogilvie as a detective.”

  Kane stared at her as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “Just like that?” he growled. “You can switch off just like that? And you expect me to do the same?”

  The look on his face made her doubt the wisdom of her decision to rile him. Belatedly she recalled the dangers of twitching the tiger’s tail.

  “It’s not that easy,” he warned her in a dangerously soft voice.

  “I realize that hiring a detective is a serious matter,” she began, deliberately misunderstanding him.

  “That’s not what I mean and you know it.”

  So she confronted him. “Do you believe me when I say that I am not having an affair with your brother?”

  His silence was answer enough.

  “I didn’t think so.” But she had thought—or at least hoped. A stupid mistake.

  “That being the case, we’d do best to keep any personal involvement to a minimum,” she stated.

  “You were the one who kissed me,” Kane reminded.

  “To teach you a lesson.”

  “That you kiss like a seductress? I already knew that.”

  She blinked. A seductress? Her? With her too-large thighs and wild hair? Was he making fun of her? She stared at him, but saw hunger rather than derision in his blue eyes.

  Apparently Kane was as attracted to her as she was to him. And as unhappy about it. It was a startling discovery. Kind of like finding out that keg you were sitting on was filled with dynamite.

  “Uh...” She looked away, scrambling to get her thoughts in order. “Um, I think we should hire Mr. Ogilvie to help us. He knows more about the ins and outs of Savannah society than we have time to find out.”

  “Did you ever consider the fact that Whitaker might contact your great-grandmother to see if your story checks out?” Kane suddenly asked.

  Susannah’s heart dropped. She hadn’t thought of that. “Maybe we should go see my great-grandmother ourselves and tell her that her friend didn’t commit suicide, she was murdered.”

  “Oh, right,” Kane scoffed. “You think your great-grandmother is going to believe you if you show up on her doorstep claiming to be her great-granddaughter from over one hundred years in the future— ‘Oh, and by the way, your best friend was murdered’? Dream on.”

  “There’s no need to get nasty about it.”

  “You haven’t seen ‘nasty.’”

  “I certainly have,” she told him. “You were incredibly nasty when you accosted me at the convention center.”

  “Accosted?”

  “You know what I mean. And one day you’re going to apologize for your behavior,” she vowed.

  “That’s about as likely as—”

  “As a ghost leading you back a century to solve her murder?” she countered.

  To her surprise, he smiled. “Yeah, it’s about as likely as that. Okay, we’ll hire this Ogilvie guy and see what he comes up with. You want me to turn out the light?”

  Susannah nodded. “Please.”

  * * *

  Susannah woke the next morning to the sound of curses—Polish curses? Opening her eyes, she peered through the white mosquito netting to see Kane standing at the chest of drawers, leaning forward toward the mirror. He was wearing pants but no shirt. Without benefit of the suspenders, the pants hung low on his hips, providing a tantalizing glimpse of the small of his back. He had a great tush.

  He swore again.

  Shoving the netting and her sexy thoughts aside, she climbed out of bed and asked, “What are you doing?”

  He turned, a straight razor in his right hand.

  “Oh, I see,” she murmured, noting the tiny nicks on his face. “Trying to commit hara-kiri,
are you?”

  “You think you can do any better, you’re welcome to try,” he retorted without thinking.

  Her eyebrows lifted. “You mean you’re actually willing to trust me with a sharp weapon in my hand?”

  “On second thought,” he said, turning back to the mirror, “I’ll do it myself.”

  Susannah had to admit that the idea of having him at her mercy did have its appeal. So did the idea of smoothing her fingers over the contours of his face, feeling the rasp of his skin beneath her fingertips. She closed her eyes and pictured herself shaving him, with him seated before her, his head resting against her—just beneath her breasts—as she gently moved the razor over his lathered face. The mental image was enough to raise her body temperature and make her pull at the neckline of her nightgown in a futile attempt to get some air.

  “Something wrong?” Kane asked her.

  Her eyes flew open as she shook her head. “No, nothing. The sight of blood just leaves me feeling a bit weak.”

