Almost a Lady

by Heidi Betts

  But what if he told Robert?

  Robert would have no problem with her trying to apprehend a criminal in such a manner, but if Brandt also related the circumstances of her residence in Jefferson City, Robert would have her guarding the mayor's poodle before the day was out.

  And the only way to keep Brandt from letting the cat out of the bag was to come clean, level with him, be . . . honest.

  The thought made her shiver.

  How long had it been since she'd practiced honesty? She couldn't quite remember. Lying had become second nature to her, a reflex. She lied to get out of sticky situations; she lied to get into them. She lied to keep her profession a secret, and she lied to cover up her family background.

  She wasn't sure she could tell the truth if she tried.

  But now was as good a time as any to find out.

  She shrugged out of her heavy black coat and tossed it on the bed, covering the file she'd stolen from Robert's office. Spine stiff, shoulders braced, she held her head high and marched back into the sitting room.

  Brandt lounged in the corner of the settee, eyes sparkling in merriment. “I didn't expect to see you again until morning,” he said.

  She had half a notion to ask why he was still here, in her room, then. Instead of gracing his arrogant presence with a reply, she remained silent. From her waistband, she pulled the pearl-handled Smith & Wesson American revolver, setting it on the low table in front of him. Next came the stiletto knife from inside her boot and the tiny derringer stuffed at the small of her back. The line of weaponry glowed in the lamplight, each positioned pointedly at Brandt's belly.

  "I assume that answers your question,” Willow said matter-of-factly.

  He stared at the miniature munitions collection set before him. Each piece had ivory handles with the carving of a man and woman in seventeenth-century dress beneath a weeping willow tree.

  He reached for the pistol, palming it, testing its weight. His eyes never left the ornate carving.

  "I take it this is symbolic,” he remarked.

  "My name is Willow,” she answered blandly.

  "Was it your idea to have all of your weapons customized this way?"

  "They were a gift."

  That brought his head up. His green eyes drilled into her own. “From whom?"

  "Is that a professional question, or a personal one?"

  "I'd like to know who knows you well enough to present you with a veritable armory—all bearing the same scene, indicative of your name. Let me guess: Your parents were so proud of their little girl's decision to work for Pinkerton that they had them special made for you."

  Her teeth clamped shut. “My parents were already dead when I joined the Agency."

  A hint of remorse touched his eyes. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to dredge up painful memories."

  She shrugged indifferently, then took a deep breath and tried to relax, reminding herself that Brandt's opinion didn't matter. She was not here seeking his approval. Her stance, however, remained defensive.

  "If not your parents, then who?” he asked, going back to his original question.

  "Robert,” she answered, preparing herself for the onslaught of his contempt.

  Instead of lashing out, he simply queried. “Robert Pinkerton?"

  She nodded.

  Brandt replaced the revolver and picked up the knife. The silver blade attracted a ray of light and bounced it off the far wall. “I didn't realize the Agency gave such expensive gifts to their new operatives.” His eyes rose to meet hers. “Or was this a gift of a more personal nature?"

  "Robert and I are friends,” she answered defensively.

  "Friends?” he asked. “Or lovers?"

  Willow grabbed the knife out of his hand, tucking it back into her boot. In quick, agitated movements, she replaced the rest of the weapons on her person. “Your curiosity goes beyond business, Mr. Donovan. Robert and I are friends, and I resent your implication that there's more to it than that. Now, if you'll excuse me,” she said, walking away, “I would like to get a few hours of sleep before I have to see your despicable face again."

  "Willow,” Brandt called after her. “Willow. . .” He caught up to her just as she crossed the threshold into her bedroom. His fingers curled around her arm, anchoring her in place. She remained facing in the other direction, holding herself rigid, still as a statue.

  "I'm sorry,” he whispered into the hair above her ear. “I didn't mean to suggest that anything inappropriate is going on between you and your supervisor."

  She pulled away from him.

