by Sharon Ihle
Approaching that final spectator, Donovan said, "It seems Miss Justice has disappeared. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
Thomas chuckled with perverse satisfaction. "No, I wouldn't, but I'm pleased to learn the little baggage had enough sense to get out of here before one of us was forced to do something unspeakably boorish—like toss her off the roof."
Had he not been relatively convinced by now that Libby had sneaked off of her own accord, probably to meet the bastard who was caring for her, Donovan might have ignored this latest comment from his half brother. But as it was, he had nothing more to occupy himself than this gasbag, who was beginning to remind him more and more of dear, departed, Andrew.
Donovan clasped his hands behind his back and spread his feet. "I'm going to assume that you somehow missed the fact that Miss Justice is more or less my guest, and give you exactly one minute to apologize for that remark. While you're at it, you may as well apologize for being so rude to her earlier, out in the garden."
Thomas didn't trouble himself with a polite smile. "I'll be honest with you, Donovan. I'm not the least bit interested in being your friend, much less your half brother, but if that's what my father expects, that's what I'm going to try to do—for him. As long as the rest of us are willing to accept you, I think the least you can do is try to adjust your life so that you can fit into this family a little better. Do you see what I mean?"
Scratching his head, Donovan twisted his mouth into a frown. "Well, hell, brother Tom, I'm not so sure that I do. That didn't sound like much of an apology where I come from. Were you trying to suggest instead that perhaps there's something wrong with the company I keep?"
"Precisely." Thomas allowed himself just a shadow of a smile. "I understand you're involved in the saloon business. I think it would be best all around if you were to sell your interest in that enterprise, and leave all the cheap little trollops like this Justice woman behind with it. I don't think I can make myself any plainer than that."
"No, Tom, you can't—but I sure as hell can."
Smiling broadly, Donovan drove his fist right into the center of his brother's mouth.
Chapter 11
One night later at Lucky Lil's, Donovan was still nursing his swollen knuckles—them, and the aching void left in his gut by Libby's sudden departure. It wasn't that he wanted her back. Hell, no. It wasn't that at all. He hoped she'd gone home to Laramie, where she belonged, and that this time, she'd stay there. It was the not knowing that bothered him, the wondering where she'd gone at the precise stroke of midnight, how she'd gotten back to wherever she was staying, and... well, he didn't dare think about who might have taken her in. Oh, no. If he did that, he might just—
"Can you open?" the dealer asked Donovan, jolting him back to the present.
He stared down at his cards and studied them several times over, but for some reason, he couldn't make sense of his hand. His expression as dark as his thoughts, he muttered, "By me."
What the hell was wrong with him tonight? he wondered. Although Donovan oversaw all the gaming tables, he often sat in as "just another player." If he had troubles, gambling usually took his mind off his worries and relaxed him. But not tonight. This evening he couldn't stop worrying or thinking about Libby. Was she aboard the train and on her way to Laramie, or was she still in San Francisco? Would he ever see her again, if indeed she hadn't left the city? And if he did, for what purpose?
He'd seen the look in her eyes when she'd realized something he hadn't wanted her to know—that he cared, if only a little. Should their paths cross again, he would encounter a woman who would surely want far more from him than he could possibly give. It would be cruel to see her again, cruel and a little dangerous. So why couldn't he stop thinking about her?
Why couldn't he just let thoughts of her roll off his back, the way they had with his half brother? Donovan hadn't even bothered to explain or excuse himself to the family after the incident on the roof. He had simply wiped the blood from his knuckles—using the jacket of brother Tom's fancy imported suit as a towel—then left the mansion. In search of Libby, he recalled, his mind returning to thoughts of her. Again.
"Ah, excuse me, Mr. Donovan?"
The dealer's voice insinuated that he'd missed yet another cue. Cutting his losses—and a good deal of embarrassment, too—Donovan tossed in his cards and pushed back his chair. "Keep 'em honest, Leon. These fellas are too good for me tonight. I think I'll go test my luck at faro."
