by Lisa Plumley
He had to try. Not because he wanted her, Gabriel assured himself, but because he wanted to finish this. Needed to finish this. Soon.
“And if I were to pursue you, all the same?” he asked quietly.
She examined his vest with more absorption than the plain dark garment warranted, all but memorizing the fabric’s taper from his chest to the gunbelt he’d strapped beneath his suit coat. She said nothing.
“Or woo you?” he coaxed, unable to help the renewed smile that flickered over his face at the old-fashioned language. There was nothing funny about his intentions, though—or his interest in her, however unwise it was. “What then, Megan?”
“You—you’re teasing me,” she protested. She lifted her gaze from his chest to his face, and the glitter of tears in her eyes was enough to steal his breath. “Because of Mr. Kee. You’re only saying these things to flatter me, to—”
“Hop Kee is still busy with his employee. He can’t even hear us.”
“But—”
“But I’m telling you truly,” Gabriel interrupted, beset with an urge to kiss the downward turn from her lips. Would she taste as hot and honeyed as before? “You’re a very desirable woman, Megan.”
Her lips parted. He glimpsed a new light in her eyes, a kindling of something uncommonly rare. Uncommonly beautiful. Then as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished. In its place came the kind of wariness he’d come to expect from her, along with a goodly dose of starch.
It pained him to see it, and even more to hear it come from her mouth.
“I don’t believe you. And I don’t trust you,” she said. “And no quantity of Irish charm will be enough to make me forget it. Do you think me stupid enough to fall into every trap you set for me?”
Lord, but she could let fly a barb meaner than any woman he’d met. And now that he’d glimpsed the tender side to her, somehow those spiky words of hers stung even deeper than before.
“I could ask the same of you.” Gabriel noticed Mr. Kee finishing his conversation with the worker, and leaned slightly forward to add, “Since you’ve been trying to lure me into a fair share of traps since I got here.”
“Traps? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t you?”
“No! But if it’s too uncomfortable for you here in the Territory, perhaps you ought to take your leave.”
“Not until I’ve finished the job I came here to do. I intend to win. I always do.”
Hop Kee’s approach left her little room to argue, and Megan knew it. She flounced into her chair at the table, teeth set in determination, and struggled to seat herself closer. The sound of ripped fabric announced the difficulty she had in doing so.
With a feminine growl of frustration, she tried again.
“Allow me.” Gabriel bent over her, sensing both her trembling and her resentment of his help. He didn’t care for either one. The last thing he’d do was stand by while a lady did everything but turn herself upside down, just to take a meal.
Arms flanking her sides, he grasped the chair’s edges in both hands. Her warmth washed over him, tempting him to find some excuse to linger there, some reason to prolong the contact between them. He could find none, save wanting to. That would never be enough.
When he did move the chair forward, his motion inadvertently stirred the air between them. It became a rosy wash of fragrance so pure Gabriel had to close his eyes against it. Was he mad, to surround himself with the essence of her?
Surely he was, but not for long. “Don’t fight me,” he said. “It will only make things harder for us both.”
He saw her eyes close, briefly. When she opened them again, the golden light he’d seen before in her gaze was undiminished. “I have to.”
Hop Kee’s approach cut short whatever reply Gabriel could have made. The Chinaman clapped his hands together and surveyed their table—and Megan’s seated position beside it—with obvious pleasure.
“You like this one?” he asked. “I think it is the special one you wanted.”
“This table looks perfect,” Gabriel said, putting on a smile. If Megan’s rapt expression was anything to go by, she thought so, too—not that he could waste time wondering over her change of mood. Neither could he delay his true reasons for being there any longer.
With that in mind, he offered Kee another handshake, and an invitation. “Can you join us for a few minutes? With so much news to catch up on, I’ve about worn poor Megan’s voice clean through, and we haven’t even gotten to talking about her father. I was hoping you could tell me how Joseph’s been faring these last few years.”