  Brandt moved to the foot of the bed, pushed her earlier discarded coat out of the way—without uncovering the photos from Robert's office, thankfully—and sat down. “Now, how about enlightening me as to your presence in that alley the night we first met."

  Willow turned, taking in his curious expression and relaxed pose. He sat on the edge of her bed, his back propped against a post, one boot heel digging mercilessly into the soft white of the bedspread.

  How was it that this man seemed at home in any environment? She remembered his stance as he stood inside her room at the Silver Spur. The first time she'd found him helping himself to a glass of brandy in her hotel room. And now this. The man looked positively ridiculous perched there at the foot of the huge canopy bed, surrounded by ruffles of angelic white.

  A devil on an angel's cloud popped into her head, quickly followed by the thought that she was definitely not an angel.

  "Do you make a habit of barging into ladies’ rooms?” she asked, her tone scornful.

  In true devil's form, a wicked grin spread across his face. “Only when I'm invited."

  "I didn't invite you,” she pointed out.

  "No,” Brandt replied smoothly, “but, then, I wouldn't necessarily categorize you as a lady."

  Her brows lifted for a moment, until she realized that he was probably right. At least she had never been much of a lady in his presence. She had held a knife to his groin, been found living in a brothel, purposely undressed in front of him, and any number of other very unladylike things.

  Still, he wasn't much of a gentleman to say so.

  "Besides,” he continued, “I intend to discover just why you felt it necessary to nearly emasculate me."

  "I didn't nearly emasculate you,” Willow defended.

  "You did!” he barked. “You broke the skin with that blasted knife of yours!"

  Her eyes widened. She didn't recall pressing that hard against his manhood.

  "Right here,” he said, spreading his legs. He pointed to the very spot she'd supposedly injured, high up—very high up—on the inside of his left thigh.

  His trousers covered the abrasion, but his outraged demeanor told her that she must have truly drawn blood. Pride swelled in her chest and she had to pull a straight face to hide her amusement. It wasn't often that she held a blade to a man's groin, but she now knew that when she did, she could do considerable damage.

  She felt that she should make some sort of reparation. The best she could manage was a nearly solemn, “I'm sorry."

  Brandt snorted.

  "I was on a case,” Willow explained. “I'd been following that man for quite a while. So when you interfered, I was not only afraid you'd figure out that I was a woman but furious that you let him get away."

  His soulful emerald eyes burned into her. “You weren't the least bit worried that I'd turn you over to the law, were you?"

  She smiled, feeling more at ease with this man. She kicked off her boots and perched at the head of the bed. “No."

  "Why not?"

  "Because all I had to do was show them my Pinkerton badge."

  "That wouldn't have blown your cover?"

  She shrugged a shoulder. “Probably, but the man from the alley was already long gone. My case was blown."

  "All because of me?"

  "All because of you,” she answered bluntly.

  His brow creased as he concentrated. “Robert was awfu
lly nice to me, being the guy who'd botched your case."

  Willow averted her gaze, rubbing an imaginary itch beneath the rough fabric of her trousers.

  "You didn't tell him, did you?"

  She turned back to find Brandt staring at her intently. “No, all right? No, I didn't tell Robert that you interfered and made me lose Sammy the Snake."

  "Why not?"

  "Because the only thing Robert hates more than hearing about a fouled-up case is hearing a load of excuses for fouling up in the first place."

  "But it wouldn't have been an excuse,” he pressed. “It's the truth."

  She waved a hand in the air. “It doesn't matter. I shouldn't have let you get the drop on me. It was my own fault that Sammy got away."

  "Willow,” Brandt said with a chuckle, “I'm twice your size. How, exactly, were you supposed to keep me from getting the drop on you?"

  "For being only half your size, I'd say I did a pretty good job of defending myself. Or weren't you afraid of becoming a eunuch?"

  He winced. “All right, so you had me a little concerned,” he admitted. “Who taught you that, anyway?"

