by Sharon Ihle
Because of that opinion, which grew stronger as he neared thirty, Dimitri's sex life had all but vanished. Of course, he wasn't going to admit such a thing to Ari, who considered pleasures of the flesh akin to breathing. If he did, the old man would think there was something physically wrong with him. Which there definitely was not.
Ari, who'd been in a state of shocked silence, finally found his tongue—and an angry tongue it was. "You dare to sit there and tell me now, after we've traveled halfway to California, that you haven't even conducted one serious courtship in your entire life? How did you think you'd find the aplomb to sweep the president's niece off of her feet?"
"Let me try to explain again." Dimitri signaled the waiter to bring them another round of drinks. Then he slouched down on his plush leather chair and flashed his uncle an amused grin. "I absolutely loathe the hard-headed, myopic, and thoroughly pompous director of the British Museum, but I believe I can safely say that I have far more of a relationship with him, even by mail, than I've ever had with a female. That is why I am seeking your advice, Uncle. I thought wooing this particular woman would be easy, but now that I find it is not, I am asking for suggestions on how I might proceed in the case of Miss Shylo Folsom."
The drinks arrived, and before Dimitri could even lift his glass from the polished maple tabletop, Ari swallowed his brandy in one gulp. Wheezing as liquid fire burned its way down his throat, he banged his fist on the table. "You have much to learn, my son, and I do indeed have many suggestions of value. We shall proceed, and you shall triumph."
Dimitri chuckled good-naturedly, for he still believed that an arranged marriage would never have to take place, therefore making his lack of expertise in this area inconsequential. "I suppose you'd best get started with the instructions. I have a feeling I'm a little behind on my lessons."
"Yes, yes, of course." Ready to get down to business, Ari propped his elbows on the small table and leaned in toward his nephew. "I say test the young lady to discover what plans she may have for you. Go ahead, give her a little kiss, and see what happens."
"And what do you suggest I do if she slaps my face? She is, after all, the high-bred niece of the president of the United States. Maybe I should wait a little longer and give her time to come to me."
"No, no. That will never do. Women—even highbred ladies—like their men to do the courting. You must be aggressive but tender, kiss her gently, saving the hot-blooded advances for your marriage bed." He thought he saw Dimitri frown at those words, but he attributed his expression to impatience. Then Ari issued his final instruction. "Just before you kiss her, remember to whisper a few honeyed phrases in her ear. Oh, and while you're at it, say something like 'By the way, my sweet little kumquat—exactly when did you think you'd be paying me back for those train tickets?'"
Dimitri laughed out loud, a deep, full-throated laugh he rarely turned loose. When he caught his breath, he marveled for a moment over how good he felt inside, and then quickly decided it was because of the cognac. "I'll see what I can do about getting our money back later—she probably just forgot about it. In the meantime, what kinds of honeyed phrases do you suggest I use on her? She strikes me as a very bright young woman, one who won't be easily fooled."
"Ah, yes, I noticed that about her myself." Ari tapped a thoughtful fingertip against the table. "Did you happen to see what color her eyes are, my son?"
How odd, Dimitri thought, that he was instantly able to picture those eyes and their shockingly clear aquamarine color. And without concentrating in the least. He could even see Shylo's long caramel-colored lashes with the remnants of her tears clinging there like a delicate Mediterranean mist.
Most of all, he remembered liking what he saw when he looked into her eyes, and for far more reasons than their brilliant blue color. He saw a goodly amount of independence there, and an unusual measure of candor for a woman, which was a fascinating blend made more intriguing by an irresistible dash of innocence. Dimitri couldn't think of a time when he'd ever noticed such things about a woman.
