Holm, Stef Ann

by Honey

  "You lost your stockings and shoes," he said, gazing down at her.

  "I left them in my room."

  "A good place for them" His fingertip traced the hooks and eyes down her corset front. She couldn't help arching her back. His brown eyes darkened, as he watched her face, gauging her reaction as she gasped for breath in response.

  Exposed to his hot gaze were her French-patterned pantalets that were so delicate, they did little to cover her. His warm palm cupped the apex between her legs.

  His touch shocked her. She should have told him to stop. Without conscious thought, her thighs separated when they should have clamped together.

  "Want me to stop?"

  She closed her eyes, tightly. Say yes. Say yes. Say yes. "No. I don't want you to stop." The words were throaty; they didn't feel like they belonged to her.

  "Then open your eyes, honey, so I can watch you."

  She lifted her lashes, grateful the room wasn't all that bright. If it was, she would have—No, she wouldn't. A sigh escaped her lips and she lifted her hands into his hair. It was silky and cool and warm at the same time. She wanted him to kiss her, to—

  With only the near-sheer lawn of her pantalets covering her, he massaged the most intimate place on her body. Thoughts of kisses fled. She'd never let her imagination go this far. She hadn't been prepared for how she'd actually feel when it happened. For how the touch would consume her, make her pulse.

  "Alex..." She held him in her hands pulled his mouth to hers. She put her lips to his. Soft. Barely touching. She gave him a light kiss, then pulled his head back.

  The way Alex moved his fingers over the barely nothing fabric was maddening. This was taking a kiss and turning into something she had no experience in. The need she felt for him to touch her made her senses spin. She'd been brought up a proper Victorian woman, and these feelings, these things he did to her, they upset her balance, her reasoning. And yet she had to confront where this was leading.

  "I can't... that is... I—" His palm rubbed her sensitive flesh and the hot ache in her intensified. "This is wonderful, but I... can't—"

  "I'm not asking you to do anything." He slowly twirled his thumb over her, jolting her so that her jaws clenched. "I'm giving this to you. Like I gave you the hat. Just enjoy it."

  He tortured her slowly at first, then with an artful stimulation that had her making small, helpless sounds in her throat. She didn't want him to look at her face and know how glorious she felt, how wanton... or to hear the gasp that she caught with her teeth... or to see how her eyelids slid closed in utter ecstacy.

  His voice came to her, low and whiskey smooth. "Do you like when I touch you?"

  Oh help, that wasn't a question she wanted to answer. The truth was painfully embarrassing. Why would he want to know? Why did it matter to him anyway? There was no reason to give him a verbal confirmation of what clearly must be written over every inch of her body, of her skin.

  "Do you?" he asked once more when she didn't reply.

  Eyes slipping open, legs stretching taut, her pelvis straining against his hand, she dared look at him. Hoarsely, she whispered, "Yes."

  With that one word, he slipped his hand inside her pantalets and increased the tempo of his thumb and forefinger. She didn't even think about the sheer intimacy of it. What he did to her was like nothing she'd ever felt before. That he could do this, evoke such desire in her without her being undressed, left her feeling fragmented—not whole until she reached that place he was destined to take her by the way he stroked and touched.

  "Then don't fight me."

  "I'm not."

  "You are." He kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear, his breath hot in her ear. "Your teeth are clenched, honey."

  Everything in her was clenched, and if she didn't let it go, she wasn't going to be able to breathe. An ache in her breasts tugged, drawing her into an exquisite harmony with the motion of his hand. His expert fingers moved in a tempo that made her toes curl.

  Alex's voice was tender, almost a murmur, as she melted beneath his touch. "It's okay, Camille."

  She shattered, releasing the tension wound so tightly within her. And as she rocked against his splayed fingers, her pulse spun. She was helpless to halt her breath from coming out in long, surrendering moans. A climax of indescribable heat surged through her. Fulfillment she couldn't have begun to describe made her tremble, made her pant, made her reach out to Alex and bring him to her.