* * *
Libby was having a damn good time for herself, drifting along in dreamy-ville, as she liked to think of it, when the first knock rattled the doorjamb. Preferring the comfort of slumber, not to mention the warmth of Donovan's embrace as he kissed her over and over again in the dream, she ignored the suddenly alert part of her mind—the part insisting that she wake up—and went right on with her fantasy.
The second knock was louder, sounding as if it had loosened the floorboards. Reluctantly setting her fabricated Donovan aside—he was beginning to fade anyway—she tried to get her bearings. Where was she and what was all the noise? Who could be knocking on her door so rudely, and in the middle of the night, no less? Her throat felt scratchy and dry, as if lined in wool, and when she inhaled, she thought she smelled smoke. Lord, was the house ablaze?
Libby's door flew open on the third knock and, reluctant or not, so did her eyes. The noise, not just knocking, but raucous piano music as well, blew into the room as if on the tails of a storm. The hallway was lit, silhouetting the shadow of the man who stood in her doorway. A very large man. With an involuntary gasp of terror, Libby bolted upright in bed.
"Time to get up," said the hulk in the doorway. "Lil sent me to get you."
It was the little Irish trill in his voice, along with the mention of Lil's name, that brought Libby's memory back. She was at the theatre, lying on a cot in the spare room. Yes, of course. And the hulk, a kindly Irish pugilist who'd had at least one too many fights, was named Seamus. His imposing presence did much to keep unruly gamblers and drinkers under control, even though, if the truth were known, these days the poor man had been known to burst into tears every time he had to use force to remove a customer. Lil had sent the gentle beast the evening before to escort Libby back to the theatre.
"Thank you for waking me. Tell her I'll be down soon." He smiled and nodded, but as he started to back away, Libby detained him a moment longer. "Oh, wait a minute, Seamus." Although Lil had been expecting him, Donovan hadn't come to the theatre after the Savage party last night. Lil hadn't done a very good job of hiding her concern for her son from Libby. Because of that, Libby was worried about him on her own accord. "Did Donovan show up tonight?"
"He's down at the faro table," he said with an almost toothless grin. "Lil says he looks like he's 'bout ready to bite himself."
Knowing the look, for Donovan was usually wearing it when he was around her, Libby chuckled to herself. "Thanks, Seamus, and by the way, don't mention to Donovan that I asked about him or that I'm here."
"I willna be speaking of it. Is there anything else, lass?"
Libby adored the way he called her lass. "Yes, there is. Would you please ask Joy to come help me?"
"Sure thing."
After Seamus had backed into the hallway and closed the door to her spartan room, Libby lit the lamp at her bedside and swung her legs over the edge of the cot. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, wondering what Donovan's mood would be like once he realized she was here. If he already looked as if he might bite himself, she supposed she could have a rabid dog on her hands after he found out that her new "friend" was his mother.
She was in the midst of having a quiet chuckle over that image when Joy burst into the room without knocking, as was her wont. "Did you send for me?"
Turning in the barmaid's direction, Libby smiled warmly and said, "Yes. I was wondering if you'd help me dress tonight, you know, fix me up kind of special."
Joy closed the door behind her and cocked her h
ead. "Why doncha wear that buckskin outfit of yours? It seems to me if you was to strap on a gun with that get-up, you know, maybe get a big ole hog-leg of a pistol, put it right about here," she jabbed a fingertip at her navel, "then aim the barrel straight down at your fun house, the fellas would probably go crazy."
Looking away to keep her mortified expression from showing, Libby shook her head. "I don't want to look like Calamity Jane, and I sure don't want to be making any men crazy." With the exception of one, she silently amended, but even then, she didn't want to get him that crazy. "I was thinking I should wear something completely different for a change." She eyed Joy's scanty costume, then broke into a grin. "Here's what I'd like you to do for me..."