Chapter Nine
“Defeated again,” Megan announced, eyeing Gabriel over the table they shared. “A person would think you’d get tired of hearing the same old things about my father, and not believing them.”
“It’s not a question of believing,” he said quietly. “It’s a question of finding out the truth.” He smoothed his fingers over the rich red tablecloth, then brought them to the side of his teacup in an absent-minded caress. “Obviously, this wasn’t the place to find it.”
“Obviously.”
A small sense of giddiness burbled up inside her. One meal and too much conversation later, the Pinkerton man still wasn’t any closer to tracking down her father than he’d been walking in—even after all his piles of questions. She couldn’t help but feel a little vindicated.
Her father was innocent, blast it! Somehow, she’d prove it, too. But to do so, she had to gain some measure of Gabriel’s trust—something she wasn’t likely to do without first softening the cynical bend of his thoughts.
So far, doing that had proved more difficult than she’d envisioned. Gabriel had remained unmoved by her friend Hop Kee’s jovial presence and lively conversation. He’d been unimpressed by the elegance of the Celestial Kitchen’s red-and-gilt dining room. And he hadn’t loosed the frown from his face for the past half hour or more.
How could that be? She’d felt sure this place held at least a fragment of the magic that would sweeten him up. Over her years’ worth of cherished visits there, Megan had certainly never come to Hop Kee’s restaurant and failed to leave feeling happier than before.
She wrinkled her nose at the undeniable conclusion. Her adversary was clearly cut from a different—and far tougher—bolt of fabric than she was.
Well, she’d just have to work harder. There was nothing honest labor and quick-thinking couldn’t get for her—including her own way with Gabriel Winter. Megan considered him, wondering how best to turn their situation to her advantage.
With that same scowl firmly in place, Gabriel sat across from her and stared into his cup of green tea, just as he’d done since Hop Kee had departed for the kitchens. Light from the paper lantern above their table illuminated his features, highlighting the handsome, surly angles of his face and throat. Even more so than the late-afternoon sunlight shining through the wood-framed window beside them, it wove gleaming blue-black highlights in his loose dark hair, and emphasized the strength in his wide, suit-coat-covered shoulders.
It also cast more light than she wanted on her own behavior.
This went beyond mere strategizing, Megan realized with chagrin. She sat only two gestures short of propping her chin in her hand and sighing over the man like a girl just out of short skirts! What was the matter with her, mooning over the appearance of an uncompromising, icicle-hearted lawman like agent Winter?
Really she wanted to speak to him, Megan told herself. Maybe she’d even gloat a little longer over her success at keeping her father’s whereabouts hidden. But almost against her will, the caressing path he made on his cup captured her attention instead…and held it transfixed.
Given the striking contrast between Gabriel’s big, blunt-fingered hand and the fragile teacup, she should have expected him to break it. Especially in his thunderous state of mind. But it only took another slow circuit of his fingers to convince her he would not.
Surely a touch as gentle as his could nev
er bring the danger she expected.
Like he had in the office at Kearney station when touching the books and lamps and furnishings arrayed there, Gabriel seemed to absorb the essence of the cup in his hand. His innate curiosity piqued hers. It made her yearn to experience everything as deeply as he seemed to, to gather up life by handfuls. To know, as closely and deeply as her fingers and feelings and mind would allow.
Suddenly, the spinster’s life she’d resigned herself to seemed painfully empty. Wrung of its vibrancy, it lacked texture and awareness and warmth, all things she hadn’t known she needed.
Until now.
As though the sensations that touched Gabriel could affect her as well, Megan imagined the feel of his cup’s smooth porcelain surface in her hand. She imagined the press of her fingertips against its unyielding delicacy, savored the warmth of the brew inside. She inhaled as though experiencing the tang of the tea’s aroma, licked her lips as though tasting its subtle green flavor.
Her mouth actually watered, so real did the sensations seem. When Gabriel lifted the cup to his lips, she sensed his anticipation of the goodness to come…and when he drank, she felt the hot slide of his mouth as though it truly had covered her own.