  "Robert."

  "Robert,” he repeated. “Of course. You two really must be good friends,” he acquiesced, but she thought she detected a note of rancor in his voice. “A man wouldn't show just any woman that move. He'd be too afraid of having her turn it on him."

  "I would never hurt Robert,” Willow vowed. “I like him."

  "And you don't like me very much, do you, Willow?” he asked quietly.

  She flushed. It was one thing to possess uncharitable feelings, another matter entirely to be called on them. “It's not that I don't like you,” she explained. “It's just that I don't particularly like you being around."

  Brandt frowned. “What's the difference?"

  "Well, I imagine that if we had met under different circumstances, we might have gotten along very well."

  "You might have fallen into my arms rather than kicking me in the shin, you mean?"

  She sniffed, raising her chin a notch. “I wouldn't go that far."

  "So why don't you like me being around?” he asked.

  "Because you're compromising my investigation,” she answered honestly.

  "Charles Barker might have been one of your operatives, but he was killed on one of our trains,” he reminded her.

  Willow shifted on the bed, sitting up a bit straighter against the headboard. “Charlie was my friend. That makes this case personal."

  "Then maybe you shouldn't be working on it at all,” Brandt ventured.

  She shot him a furious glare.

  "If you're planning to make this into some sort of personal quest for revenge, then you're more likely to mess up. You may end up just like Charlie Barker, bleeding to death on the floor of a passenger car with a hundred strangers standing around, staring."

  Willow leapt off the bed to pace, shaking an angry hand in Brandt's direction. “Just because I knew Charlie does not mean I'm going to make mistakes. If anything, I'll be more careful and more aware. You're the one who's going to foul things up for me."

  "Why do you say that?” he asked, not the least offended by her accusation.

  "Because this is just another case to you, a problem you need to deal with before you can go back to Boston. You're likely to overlook significant facts, important points that could pull this case together."

  He stiffened at the insult, but all he said was, “Then it's a good thing we're partners."

  His quiet statement stalled her pacing. She looked at him for some explanation. Hands on hips, she asked, “What does that have to do with anything?"

  "You're worried that I'm going to overlook something because I'm not close enough to this case. I'm concerned that you're too close. Since we're partners, we'll be able to keep each other in check."

  She didn't want to keep him in check, she wanted to throw him out the nearest window.

  "I guess this means you're not reconsidering,” she said.

  "Reconsidering what?"

  "Going back to Boston."

  The corners of his mouth lifted. “Not until we wrap this up. And we're never going to do that if you don't tell me where you were this evening."

  She sighed wearily. This was one discussion she really didn't want to get into—not this late at night. “Do you think we could talk about it in the morning? I'm awfully tired, Brandt.” She felt as though she had been awake for seventy-two hours. All she wanted to do was peel out of her pants and sink into the soft cushion of the bed.

  "How do I know you'll still be here in the morning?"

  "Because I don't intend to go any farther than that mattress."

  "Why don't you give me whatever you found tonight and let me go through it? You can get some sleep and we'll discuss things in the morning."

  Willow bristled at that suggestion. She had broken into the Pinkerton building, denied her best friend's office, and stolen files kept under lock and key. She'd be damned if she would let someone else get the first real look at that information.

  "No."

  His eyes narrowed. His arms went across his broad chest in an irritated fashion. “Don't tell me you intend to keep it from me. I thought we fought this battle already."

  "We did. And I am resigned to the fact that I have to put up with your miserable hide until we solve Charlie's murder. But I'll be damned if I'm going to let you study that stolen file without me."

  His muscular frame lurched up from the bed. "Stolen? You didn't tell me you stole it. From where?"

  She swallowed, cursing herself for a slip of the tongue. “Really, Brandt,” she said, licking her lips nervously. “One would think you'd never investigated a murder before."

  "I've never stolen information before. Where did you get it?"