"Ahh, my son, is this work really so difficult for you?" Ari watched Dimitri for as long as he could, and then sighed with frustration. "Perhaps you need more help than I thought, but do not fear. I'm prepared to provide it. The first thing you must do tomorrow is study Miss Folsom's face. Memorize the things you like best, and even those you don't, but take special care to note the color of her eyes. This is most important if you are to make—"
"They are blue, Uncle. Actually, the exact color of the Aegean Sea along the shores of Chalcidice, and so clear she can do little, I think, to hide her thoughts." He grinned as he recalled a few of them. "Most of those thoughts, if I'm not completely mistaken, seem to run a little on the mischievous side. As to her face, she has excellent bone structure, with a strong, square jawline and high, wide cheekbones. A stubborn, but refreshingly lovely face." He thought of their conversation on the observation deck. "I think it's fair to say that Miss Shylo Folsom possesses the face of an angel and the mind of a devil."
"Is that all you've noticed about her?" Ari meant to chide his nephew a little over how much he did know, not prompt a further dissertation of Shylo's finer points. But that was exactly what he got, as Dimitri was only too happy to comply.
"If you want more, I can tell you that Miss Folsom's hair is a rich golden color, and may even have a touch of fire to it. I can't be sure because I've never seen it loose or out in the sunlight. Let's see—what else is there?" He hesitated as he tried to think of more details, then remembered an endearing little gesture. "Ah, yes, and when she talks or smiles, she has a tendency to twist her mouth to the left, a cute little habit to be sure, but one that makes her look as if she's self-conscious or embarrassed in some way."
A resolute bachelor by choice, Ari had managed to break a few hearts over the years and even found his own shattered on occasion. From those experiences he prided himself on being somewhat of an expert where matters of the heart were concerned. This made him fairly certain that he saw signs in his nephew that pointed to a far more complicated relationship with Miss Folsom than Dimitri would have him believe. Or maybe he didn't even realize it yet.
Ari was also a man who didn't mince words, so he thought nothing of voicing his opinion on that subject. "Is it possible, my son that you have taken more than just a little liking to Miss Folsom? Could she have worked her way into your heart so soon?"
Knowing what a hopeless matchmaker his uncle had become over the years, Dimitri laughed the idea off. "You forget, Uncle, that I am trained to observe, required by my profession to notice if even the slightest particle of dust is out of place in a burial chamber which hasn't seen the light of day for thousands of years. I have simply relayed what I observed in the lady."
"We are not discussing the long dead here, but a real, live woman. It is not the same thing."
Unperturbed, Dimitri went on with his excuses. "You're wrong, Uncle, for in many ways it is the exact same thing. I am also trained in physiognomy, the study of facial features as they relate to character or quality of mind. I have employed those abilities along with the others in order to recall everything I could about the lady."
Ari didn't buy this explanation any more than the first. "I think you doth protest too much, my son. If one didn't know better, one might even be inclined to believe that the great, heartless soon-to-be-professor Adonis has discovered that he is actually falling in love—and for the first time, no less."
Dimitri's patience with his uncle had reached an end. "If one did indeed know me well," he said, "one would automatically assume that my observations about Miss Folsom are purely academic. And, of course, one would be correct."
A smug grin tugged at the corners of Ari's mouth, and he couldn't help but issue one final challenge. "In that case, dear boy, I would ask that you communicate your observations about Miss Folsom's traveling companion. What exactly did your well-trained eyes see when you looked upon Miss McBride?"
Caught off guard, Dimitri sear
ched his memory for an image of the woman in question, but he could only remember one memorable feature as he tried to picture her. Finally, with an expression that brooked no further discussion on the subject, he said, "She has purple hair."
* * *
Almost a week into the journey, the morning opened to New Mexico's wide, cloudless blue skies and rapidly warming temperatures. The westbound train pushed on, and by noon it had reached the border of Arizona, leaving behind the imposing Pon- derosa pines of Colorado's Rocky Mountains, the rushing waters of the Rio Grande, and the dusty little pueblos of Santa Fe. Ahead lay vast stretches of arid desert, the monotonous landscape broken up with occasional formations of red rock, eroded shale, and sandstone sculptures. Scattered among these were clumps of sagebrush, mesquite, and yucca.
Dimitri was utterly fascinated by it all. "Look there," he shouted, leaning over the back railing of the observation car to point out one particularly strange formation. "Does that not look like a camel to you?"