* * *
Downstairs at the faro table, Donovan had just about decided to call it a night. He'd been making stupid, irrational bets since he sat down—playing to lose is what he'd have called it had he been observing such behavior in any other gambler. And yet, self-punishment wasn't his way at all—at least it hadn't been before. He sat pondering that very disturbing realization, when a lush, slightly impertinent, and very familiar voice slid over his shoulder from behind.
"Would any of you gentlemen care for a drink?"
Sure he'd imagined the voice was Libby's after thinking about her the way he'd been all night, Donovan didn't even glance her way as the barmaid took drink orders from the other gamblers. But when she leaned up close and whispered against the back of his ear so that no one else could hear, and that springtime scent of hers hit him right between the eyes, he damn near fell out of his chair in shock.
"And what about you, Mr. Savage? Anything you need?"
Choking on something—surprise, rage, horror, maybe all three—he spun around on his chair. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded.
"Earning my keep." Libby straightened, pleased by his reaction, but cautiously placed her little serving tray between herself and Donovan for safety. "What'll it be? A beer? Or should I get you something a little stronger?"
"I'll get it myself," he muttered, jaw tight, as he looked her up and down. "In fact, I'll just go help you with the rest of the drinks." Nodding to the faro dealer without looking at him, he slowly rose from his chair and unnecessarily added, "I'm out of the game."
Libby could practically feel Donovan's gaze burning holes in her back as he followed her to the bar, but it wasn't until after she'd relayed the order to the bartender that he even acknowledged her presence. He did that by gripping her nude shoulders and setting her aside. Then, acting as if he'd merely rearranged a piece of furniture instead of a full-grown woman, he addressed the barkeep.
"Have Suzie or one of the other girls take those drinks to the faro table. This little lady is finished for the night."
"Oh, no, I'm not." Libby straightened and dug in for the fight. "This little lady has only begun. If you'll get out of my way, I'll just—"
Donovan jerked the words right out of her mouth as he roughly took her by the hand and hauled her away from the bar. Libby reluctantly allowed him this, only because she didn't want to cause him further embarrassment in his own establishment. Once they'd passed through the doorway and into the relative privacy of the San Francisco night, however, she balked.
"Turn me loose." She dug at his fingers with her free hand, but he was too strong, and much too determined. "Donovan—let go, you're hurting me."
Only then did he ease up, but not enough to release her. The full moon and soft glow from a gas lamp directly above them lit his rigid features, bathing him with a pale, buttery sheen. Yet Donovan's face was ashen, his eyes glittering like a pair of cold, hard diamonds. "If you don't want me to hurt you," he hissed, "then stop fighting me."
"But why shouldn't I fight? I haven't done anything wrong."
"No?"
His angry, silvery gaze raked the bodice of her scanty costume, becoming almost vicious as he noticed the way the bulk of her breasts seemed ready to plummet over the low scooping neckline of peacock-blue velvet. Joy had strapped her into a corset she called the squash-the-sides-push-'em-up-and-flop-'em-out special, a contraption guaranteed to "pop" the eyeballs of any man, even a eunuch. Libby thought perhaps the garment was working a little too well on Donovan.
"You don't think there's anything wrong with running around half-naked in a room full of drunken men?"
Libby tried to hide her grin, but felt the corner of her mouth lift as she softly said, "No, I don't—and if I don't, I can't see why you should. Unless, of course... you're jealous."
"Jealous? Me?" At that, he finally released her hand, but remained hovered over her, hawk-like in his possessiveness, trapping her there as surely as his grip had. "Jealous, hah. What a hoot."
Still grinning, but no longer trying to hide it, Libby shook off a sudden chill. The barmaid costume may have been unfair competition for Donovan, but it was no match for the damp night air. "If you're not jealous, then what difference does it make to you if I earn my keep at the theatre?"
"What difference?" He thrust his hands above his head. "What difference? I own the place, remember? I didn't hire you, and... and I don't want you working for me. Isn't that reason enough?"