  He captured her moist lips with a kiss. "You're beautiful to watch." His words shook her, just as tangibly as the shudders that centered between her thighs.

  She could barely trust herself to speak. "Don't say that."

  "You are beautiful, Camille."

  Unbidden, her eyes filled with tears. How many times had she been told that? But right now, what did she want him to tell her? Camille, you are the smartest woman I've ever brought to fulfillment So she took his words, embraced them, and believed—truly—that he meant every part of her was beautiful to him.

  He traced her upper lip. "You don't need Rose Delish to pinken your mouth. You need only me."

  Too many emotions collided inside her at the very thought that she needed him. She didn't want to. How could she? She had to prove herself to her father first—and prove to herself she could make the team better because of her know-how—before she could fall in love. Why, then, didn't her heart listen to her? Why, then, did it trip and skitter whenever she was near this man? She couldn't love Alex. It would ruin everything—her purpose, and his. It would be horrible.

  It would be heaven.

  She struggled to sit up. As if he understood, he pressed his forehead to hers. She let the warmth of his skin soak into hers. Then he pulled back. "I know. You have to go."

  Not wanting to leave and yet wanting to—both clashed within her. He helped her put her underwaist on as she sat beside him. Tugging her skirts down, she felt her cheeks grow warm once more. The fan did little to cool her skin. Its breeze passed over them, intertwining her skirt between his legs, billowing her hair across his shoulder. Touching, yet without touching.

  Alex got up from the bed, went to the center of the room, and picked up her robe. As he came back to the bed, she rose. When she stood, her knees nearly gave out. He steadied her, brushing her lips with a gentle kiss. Then he put her robe on for her, tying the sash in a neat bow.

  Tucking a curl behind her ear, he offered, "I'll walk you to your room."

  He kept the door to his room ajar while taking her down the hall. Once at her door, she turned and pressed her back to the panel. He raised his arm above her, resting his wrist on the jamb over her head.

  A smile lazed on his lips. "I'm glad you liked your hat, honey. See you in the morning."

  Then he left her standing there feeling thoroughly debauched... and, heaven help her, wanting him to debauch her again.

  Chapter 16

  The train broke down in Dorothy, Wisconsin, on the Fourth of July. A piston froze and quit on the Chicago & Northwestern a day away from Harmony. Since the disk had been antiquated to begin with, and Dorothy was ancient itself, the small town's railway yard didn't stock that particular part at this time.

  Nor at any other time.

  But given the fact the No. 1653 had stalled on rail lines smack in the city limits, the C & N was obligated to put passengers up for the night in a hotel of the company's choice. Their choice was the Buffalo Bill House, which happened to be the only hotel in town—in which Buffalo Bill had never stayed. But the residents of Dorothy were still hoping he'd show up one day, seeing as they'd named their only hotel after him.

  The Keystones had been sitting on the crippled train for two hours with no news when the porter had come onboard and told them it wasn't a problem that could be fixed that day. The part had been ordered by telegraph and would arrive on the next train, which wasn't due in for twelve hours. Then it would take time for the engine to be repaired.

  Alex disembarked from the train, stretching his tigh
t muscles. This particular line of the rail didn't have upper berths like the New York Central, and he'd had to bend himself into a wicker seat to sleep. Hot as it had been while they were traveling, they'd kept the windows open. He'd been eating soot and cinders all night long and half the day.

  Once on the platform, he lit a cigarette from the pack he'd bought for himself. There was no point in bumming them off of Charlie all the time. He'd all but resumed the habit. But when he got back to Harmony, he told himself he'd quit again.

  As he waved out the match, he watched as Camille dusted her blue skirt while stepping down with help from the porter. Her ever-present parasol was missing, as were her white gloves. She hadn't gotten rid of the hat, though. Although not huge like the one he'd given her, this one was big enough. It looked like birds were taking a bath on the low crown. Not exactly his style, but he had to concede it was a step up from the basket of fruit she'd had on the other day when they'd played the White Stockings.

