Almost a Lady

by Heidi Betts

  The air left Brandt's lungs in a whoosh as she watched his eyes all but cross. “I changed my mind.” His voice came out low and harsh with desire. “Let's move. Let's definitely move,” he said, giving his hips a deliberate roll. “But I still never want to get out of this bed."

  Willow laughed. “I thought you'd see it my way."

  His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her bottom and he reversed their positions with a growl, coming to rest beneath her on the mattress while she sat above him. They remained connected, her thighs straddling his hips. Her breasts swayed as she shifted her weight, found the proper position. And then she placed her palms flat on his chest and slid an inch upward along his rigid length.

  His hold moved to her waist, aiding her movements. And then he began to stroke a path to the undersides of her breasts, running his thumbs along the curve there and back down. As their pace increased, his hips rose farther off the bed. His grip tightened and her fingers curled almost clawlike into his chest.

  She threw her head back and fastened her teeth on her bottom lip as the sensations inside her built to a fever pitch. Her stomach constricted and the muscles surrounding Brandt's shaft began to clench and release.

  "That's it. sweetheart. Let it come.” He clasped his hand around the nape of her neck and pulled her down to his mouth, swallowing her cry of release as her body shuddered above him.

  The climax washed through her and into him. He flipped her back to the mattress, drawing her legs higher about his waist and thrusting into her once, twice, three times more before his own release overcame him.

  Brandt rested his forehead against Willow's collarbone, concentrating on the almost impossible act of simply breathing in and out. He didn't want to crush her with his weight but couldn't seem to muster the energy to move.

  Her fingers fanned through the hair at his temples and he smiled. He couldn't remember ever being so content. Willow had changed his life. Not always for the better, he admitted as he recalled her right hook to his face and the stiletto she'd held to his groin. But now . . . now he wasn't sure he could imagine his future without her in it. And frankly, he didn't want to.

  Rather than putting the fear of God into him, as it had in the past, the thought of being with this woman for the rest of his life comforted him. That alone convinced him that he'd made an apt decision.

  Rolling to his side, he brought her with him so that her body cushioned against his. He left her arm draped across his abdomen and lifted one of her legs to cover his thigh. “We'll have to do that again soon."

  She laughed softly, sounding tired and, he hoped, satisfied. “I'll be ready when you are,” she returned cheekily.

  "Good. And how soon do you think you'll be ready to marry me?"

  Willow sat bolt upright, staring at Brandt as though he'd grown a second head. “Excuse me?"

  Surely she'd heard him incorrectly. Surely he hadn't just asked her to marry him. Surely he hadn't taken what they'd done as a sign of her eagerness to launch herself into the state of matrimonial bliss.

  He wasn't that type of man, dammit. She'd come to that conclusion even before she'd let him make love to her the second time. Dammit, dammit, dammit!

  He took her hand and brought the knuckles to his lips for a kiss; then he pressed the palm to his chest and gave her an earnest look. “I want you to be my wife. Marry me, Willow."

  She wrenched her arm back to her side and then grabbed a handful of coverlet to wrap around her nude body. “Are you insane?” She leapt out of bed and charged to the front of the armoire, where her robe lay in a wrinkled ball. “Why?” she cried. “Why would you ask me to marry you? Why would you ruin a perfectly lovely, simple interlude with a stupid question like that? Why would you think I'd make a good wife?” She speared him with an icy glare. “I wouldn't. I'd be terrible at it."

  Brandt was out of bed by this time, too, shrugging back into his discarded drawers and knotting the string at his waist with a furious yank. “I disagree. I think you'd make a wonderful wife. For me, at any rate. And it helps that I already think I'm in love with you."

  "What?” She whirled away from him, only to whirl right back. “Why are you doing this?” she asked, a note of panic tinging her voice.

  He scowled at her, his arms crossed mutinously across his chest. “I told you, I'm in love with you. Why the hell are you reacting this way? Surely I'm not the first man to propose marriage to you."

  "The first sober one. You are sober, aren't you?” Taking a step forward, she took a sniff to smell his breath. And then she mumbled, “I'd rather you were drunk."

  "What is it about marriage that scares you so much?” he asked pointedly, his scowl melting into a more curious look.