  Actually it was the sight of a half-dressed Kane that left her feeling weak!

  “They don’t even have toilet paper I can use on the damn cuts,” Kane was grumbling as he finished getting dressed.

  His grumbling snapped her out of her reverie and sent her in search of her purse. She removed a small packet of tissues and handed him one. “Here, this should help. Do you think you should use antiseptic on it?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got that in your bag, as well?”

  “I like to travel prepared.”

  “Prepared for what?”

  “Every eventuality.”

  “Including century hopping?”

  She grinned. “If necessary. Although if I’d known I’d be landing in the 1880s, I’d have brought along a few more necessities, like clothes. And my feather bed.”

  “A dozen pairs of Jockey shorts, jeans and some denim shirts,” Kane interjected. “And my notebook computer.”

  “Feeling lost without it, are you?” she teased him.

  “You could say that.”

  They shared a look of such camaraderie that Kane got spooked. What had happened to the hostility between them? The only way he could keep his distance from Susannah was to think of her as the seductive “other woman” who’d broken up his kid brother’s marriage.

  What if she is telling the truth? a nagging little voice inside Kane’s head demanded. What if she isn’t involved with Chuck? It still meant his brother had a crush on her. An even better question might have been, What would have happened if I’d met her first? Kane thought to himself. What if she’d never met Chuck and we didn’t have that baggage to deal with? What would I do then?

  He knew. He’d make her his. The discovery hit him like a lightning bolt.

  “You okay?” Susannah asked him, seeing what could only be described as a flabbergasted expression on his face.

  “Yeah,” he muttered. “I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  He was gone before she could say a word. Mrs. Broadstreet had left the trunk she’d had brought down from the attic in their room. Susannah went through it now, and selected a skirt in a lovely shade of yellow. She had no problem putting on the matching top, which didn’t need a chemise beneath it because the material was thick enough on its own.

  Another morning, another fashion challenge, Susannah thought to herself as she struggled to get dressed. She didn’t get very far. Oh, she got the top on okay. But then she got stuck fastening the petticoat ties on the waistband of the hoop underskirt—crinoline, she corrected herself. Since she was alone into the room, she hadn’t gone behind the dressing screen.

  And so it was that Kane found her standing there in her bikini underwear and hoop underskirt when he walked back into the room a few seconds later. She almost shrieked as she looked over her shoulder to find him standing there.

  “You look like an X-rated Bo-Peep,” Kane said, his drawl as ravishing as his gaze, which settled on her with the sensual energy of a touch.

  Disconcerted, Susannah grabbed the coverlet from the bed to cover herself with. “What are you doing back up here?”

  “I was going to ask you if you wanted me to bring Mrs. Broadstreet up to help you out.”

  “No. You’ll have to help me. I can’t get this bow tied around my waist,” she muttered in frustration. “Mrs. Broadstreet can’t see me this way—she’d be shocked to see me in this kind of underwear.”

  Susannah noted that Kane didn’t appear to be shocked by her appearance. Instead, he seemed downright pleased about it. And he sure seemed to be taking his time tying a bow in the back. Suspicious, she impatiently demanded, “Is there a problem?”

  Only with his blood flow, Kane thought to himself. It seemed to have all gathered below his belt—due to the seductive view he had of her luscious backside, where the coverlet didn’t cover her at all. The hoopskirt contraption was skeletal and allowed him an unobstructed view of her lower torso. Susannah had long legs. She wasn’t skinny. She was curved and soft.

  “Is there a problem?” Susannah irritably repeated, turning her head until her chin rested on her right shoulder as she tried to see what he was doing back there.

  “No, no problem,” Kane muttered, all thumbs as he tried for the fifth time to tie a bow. “There. That will have to do.”

  “While you’re here you might as well help me get the skirt on over this thing,” Susannah said, her tone of voice efficient and practical. Unlike her nervous system, which was humming with awareness.