  She discreetly yawned, then tried to extend her cramped limbs without being obvious. They were all dead beat from the road travel, but to Alex, she wore the fatigue well—kind of sleepy, kind of sensual.

  He remembered how she'd looked on his bed. How her lips had tasted. How her pale blue eyes had slid closed when he'd brought her to satisfaction. He'd wanted to be with her. He'd wanted her, wanted to give her the kind of pleasure he was sure she had never experienced. But he'd known then, just as he'd known the first day he saw her in his wood shop, she was a lady—a lady who didn't trifle with men and didn't give herself away.

  If he wanted Camille Kennison, then he had to give himself to her as a husband. Because anything less wasn't good enough for a woman like her. He could accept that. Didn't mean he was going to propose. But he was smart enough to know when he couldn't get his heart involved.

  He could have gone out and found a woman to ease the hardness in his groin after he'd walked her to her room. But he hadn't. Because no other woman would have been the one he wanted. The only face he would have seen beneath him would have been Camille's.

  "Sir, could you direct me to the stationmaster's office?" she asked the porter. "I've got to send a telegram right away."

  The porter showed her to the office behind Alex. She averted her gaze as she walked by, just as she had been averting her eyes every time she had seen him since the night in Boston. They hadn't been alone in eight days, so whatever had been between them that night no longer existed. He didn't care to rationalize why that thought disturbed him.

  As he drew on his cigarette, he assumed she was sending her father a message that they'd be late. He didn't think they'd make it to Harmony in time to play the Philadelphia Athletics.

  The Keystones had swept the Somersets four straight games, and true to her word, Camille sent them out for a night of beer drinking. Alex had gone; it felt right to fall in with the Keystones, to have some rounds of beer, play a few hands of poker, and talk about the games in which they'd whipped the Somersets because they'd been good enough those four days.

  Early the next morning, they'd caught the New York Central rail to Chicago. Their wins against Boston had been miraculous—too miraculous to maintain. They'd lost all three games to the White Stockings.

  When Camille walked past him from the office, her perfume lightly on the air, Alex fought the tightening in his belly. He pitched his smoke, then ground the butt beneath his heel while gazing across the street.

  There wasn't much to the town, just a wide-open plaza without any trees or shrubs and just dirt road and the wagons that rumbled down the span of dusty earth. From where he stood, he could see the building labeled city hall with its brass bald eagle perched on the roof peak. There was no way to miss the patriotism emblazoned on the exterior. It looked as if the structure had been wallpapered with American flags.

  "Hello, folks," came a man's deep voice that sounded as if it belonged in the bottom of a barrel. "I'm Mayor VanHorne."

  Alex turned his attention to the man who wore a coat that was just as colorful as the building across the square. On its padded shoulders were red and white stripes and on the lapels were stars; the sleeves were blue. A tophat sat on his crop of yellow hair.

  "All right, the first question I have to ask is..." —his glance slid across them with a wishful gleam— "... is anybody by chance Buffalo Bill?"

  No one replied, so the mayor's mouth slipped into a crestfallen frown. "Well dang. All right then, we're going over to the Buffalo Bill House hotel." He began to walk, legs bowed, his polished shoe heels stirring up the dust. "Let me be the first to extend our fair town's hospitality. Lucky for you, the train broke down on the Fourth of July—you're invited to this afternoon's activities and evening's fireworks. You missed the parade, but I might be able to convince the fraternal orders to give it another run-through."

  "Well, I'd rather skip that," Camille said behind Alex, her voice low so as not to carry. He wondered if she'd spoken the words to him, or to herself.

  "You don't like parades?"

  "Not today, I don't. I just want to cool off, slip between the clean sheets of a real bed, and call it a day."

  "And miss the Fourth of July?"

  "I don't need to watch a parade to celebrate," she muttered. "I'll wave a hand flag in my room before I retire."

  Grinning at her lack of enthusiasm, he looked at her over his shoulder. "But what about the festivities? The footraces? The tug-of-war? All that stuff that's required to celebrate a holiday like the glorious Fourth?"

