by Heidi Betts
Robert had never been one to hold back, especially where an agent was concerned. So what made this time different? Who would have such a secret that they were willing to kill to keep it?
And who was Gideon?
She hopped off the bed to look for the peach slippers she'd earlier discarded in such a fit of temper. She found the left one and tossed it over her shoulder, continuing her search. She spotted the right slipper resting on its heel in the corner of the room. Pulling up the piece of fabric that lined the bottom, she freed the square of paper hidden at the toe.
She set it with the photos on the bed. Even with everything spread out in front of her, she still couldn't see any clues as to who murdered Charlie, or why.
A noise in the front room caught her attention. She cocked her head to listen more closely. The ping of glass touching glass sounded again.
Sweeping the papers and pictures beneath a pillow, Willow quietly slid open the top drawer of the bedside table and reached for her revolver. Fingers curled tightly around the butt of the gun, she crept forward, senses honed to pick up on the first sign of danger.
She paused at the sitting room entrance, listening. Silence. She turned the knob and eased the door open a fraction of an inch. Then another. Her eyes scanned the room.
Brandt Donovan stood in front of the sideboard, sipping a glass of brandy as if he belonged there.
She lowered the revolver, releasing a huff of ire. “What are you doing here?” she snapped.
"Having a drink.” He held up his glass as proof while his eyes perused the length of her body, covered only in the thin red robe, and moved back to her face. “Can I fix you something?"
She tossed her pistol behind her onto the bed. “You can pour me a sherry,” she said, “and then you can drag your mangy carcass out of my room."
He poured sparkling golden liquid into a crystal tumbler and handed it to her. “You left the office before I had the chance to ask where you were staying."
She took a long swallow of the sherry. “I see you found me anyway."
One side of his mouth turned up. “Robert told me."
"Remind me to thank him later,” she muttered. Maybe an office full of rotten cabbage would be an appropriate gesture of gratitude.
"He seemed to think it might be a good idea to wait a day or two before dropping in, to give you time to cool off.” He shrugged. “I told him that was nonsense. We're partners now."
Brandt stepped forward until there was only a hairs-breadth of space between them. Until Willow had to lean her head back to keep from breaking eye contact.
"Partners don't cool off,” he continued.
His voice ran like warm molasses down her spine. She quickly shook off the comforting feeling.
"They stay close.” He slipped an arm around her waist. His body pressed against her intimately. “And they stay hot. Very hot."
For a moment, she remained in his arms. Then, as his face lowered toward hers, she broke free.
"You stay hot,” she said, moving to the bar to refill her glass. “I'll stay cool, and just maybe we'll be able to manage a lukewarm relationship.” She fixed him with an icy stare. “A business relationship, that is."
"Of course.” Carelessly, he moved across the room, taking a seat on the sofa, his feet propped upon the table before him. “I hope you don't think I was insinuating any other kind,” he said before emptying his glass.
"I think you were trying to insinuate yourself into my bed,” she told him with a brazen tilt of her chin. She delighted in the sudden pink that tinged his high cheekbones. “I also think that if we hope to form a successful alliance, you'd better stop seeing me as a woman and start seeing me as a detective."
"That's kind of hard when said detective is prancing around half naked in front of her partner.” He looked pointedly at the lacy trim of her shift, visible through the gaping edges of her robe. “You may think of yourself as more detective than woman, Miss Hastings, but I assure you, I am all man."
A dare lay somewhere within those words, she was sure, but she refused to take the bait. Instead, she decided to throw out a thinly veiled challenge of her own.
She moved to stand over him, one hand grasping the wood trim at the back of the settee, the other resting on the curved sofa arm. The front of her red satin robe gaped open, showing even more of the thin ivory chemise and a good deal of bare flesh. “And I assure you, Mr. Donovan, that there is very little of me that is not entirely female. Should I ever decide to go about proving that point, it would be a most pleasurable experience for you."
His only reaction was the lifting of one russet brow. A warm, firm hand moved around her back to caress the curve of her buttock. “Care to prove that now?"
She smiled seductively, leaned closer, and blew in his ear. Then whispered, “No."
With that, she pulled away, pointing to the door. “Now that you know where I'm staying, there's no need for us to remain in each others’ company. Tomorrow morning will be soon enough to begin our investigation."
Brandt set his glass on the low table in front of the settee before rising. He smiled regretfully. “You could have experienced something truly amazing tonight,” he told her.
"I doubt it,” she said, “but you would have seen God."
Chapter Ten
Several hours after her confrontation with Brandt, Willow stood at the window of her room, overlooking City Hall Park. Earlier she had seen couples out for an evening stroll. Men and women walking hand in hand, riding in open carriages.
But with the shadows of darkness came a slight chill to the air, driving people inside to the toasty comfort of their homes. The street was littered with vehicles moving so fast that no one paid much attention to anyone else.
And certainly no one would notice a hunched and drunken man stumbling along the sidewalk.
Willow dressed slowly, watching the last orange-purple rays of daylight being swallowed by the black of night.