"It would be, if not for one little thing." Too cold now to pretend she wasn't, Libby folded her arms beneath her breasts, which increased the length and breadth of her cleavage, and briskly rubbed her hands up and down her chilled skin.
Donovan's gaze raked her bodice and he scowled as he asked, "And that little thing would be?"
"Your partner hired me. I expect she'll want to be the one to fire me."
"My part—Lil hired you? My mother is your new friend?"
Libby nodded, so cold now, she was barely able to speak. "And, if you don't mind, I'm going b-back inside to work for her now before I f-freeze to death."
"Oh, no—no, no." After practically ripping off his own jacket, Donovan quickly draped it over Libby's shoulders. "You've got a lot of explaining to do." Distracted by a few ribald remarks being bandied about by passers-by, Donovan raised his fists at them. "What are you looking at, huh? Go on, get out of here."
Several of the strangers snickered and muttered a few more remarks, but they all gave him a wide berth. Donovan's anger seemed to have multiplied after hearing that his mother had taken part in Libby's extended visit. "Come on," he said, taking her by the hand again. "We'll have to finish this little discussion back at my house, but finish it, we will."
This was exactly what Libby had hoped for and was the reason she allowed him, again, to drag her away with him. Still, it wasn't until after they'd finally reached his house, out of breath but warmer now, between the jacket and brisk walk, that she was sure she'd made the right decision.
Muttering to himself by then, Donovan pulled her into the foyer, paused just long enough to light a small lamp on the hallway table, then continued on into the living room with Libby still in tow. Once inside the small but cozily furnished room, he didn't bother to offer her a seat or even illuminate the area beyond the steady glow from the foyer and generous swatch of moonlight streaming in through the bay window. He got right down to business.
"When I asked you to leave my house a few days ago, I didn't expect you to go running to my mother or to dress up like, like..." He waved at her costume, this time concentrating on the hem of the slender skirt, which ended about two inches short of her knees. Of course, he might have been pointing at her black French stockings or even the red satin garter wrapped around her thigh just above her right knee. "Like... like that."
Though it was totally unnecessary, she glanced down at herself. "Like what?" Libby asked innocently. "This is the way the rest of the barmaids dress at your place."
"Yes, well... you're not like the rest of my help."
Now that he had her inside his own home, Donovan couldn't seem to get enough distance between himself and Libby. It was she who closed the space a little as she moved toward him, arms spread wide, and said, "What do you mean? I'm different from the rest o
f the women who work for you? Don't I fill out this dress as well as any of them?"
"Hell, yes, you do, and that's just the problem." He'd looked as if he were about to sit down on the window seat, but as she drew near, he locked his knees and edged in the opposite direction. "You don't belong in a dress like that, and you know it. In fact, I demand that you go upstairs and take it off this instant."
Smiling to herself, feeling more certain than ever that Donovan cared for her, Libby followed him as he moved about the room. "You like me, and you are jealous."
"I feel responsible for you, and that's a whole other thing." He shoved his fingers through the hank of dark hair that had fallen over his eye, but it soon tumbled back down his forehead again. "Now get upstairs."
Her smile grew broader. "You walked out on your own business and went to the trouble of bringing me back to your house. It seems to me that a fella would have to be feeling awfully responsible to do that." She caught up with him by a corner cupboard filled with volumes and miniatures in silver frames. "Why don't you just admit it and get it over with? You like me—a lot."
Donovan reached out to her then, looking as if he was going to drag her into his arms, but then at the last second, he jammed his hands into his trouser pockets instead. His shirtsleeves were a brilliant, ghostly white in the moonlight, and the satin brocade of his red vest caught sparks of light with each rapid breath he took. "What I do or don't like doesn't have a damn thing to do with this conversation. We're talking about you here, and the fact that you don't belong in a place like Lucky Lil's. Now, are you going to take that damned dress off, or do I have to rip it off of you?"