  "I'm not the athletic type."

  Alex measured her with a quick, appraising gaze. No, you don't look the athletic type. She looked the "kiss me" type to him. Lush lips, soft eyes, alabaster skin, high rounded breasts, slender waist, and hips that flared just right to fit in a man's palms. She was more suited to fine dresses and big hats, to parlors and socials—indoor things that brought out all that fancy deportment she wore on her sleeves.

  She might not be an outdoors woman, but he was thinking Miss Honey ought to have a little outdoor fun.

  Even if she didn't think so.

  * * * * *

  An hour later, Camille found herself on a field of grass, right leg tied to Alex's left, hopping toward a chalk finish line.

  "I don't know why I'm doing this," she said in a rush, holding her skirt up with one hand while trying to stay in sync with Alex's long leaps. Their shoulders bumped, elbows tangled, and thighs rubbed. Each contact of his hard body with hers shot through her like a charged wire.

  Without sounding winded in the slightest, he replied, "Because I dared you."

  "Yes, that's right." The crimped hairpins securing her curls in place slipped lose. "I should have let the dare go unchallenged."

  "But you didn't."

  No, she hadn't. So here she was, her legs kicking up her blue muslin skirt as she ran. The lace edge of her snowy petticoat was exposed in plain view, but she was having a hard time feeling improper.

  Alex slipped his arm around her waist to keep her from putting space in between them. Being this close to Alex in front of people... she wondered what they would think of her—of them.

  She supposed her discomfort had more to do with her guilty conscience than anything else. She'd had to put on a bold front to face him the morning after she'd been in his room. In the stark light of day and with a mind that was perfectly clear, she was embarrassed by her behavior. It was hard to think about herself as the woman lying on Alex Cordova's bed, Rose Delish on her lips. She couldn't bring herself to think about her blouse and skirt, rumpled and disheveled, or his hands on her body.

  Because then she'd have to face up to the fact that she'd encouraged him... just as she felt like encouraging him now while tied to his leg in a foolish footrace.

  She should have said no when he'd asked her. Giving in to him made her face the undeniable and dreadful facts: She was far too attracted to Alex. And not only in a physical sense. She liked being with him, talking with him, touching him, watching him lau
gh, listening to his voice—having his hands on her.

  She didn't know how to deal with her teetering emotions. Before, she would have liked the attention. Now she felt vulnerable, naked, a target for his speculation about what had possessed her to knock on his door wearing a robe.

  At that last thought, Camille stumbled into Alex and leaned heavily on his shoulder. She would have fallen if he hadn't tightly gripped her waist. Her face heated and she mumbled an apology. He merely gave her a smile that rocked her to her soul.

  Another pair crossed the finish line by a long margin. Nobody was even close to the winner's speed. Camille concluded the couple must have been practicing since last Fourth of July. She and Alex were horrible at it because she went out of her way to avoid body contact—an impossibility with their knees bound and pressed together.

  Cupid came running over, along with Jimmy and Duke. "You didn't even come close," the first baseman complained.

  Her breasts rising and falling from the effort, Camille shrugged and made a futile attempt at shoving her hairpins back in place without her hat sliding down her forehead. "We tried."

  She stood still as Alex lowered himself to one knee and lifted her petticoat up. The starched linen had a dry rustle to it. He untied the rope that she'd felt snag her stockings at the calf His knuckles skimmed over her in a way that could be seen as accidental. But she knew better—she knew his touch.

  Searing heat clung to her damp skin, and she did her best to bide her disquiet. His fingers traveled down her calf to where the kid lace stay of her shoe began. He checked the lace, as if to see if it was se- cure. Of course it was. She'd double tied it before the race, fearing she'd fall flat on her face if one of the laces came undone. His thumb made a quick circle around the top of her ankle where the shoe leather started, then he released his hold. The scratchy rope removed, she stepped away from him and smoothed down her skirt with a little too much vigor. Cupid gave her a puzzled look.