Knit cap pulled low to hide her face, she checked her pistol one last time before tucking it into the waistband of her pants. The matching knife pressed reassuringly against her calf inside the worn black boots.
She slipped a packet of tiny picks and pins into the pocket of her overlarge jacket and started from the room. As she approached the sitting room door, a knock sounded from the hall, followed by Brandt Donovan's cultured drawl.
A colorful oath passed her lips. The man was becoming an albatross. She could practically feel a length of thick hemp tightening about her neck.
Mumbling something unintelligible, she raced for the bedroom, tearing off the man's clothing in exchange for her trusty red robe. She pulled the edges close around her neck and returned to answer the door.
"What do you want?” she charged immediately, fixing him with a scathing glare. His polite gentleman's smile made her queasy.
He bowed slightly at the waist. “I came to escort you to dinner."
"You came all the way here to take me to dinner?” she asked.
"'All the way here’ isn't very far at all.” He cocked his head in the direction of the door opposite hers. “I have the room across the hall."
Her face screwed up as though she'd been sucking on a lemon. It took all of her short temper to keep from kicking him in the shin. “I'm having my supper brought up,” she lied easily.
"Nonsense. There's no reason for both of us to eat alone when we can have a pleasant meal in the dining room."
Pleasant was not the first word that came to mind when she thought of sitting through dinner with him. She cleared her throat. “I'm not feeling very well."
"It's no wonder, staying cooped up in this room all day. You need a hearty meal and a bit of fresh air. Perhaps after dinner we could take a walk through the park. I hear it's lovely this time of year."
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You're not going to leave me alone, are you?” When she looked up, green eyes sparkled down at her.
"No,” he answered.
/> "You're going to stand here until I agree to go to dinner with you."
A smile was his only answer.
"I'm not even dressed,” she tried one last, desperate time.
"I'll wait."
"Of course you will,” she muttered to herself. “Stay here,” she grumbled, and shut the door in his face.
She returned several minutes later, far from happy but resigned. The sooner she tamped down any curiosity Brandt might be harboring, the sooner she could get on with her investigation.
She ran a hand over the front of her bodice, assuring herself that she hadn't missed a button in her rush to dress. “Let's go,” she said and walked past him, the lack of enthusiasm in her voice matched only by the sour expression on her face.
Brandt stared after her for a moment, watching the gentle sway of her hips as she moved down the hall, lavender blue skirts trailing behind. He didn't know why he should be attracted to a woman with such a surly disposition, but he couldn't help the arousal that leapt in his veins when he looked at her. Of course, with the way Willow walked . . . and talked . . . and breathed, any man would be hard-pressed not to feel a little something stir to life below the belt.
In a few long strides, he caught up, taking her arm despite an initial struggle. Neither of them spoke until they reached the hotel dining room and were seated.
He studied Willow across the table, taking in her upswept auburn hair, adorned with a small bouquet of violet fabric blossoms. The deep purple of the flowers blended attractively with the lighter periwinkle of her gown.
"You look lovely,” he said.
Suspicious eyes peered over the top of the tall menu. She didn't respond.
"That color brings out the violet of your eyes."
Willow closed her menu with a nourish. She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut as the waiter approached.
Good timing, Brandt thought, positive Willow had intended a scornful reproach for his attempt at politeness.
Her brittle composure and angry demeanor never seemed to falter. From the moment they'd met in Robert Pinkerton's office, she had remained boldly confident and outwardly hostile, visibly seething over his interference in an investigation she deemed hers, and hers alone.
They would butt heads at every turn, he was sure. Willow would do everything in her power to keep him from discovering Charles Barker's murderer. He would do everything in his power to show her that he was in this to the end—even if it meant becoming her shadow.
Wouldn't that just rattle the hell out of her? Brandt smiled to himself as Willow ordered the coquilles St. Jacques Mornay. He requested the same, and a bottle of wine.
Willow downed her first glass of chilled chardonnay in one long swallow. He refilled her glass before commenting.
"You don't like me very much, do you?” he asked.
"Not very, no,” she answered bluntly.
He chuckled, amused by her assertiveness. “Why not?"
She took a sip of wine, then licked the rosy liquid from her lips. The action burned a path straight from his eyeballs to the center of his groin. He shifted a bit to the left and awaited her answer.
"There are so many reasons not to like you, it would take me all night to list them."
"Try. If you're going to hate me, I at least deserve to know why.” Perhaps what was sure to be her ice-cold honesty would douse the ardor that made it hard to find a comfortable position.
Willow set her glass aside, brows knit in concentration. “Let's see,” she said. “You are obnoxious."
He threw a hand over his heart and fell back against the chair, giving her his best wounded look. “You cut me to the quick, madam.” Volley number one had no affect whatsoever on his arousal.
A feminine brow winged upward at his theatrics. “I guess I can add melodramatic to the list,” she quipped. “You are obnoxious."
"You said that already."
"It bears repeating,” she replied dryly. “You are arrogant, self-centered, and self-serving."
Volley number two had the blood in his loins thinning a fraction and moving out in other directions. “I'm not sure how you can come to such a conclusion after our few short meetings, but I think those can be thrown together into one category,” Brandt offered.