Shylo squinted at where he was pointing and shrugged. From where she stood, it looked a little like Mrs. Anderson's backside when she bent down to hoe her vegetable garden. "Sort of, I guess."
"It was a perfect depiction of a two-humped camel, I assure you. By the time you looked up, the correct angle for viewing it as such had already passed you by." He stretched his arms and breathed deeply. "I've read, of course, how beautiful and diverse a country your America is, but I had no idea how much each individual state and territory had to offer, or how many different landscapes could be found—and so close together." The timbre of his voice rising, he added reverently, "You must give thanks every day for the privilege of living in such a land."
A stranger, one of a half dozen men who stood with Dimitri and Shylo to marvel over the ever-changing terrain, assumed the question had been addressed to anyone who cared to answer. And so he did. The man was an easterner, she heard him say, one who'd never traveled west beyond Chicago before. As he spoke it became apparent to her that his enthusiasm over the rugged southwestern countryside was second only to Dimitri's.
Shylo didn't mind being left out of the conversation a bit. It gave her a chance to observe her Greek god, unnoticed. She'd never seen him quite so alive before, or as animated as he was while talking about the land and its history. It made him lose that insufferable aloofness, for once. She wondered if there was a way she could keep him that way. Better yet, would it possible to get him feeling equally worked up over real live people? Over her?
Dimitri was all she'd been able to think about since their "near kiss" the first day out of New York. He was different from anyone she'd ever known, and not just because he was a foreigner. It was something else, something she'd have understood by now if only she'd had another chance to get him alone. Which she hadn't. But he had been friendly enough toward her the past few days, if not terribly romantic, and always said just the right things, treating her as if she were someone special. Still, she sensed he was holding something back, keeping his true self at bay, and she couldn't help but wonder why. Was it because of some lack he'd found in her or some private reason that had only to do with himself?
Maybe, it suddenly occurred to Shylo, Dimitri didn't know how to express himself any better than she did. Maybe, she even dared to think, he might actually need someone like her, the kind of gal who wouldn't just say "Yes, sir" and "No, sir" to him all the time but would make damn good and sure he sat up and paid her some attention. Warming more and more to the actual reality of playing lady friend to this man, Shylo glanced over at Dimitri and took an extra-careful look at him.
He was still deep in conversation with the stranger, his thick blue-black hair gleaming under the rays of the hot desert sun. His strong hands were waving as he spoke, drawing her attention to his shoulders as the muscles there bunched and strained against his jacket. Lord, but this man was a pleasure for the eyes.
Dimitri turned slightly then and caught her gaze. Shylo's throat seized up good and tight, making her feel like a prairie chicken caught in a snare. She suspected right then and there that even if he never did loosen up the way she hoped, she'd be happy as long as he simply stayed in her field of vision.
He excused himself to the other passenger and stepped under the car's metal overhang to where Shylo stood just out of the sun. "I didn't mean to ignore you," he said, apologizing. "But I was telling that fellow about the pueblos and ancient artifacts which have been discovered in these parts during recent years. He was most interested in learning about the area Indians."
"Me, too."
Clearly surprised, Dimitri said, "Are you, now. In what way?"
"I'd like to know a little bit more about the way they lived, the Cheyenne in particular, so I can understand what the souvenirs I have were used for."
"You are in possession of Cheyenne Indian souvenirs?"
Shylo nodded at the same moment she realized that she'd trapped herself into another explanation—and another lie. "Yes, but they... belonged to my friend, who found them out in the fields of the farm she worked in Kansas. There's some broken pottery, a few arrowheads, and some things I think might have been used during the Cheyenne sun dance."
"That's absolutely fascinating." Dimitri wondered if he hadn't accidentally chosen a woman who shared the same interests he did. "You didn't, by any chance, happen to study archaeology in college, did you?"
She raised her chin, defensive about her less-than-thorough education. "No, sir, I didn't. I never got a chance to go to college at all, but I hope to someday."