  Together they managed to get her skirt on with less trouble than they’d had with the bow. Perhaps that was because Kane was suddenly in as much of a hurry to get her covered up as she was. His fingers shook just remembering the way she’d looked when he’d walked into the room. His pants, which had been loose-fitting before, were fast becoming snug and uncomfortable as a result of his steamy thoughts.

  “Ready?” she asked him.

  Hell, he was ready, all right! Ready to seduce her there and then. But he wasn’t sure who would truly be the seduced and who would be the seducer. And he still wasn’t sure that she wasn’t responsible for almost breaking up his brother’s marriage. He only knew she was responsible for making him as hard as the damn straw mattress they slept on. Together. All night long. Kane groaned. It was going to be a long day. And an even longer night!

  * * *

  As Susannah carefully made her way downstairs, she paused at the bottom of the stairs to study her surroundings. Yesterday, she’d been too wound up to notice much about the house. She did remember that the dining room was on the right, and the front parlor on the left.

  Pausing, she took a quick peek into the parlor. The huge room was stuffed full from fanlight to floor with settees, divans, armchairs and several ornate tables, on which were placed a collection of knickknacks. Pastoral paintings and prints hung by long cords well above and below eye level. The mantel above the fireplace was filled from end to end with vases of every size, color and shape. In the far corner, beside a piano covered with a colorful silk shawl, was a collection of fans, opened to display their artistry. Near the velvet-draped doorway, peacock feathers were displayed in a huge Chinese ginger jar while a china cabinet against the far wall was chockablock filled with porcelain figurines. It was all a little mind-boggling.

  Dusting the room must take a week, Susannah thought to herself.

  By comparison, the dining room was almost empty, aside from the large dining table and a ponderous sideboard with its intricately carved ornamental backpiece. The top was marble and cool to her fingertips as she ran them over it while she walked by. It was a way of physically reminding herself that this was indeed reality.

  Reality was also catching Mikey, who was kneeling on the floor reaching into the ample cupboard below the sideboard.

  “What are you doing?” Susannah asked.

  He jerked like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Indeed, he did have a cookie in one hand, and a round cookie tin in the other.


  “Do you sneak up on folks like that in France?” Mikey demanded, hurriedly replacing the lid and stashing the cookie tin back where it belonged.

  “Is that a sugar cookie?” Susannah demanded. “Listen, I’ll trade you a pile of grits for that cookie.”

  “You don’t like grits in France?”

  “I prefer cookies,” Susannah admitted.

  “So do I,” Mikey stated, his chin pugnaciously stuck out. His hair stuck out too, in a stubborn cowlick.

  Susannah sighed. “Okay, keep the cookie.”

  “I already tried to bribe the kid,” Kane murmured in her ear. “But it was no go.”

  Mikey stared at them with a frown. “Is everyone from France like you?”

  Susannah just grinned and shook her head.

  “Now don’t you be pestering our guests,” Mrs. Broadstreet scolded the boy as she walked into the room. “Cook has work for you in the kitchen.” Once the boy had left, she turned to apologize. “I’m sorry about that. Mikey means well. His manners need improving and no matter how I try, I don’t seem to be doing a good job in that direction. Gerta, do be careful with that platter,” she warned as the maid awkwardly made her way toward the sideboard. “I pride myself on running an efficient household, you know,” Mrs. Broadstreet went on to tell Susannah. “I follow all the wonderful advice given in Catharine Beecher’s book on housekeeping, The American Woman’s Home. Are you familiar with it?”

  “No.” Susannah wasn’t all that familiar with housekeeping, period. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say she was familiar with it and familiarity bred contempt. She even had a magnet on her fridge that said Dull Women Have Immaculate Houses.

  “The book is wonderful,” their landlady raved. “She is most modern in her approach.”

  Susannah doubted the author was as modern as she was.

  “She treats housekeeping as if it were a science.”

  Susannah had always hated science. She hated the awkward way Kane made her feel even more. She needed some time away from him, time to get her thoughts together. “I’d love to see your kitchen,” Susannah told Mrs. Broadstreet.