"I'm a very good judge of character,” she answered primly. “And, no, they cannot be thrown together, because you are each one of those things individually. You are also a bigot."
That was the one. Volley number three did it. His desire cooled completely, possibly lost forever, given the sudden fall of his . . . er . . . pride.
The waiter came then with their meal. As soon as he left, Brandt leaned forward and fixed her with what he hoped was a cross look. “How do you figure that?"
"You don't believe women can be good investigators,” Willow told him as she popped a tender scallop smothered in lemon butter into her mouth.
"They can't,” he replied honestly. Just because a woman had the ability to incite a man's lust didn't mean she could hold her own against the criminal mind.
"There!” she cried, her fork clanging against the side of her dish. “You are a bigot."
"It is not bigoted to believe that women can't do the job of a man. It's the truth."
Her mouth fell open in indignation; her eyes bulged. “That is the most outrageous thing I have ever heard. I will have you know that I have solved in weeks cases that would take a man months to figure out."
He scoffed. “Impossible. The only way that you or any other woman could solve a crime before a man is if you used your feminine wiles to wheedle information out of some unsuspecting fool."
If possible, her mouth fell open even farther than before. Her eyes all but sprang from their sockets. “That is the crudest thing I have ever heard. I definitely have to add crude to my list. And boorish. You are crude, rude, and boorish. I'm surprised you manage to walk upright. Most apes drag around on their knuckles, scratching at themselves. Although in the privacy of your room I'm sure that's something in which you take great pleasure."
Brandt allowed himself a small smile. The blood was flowing back to his nether regions, heated by the surprising invigoration of battling with Willow Hastings and watching her skin flush, her breasts rise and fall in angry breaths while she argued with him. Who could have known squabbling with a woman could be so sexually stimulating?
"Touché,” he said. “Are there any other reasons for your dislike of me, or is that it?” He took a bite of Duchess potato, unperturbed because he was beginning to enjoy this. Immensely.
"Oh, Mr. Donovan,” Willow crooned, “I have not even begun to convey my dislike."
By the time they finished their meal, Brandt's ears were nearly on fire. He imagined that Willow had a dictionary under the table and was reading off every negative trait from A to Z He didn't offer to refill her wine, but emptied the last of the bottle into his own glass and tossed it down in one giant gulp.
When she fell silent, he stared at her with wide, somewhat cloudy, disbelieving eyes. “You're through?” he asked, astonished. “Are you sure you wouldn't like to add one more obnoxious just for good measure?"
She tossed him a sugary-sweet smile. “I don't suppose it would hurt,” she said. “You are also obnoxious."
"Thank you. I was almost beginning to feel above a garden slug."
Willow sighed. “It's a shame you had to say that."
"Why? Wasn't it obnoxious enough for you?"
"Oh, it was plenty obnoxious,” she said. “It's just that—to spare your feelings, of course—I overlooked sarcastic. But after both of those rather snide remarks, I think it's only fair that I add it."
"Very well. Are you finished?” he asked.
"That's all I can think of for now."
Brandt rolled his eyes. “I meant, are you finished eating?"
"Oh.” She dabbed the corners of her mouth with the white fabric napkin. “Yes, I believe so. It was delicious."
He grunted. His meal had been far from enjoyable
. Oh, the food tasted fine and at first he'd been more amused than offended by Willow's remarks. But even the most tender of broiled scallops tended to upset his stomach when he was forced to listen to a long, detailed list of his faults.
Taking her arm, he led her from the table and back upstairs to her room. At the door he bowed over her hand and pressed his lips to the warm skin.
"Though the conversation rankled,” he said softly, “the company remained utterly magnificent.” Then he turned for his room across the hall.
"You know,” Willow said, stopping him, “if I had a list of reasons to like you—which I don't, of course, because there simply isn't cause—but if I did have such a list. . .” Her voice grew quiet. “I would have to put polite at the very top."
What had caused this sudden about-face? Brandt wondered. Was she feeling guilty for having run him through the wringer?
He took in her stately figure as she stood unmoving in front of her hotel room door. The lavender blue material of her gown hugged every nuance of her body, every straight line and gentle curve. Her bright eyes shimmered in the dusky lamplight of the hall, deep, dark violet orbs dancing with vivacity.
With erotic images of a night spent in Willow's bed firmly ensconced in his brain, Brandt stalked forward, closing in until her back hit the solid width of the door with a cushioned thump.
"Polite, hm?” He grinned wickedly. Not one to pass up an opportunity when it presented itself, his hands settled on her waist. “What else would you add to that list?"
Willow held his gaze, her expression giving no hint of the thoughts inside her head. “I would have to say that you can be very charming when you want to be. Of course I can see through the act."
"What act?” He pressed closer, until he could feel the smooth expanse of her skin through the material of her gown, no stiff corset bones crimping and binding her perfect flesh.
"Your charm is all an act,” she stated. “You bow gracefully, smile beguilingly, playing the role of gentleman to the hilt. You use your charm to manipulate people—to get your way. And once you have people completely won over, once you've seduced a woman into a swoon, you go in for the kill."