Hope to? Someday? This from the niece of the president of the United States? Dimitri was astounded, but he tried not to let his surprise show. "As well you should. I would very much like to see your souvenirs, if I may. Do you have them with you, or did you ship them on ahead in your trunk?"
They were with her, of course, in her valise, since the nonexistent trunk was another lie to make him think she and Cassie had a lot more clothing than would fit in their pitifully small traveling bag. But she wouldn't let him see the artifacts. Not today, at any rate, and not until she was damn good and ready to show him. Shylo had not missed Dimitri's arrogance or his obvious disappointment in learning that she was not quite his intellectual equal, that she was inferior to him in at least that area.
"The souvenirs are packed in the trunk," she said, unable to hide the irritation in her voice.
"Oh, well. Perhaps you'll show them to me when we reach San Diego."
Dimitri wasn't exactly certain where he'd made his error, but one look into her cold blue eyes told him that he most definitely had. As most of the passengers who'd been sunning themselves filed by him—seeking, no doubt, a cooler spot inside the observation car or a cool drink—he went back over the conversation, looking for clues to his mistake. Nothing of any value came to him, but then he realized that other than the man he'd been conversing with, he and Shylo were the only brave souls left outside in the increasingly uncomfortable heat. Maybe the temperature was the cause of her sharp tongue.
"Would you care to go inside?" he asked, almost certain that's where he'd been remiss. "It's getting a little warm."
Since her new wool jersey was not only suffocating her, but making her itch as if she had a bad case of the hives, Shylo decided to take him up on the offer. Then she noticed the only passenger other than themselves had turned away from the rails and was starting for the door. She and Dimitri would be alone now, and scorching heat or not, she might be looking at the only chance she'd have to go ahead with her newest plan to snag him.
Although her skin felt damp and scratchy and her undergarments clung to her body like wet wash, she gave him a cool smile as she said, "Oh, don't think of going inside on my account. I rather like this weather. Of course, if it's getting too hot for you—"
"Not at all. This is like springtime compared to a steamy summer in Greece. I'm quite comfortable, if you are."
Proud of herself, Shylo smiled at him, batting her lashes for good measure as she qui
ckly reviewed her plan. Dimitri hadn't jumped at the chance to kiss her before, she deduced, because he had no way of knowing whether bestowing such an endearment upon a young lady he was not betrothed to would be considered proper behavior in America. But the way she had it figured, she could tell him just about anything she wanted to, and he'd have to believe her. She might not have any fancy schooling, but she sure as hell could educate him in the ways—her ways—of American courtship.
Shylo squared her shoulders and took a deep, determined breath. She would not be going to bed mad tonight the way she had before. To achieve that goal, Dimitri's first lesson would have to be blunt, one he couldn't possibly misconstrue the way he had the last time she'd tested her wiles on him.
This time, Shylo vowed, he'd kiss her, by God, or she'd know the reason why not.
Chapter 5
Since Shylo had left her to her own devices, Cassie moved to the last and most private seat the parlor car had to offer and huddled there, her back to the aisle and the other passengers. Her cheeks were flushed and rosy, a shade even more luminous than the bright purplish pink shade her hair had faded to over the last week. Her nose was buried in Shylo's Ladies Book of Etiquette, Fashion, and Manual of Politeness, but Cassie wasn't studying how to conduct herself on the street or in places of amusement. She was deeply engrossed in Destiny Rode at Midnight, a ten-cent romance she'd slipped between the pages of chapter fifteen, the section on letter writing. And she'd finally come to the good part.
... and as thunder rolled above them, Jesse hauled Elizabeth out of the stream. She fought him, kicking and screaming, but it was no use. He was as strong as an ox and determined to have his way with her. "Turn me loose!" she cried into the howling wind.
"Not this time, Lizzy. " In one quick movement, Jesse ripped the front of her dress open. Her wet chemise met his gaze along with the private treasures it barely concealed. Jesse licked his lips. "This time, Lizzy, you're not escaping until you're mine."