She shivered. Sweet heaven, what was happening to her?
Gabriel noticed. He paused with his cup in mid-descent, and settled his dark gaze on her. “Cold?”
Mutely, she shook her head. Had her dressmaker’s shop deed depended on it, Megan couldn’t have described the emotions racing through her. Excitement jumbled with terror would almost suffice, but for the sense of heady discovery she felt, too. Was this what her mother had experienced, on the long-ago day when she’d left them for good?
If it was, for the first time, Megan could almost begin to understand. How did a person begin to fight emotions like these? Her thoughts were all atangle, and her stomach pitched with excitement far too strong to simply ignore. All she knew for sure was that cold had nothing to do with the way she’d shivered just now.
“No, I’m not cold,” she croaked, fighting to show him a lighthearted smile. “My sense of impending victory is keeping me warm as toast.”
“Touché.” Gabriel raised his cup in a mocking salute, then smiled over its rim as he drank again.
She looked away. The last thing she wanted was to find herself bewitched anew, fascinated by the pucker of his lips as he prepared to sip, or charmed by the obvious pleasure he took in tasting. The last thing she needed was another flight of fancy, or the study of his fingers, his touch, his sensitivities that went with it.
Drat! He’d done it to her again, Megan realized. Without even drawing her gaze to his, Gabriel had somehow kept her attention as fully as if he had.
She balled her fists in her lap, filled with frustration and no small measure of confusion. The effect he had on her was almost enough to make her wish Gabriel would come up with it straight, and steal another kiss outright.
Like he had back at their hotel room.
Lord, you taste sweet, he’d said between one kiss and the next. So sweet. And she’d believed him, too. Now, remembrance of his whispered words made her shiver still harder.
His cup clattered into its saucer. “You are cold.”
Baldly said, his words somehow managed to convey caring and exasperation, all in the same breath. Gabriel half-rose in his seat and shrugged out of his suit coat, then leaned over her chair to spread its protection over her shoulders.
Too surprised at his kindness to move, Megan let him tuck his coat around her. Wide-eyed, she watched as his face, slightly roughened with a half-day’s growth of beard, neared hers. His chest loomed in her vision, bringing with it an intriguing mixture of scents…leather and sharp creosote, castile soap and warm skin. Now clad above the waist in only his fine white broadcloth shirt, vest, and necktie, Gabriel suddenly seemed infinitely kinder. Impossibly intimate.
And far less threatening than she figured an avowed enemy ought to seem. In amazement, Megan felt his hands move gently over and around her, smoothing his expensive navy wool coat over her shoulders and then following the line of its empty sleeves down the length of her arms.
Her thanks whispered from her on a shaky breath. She caught herself staring agog at Gabriel as he seated himself opposite her again, and realized she must look exactly like the witless female so many of her stage station customers first assumed her to be. Surely she was stronger than this!
He’s your enemy, Megan reminded herself. There is too much at stake to let your common sense go wandering.
As though he’d somehow read her thoughts, Gabriel’s mouth quirked upward. “You’re welcome.”
The cad. He’d probably planned to rattle her like this, all along. She had to do something to regain the upper hand.
“My goodness, agent Winter. You are a fine loser. And here I’d thought you were still brooding over Hop Kee,” she said. She gave a mock-sympathetic cluck of her tongue. “I could have told you he wouldn’t betray my father. Especially not to a stranger.”
“It’s not a betrayal to tell the truth.” His gaze pinned her, overly bright and filled with all the determination of a born brawler. “And Kee doesn’t know I’m a stranger.”
“Pshaw. It sticks out on you like rusty pins on a dress pattern. Anyone can see you don’t belong here.”
“Not if you don’t help clear their vision for them. Your hints about my occupation couldn’t have been any bolder.”
“Nor could the lies you told to hide it.”