  Sighing, she averted her eyes before answering in a low voice. “The office."

  "What office?” he pressed.

  "The Executive Office!” she snapped sarcastically. Then, honestly, “The Pinkerton office, where do you think?"

  A frown appeared, making the skin around his eyes pucker. “Wait a minute. You broke into your own office? Why, for God's sake? You work there."

  "Yes, but I felt there was something about Charlie's murder that Robert wasn't telling me."

  "So you broke into his office."

  "Yes."

  "And stole the information he wouldn't give you freely."

  "Yes."

  "Do you know that's a crime?"

  She clamped her jaw shut. “Yes."

  "You could go to jail."

  Her teeth ground together. “Yes."

  Brandt paused, taking in her tall form, me straggling knot of hair pinned atop her head, the loose black shirt and trousers encasing her body. The thought of her getting caught, being sent to jail, soured his stomach.

  And yet she had broken the law. For a case. For a friend.

  He just hoped the authorities didn't come looking for her. Because, God knew—the way his body tightened at the very thought of touching her—that if the police came knocking at the door, he'd confess to the whole blasted thing and let them drag him away instead.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Willow covered her mouth as a huge yawn escaped.

  Brandt insisted he be allowed to go through the file she'd filched, and since she didn't want him looking at it by himself, she had no choice but to stay awake. She'd exchanged the pants and shirt for her shift and robe and now sat on the floor in front of the settee, photographs and papers cluttering the table.

  Brandt sat beside her, sifting through the pages of files she'd copied. For some reason she didn't understand, he found it easier to concentrate while keeping up a normal, totally unrelated conversation. More than once while studying the photographs of the dead girl, he'd hit her with obscure questions like, “What's your favorite color?” and “What do you think you'll want for breakfast?"

  Without looking up from her scribbled notes, he said, “Why did you
tell Robert we met in St Louis?"

  Vaguely, through the foggy web of drowsiness, she heard him.

  He nudged her in the ribs with his elbow. Her head fell off the pillow of her hand and her eyes popped open. “What?” she asked, startled. And then she remembered where she was, and who was with her.

  She ran a hand over her face, stifling another yawn. “What did you say?"

  "I asked why you told Robert we met in St. Louis."

  Willow's mouth turned down. “When?"

  "At his office. When he asked where we'd met before, you made a big production of covering up my answer. I was wondering why."

  "Oh. Well, I'd already told him about losing Sammy, and your name hadn't come up. I didn't see any reason to alter my story."

  His eyes darted to her for a fraction of a second before returning to their perusal of the papers in his hand. “Just because we happened to meet in Jefferson City doesn't necessarily mean I had anything to do with your failed assignment."

  She groaned and buried her head in her hands. Logic. At five o'clock in the morning. It was almost too much to bear. Her mind had shut down hours ago. She couldn't even come up with a decent reason not to answer him.

  "Do you remember where you found me in Jefferson City?” she asked.

  "Yeah. In a dark alley, holding some guy at gunpoint."

  "No,” she said wearily. “I mean, after that. Before you knew who I was and you were simply looking for Willow Hastings. Where did you find me?"

  A wide, wicked smile spread across his face. Straight white teeth gleamed in the brightness of several burning oil lamps set throughout the room. “I seem to recall a rather seedy place by the name of the Silver Spur. A small, shadowy room, and a gorgeous brunette with legs that went all the way to Paradise."

  "Yes, yes,” she said, waving off his colorful description. “I'm sure Stella showed you the time of your life, but do you remember finding me?"

  Brandt leaned close, until his breath caressed the side of her face and ear. “I was talking about you,” he whispered. “And your legs."

  She looked at him, wide awake now. Then a modest grin curved her lips. “I didn't think you'd noticed,” she said.

  He snorted, leaning back against the sofa. “A man would have to be dead not to notice,” he scoffed. “And even then, I think he'd put a hold on Heaven just to get one last look."