Not that he seemed so very bothered by the fact, Megan thought. Woo her, indeed! Did he think she was simple-minded? No man but Gabriel had ever called her desirable, and he was the last person whose opinion she’d believe in.
Across from her, Gabriel finished his tea in one long swallow, then sat back in his chair with the watchfulness he seemed to have been born with. It was unnerving to have such concentrated attention focused all on her.
“I’m many things, Miss Megan,” he said, “but a liar isn’t one of them.”
His slow smile suggested a good many of those things he claimed were sinful in nature—or at the least, too wicked to be discussed in mixed company. Against all reason, curiosity rose inside her, hot and strong. What secrets had lent him that edge of danger he carried?
Whatever they were, they were no concern of hers, she reminded herself staunchly. Once she’d cleared her father’s name, gotten back the money to buy the Webster’s mercantile building for her own, and started in on her wondrous new life, Gabriel Winter would be nothing but a memory.
“If you were a liar, you wouldn’t be likely to honestly admit it,” she pointed out. “So I don’t see how I can ever believe you.”
“Perhaps you can’t.”
“Of course I can’t.”
But she wanted to, Megan realized with a start. She wanted to believe him, wanted an excuse not to think the worst of agent Winter and his misguided investigation into her father’s life. If she weren’t careful, next she’d find herself utterly chased from the path she’d laid for herself—no father, no dressmaker’s shop, no refuge meant to keep her safe.
No dreams.
“You’re wasting your breath to even discuss my believing in you,” she went on. “I would be a fool if I did. You told me so yourself.”
“Did I?” His lips twisted. With an expression too weary for the few years he must claim, Gabriel said, “I must have mistaken that starry-eyed faith of yours for the damned miracle you think it is.”
In confusion, Megan stared at him. Was the Pinkerton man asking her to believe in him? There was no way she could, not as long as he insisted on claiming her father’s guilt—and with no proof to put behind it, either.
At least none that he would agree to show her.
Still, her heart had softened, enough that she recognized the wanting in his voice. And her understanding of him had strengthened, powerfully enough that Megan acted on the impulse she felt to soothe him.
Boldly, she reache
d her hand across the table toward Gabriel. Keeping her palm up, she lay her hand atop the tablecloth and crooked her fingers in invitation, asking him without words to put his hand in hers.
Only his eyebrows moved in response. Their derisive tilt could hardly be called encouraging.
She did her best to talk straight through that dratted cynicism of his, all the same. After all, that was what she’d come here to do in the first place. Megan Kearney didn’t quit—not even when faced with a dog-stubborn, double-dipped, suspicious rascal like Gabriel Winter.
“The miracle you want is there for the taking,” she said. “All you have to do is reach for it. It’s just like turning your face to the sunlight, or listening to a cactus wren sing. It’s just like touching somebody. Like touching me.”
All she wanted was for him to see things the way she did. To accept that the inexplicable did exist, and his Pinkerton bosses might have been wrong in sending him here to hunt down her father. All she wanted was a single touch, a single reason to believe he might not be as coldhearted as he seemed.
All she intended was to show him what she’d brought him here to see, and to set the stage for doing it properly.
Megan reached her hand further, wiggling her fingers in invitation. “It’s all right,” she urged. “It won’t hurt you to touch me, you know. You’re certainly not made of spun sugar, to melt away if I hold you too tight.”
His gaze lifted, velvety and blue as a sky after sunset. Something powerful moved within its depths, something needful and aching. What had she done, what had she said, to bring about such intensity as that?
Megan searched her memory, and recalled nothing. All the same, his lingering look persisted, filled with a meaning she couldn’t decipher. She could have lost herself in Gabriel’s eyes, could have held his gaze forever…if not for knowing she had other goals to accomplish, and far too little time to achieve them with.
Why wouldn’t he take her hand?
“I haven’t any shackles hidden away in my pockets,” she teased, lowering her voice still further. “Any seamstress worth her salt knows they’re not in fashion this year.”