  "I'm not afraid of marriage,” she answered, even as she rubbed the chill from her arms. “What a silly notion. Just because I'm not a great admirer of the sanctity of vows doesn't mean I'm afraid, for heaven's sake."

  She set to pacing back and forth across the oriental carpet. “What I want to know is what brought on this sudden sense of honor. We were having a fine time. Weren't we having a fine time? And you had to go muddle it all with talk of love and marriage. Bah!” She waved a negating hand in front of her.

  "You've already said you're not a great admirer of marriage. Do you take issue with the idea of love as well?"

  "Not for other people,” she answered carefully. “But it's not for me.” Her eyes narrowed as she faced him. “And certainly not for you."

  He raised a brow, taken aback by her claim. “Are you taking it upon yourself to decide my feelings now? Tell me, do I prefer rice pudding or fig?"

  She ignored the derisive question. “You aren't any more interested in marriage than I am. Or at least you weren't before tonight."

  "You're right; marriage wasn't something I wanted to consider even in my worst nightmares. Until I met you."

  With a sound of frustration, she let her head fall back. This was getting worse by the minute. And he sounded so bloody sincere.

  Brandt moved toward her, wrapping his hands around her upper arms and forcing her to meet his eyes. “I like being with you, Willow. I love making love to you. And despite some minor obstacles early on, I think we work well together. We make good investigative partners; I can't help but imagine we'd make good partners in a marriage as well."

  She held up a hand and shrugged out of his grasp. “Stop, just stop. I appreciate the offer, I really do. And I won't say that I don't have feelings for you, because you'd know it was a lie. I wouldn't have gone to bed with you if I didn't. But I can't marry you. I don't want to marry you, or anyone. Please understand that."

  It was his turn to look belligerent. His arms went back across his broad chest and he glared at her. “I don't understand. It's not every day that I ask a woman to marry me and it damn well irritates me when she says no. Especially when I see no clear reason for her refusal."

  His tone irked her once again. Just when she'd begun to weaken toward him, too. “I've told you my reasons. And I don't owe you any more of an explanation than I simply don't want to marry."

  "Fine.” He turned and grabbed a pillow and the top coverlet from the bed. “I suppose this means I'm dispatched to the sitting room."

  "I didn't say that,” she said softly.

  He gazed at her, eyes narrowed, the rumpled bedding clutched beneath his arm. “You won't marry me, but you're not sending me away either. Just what game are you playing here?"

  "I'm not playing any game. That's what I'm trying to tell you. One of the reasons I let myself become involved with you in the first place is that I thought we could be together without either of us getting caught up in any misguided sentiments about love and marriage, which is certainly not what I want."

  One dark brow winged up with interest. “Are you telling me that after all of this"—he threw out an arm to encompass the room and, she assumed, their rather vehement argument—"I'm still welcome in your bed?"

  She grinned at him. He looked so adora
ble when he was befuddled. “Yes, I suppose it does. As long as you cease any talk of marriage."

  He frowned. “I'm not sure I like this any better than your refusal to marry me. Do you mean to say that you have no qualms about continuing to make love without a hint of commitment in our future?"

  "That's exactly what I'm saying,” she answered, hoping he was finally coming round to her way of thinking. “And what's wrong with that? I would think you'd appreciate the freedom of such an arrangement. Most men would love it."

  "Well, I don't,” he bit out. The blankets fell to the floor as he stood there stiff, hands on hips, as he glowered at her. “I damn well dislike the idea. It would make our relationship feel . . . common . . . base . . . cheap. It's one thing to carry on with a mistress, knowing the arrangement is nothing more than a series of encounters based solely on physical pleasures. It's quite another to continue a sexual association with a woman you wish to marry."

  "Stop saying that,” she ordered. “You're making this entirely too complicated. There's nothing wrong with simply enjoying one another's company while we're working together on Charlie's case."

  "And what of children?” he demanded. “Have you thought about that? You can't expect to lie with a man for long without finding yourself in a family way."

  "Really, Brandt,” she replied lightly, almost amused. “I would expect you to be a bit more well read on such matters. I'm a grown woman; I know how to protect myself. Besides, you can't spend long at the Silver Spur without learning a thing or two about preventing pregnancy. That's something you needn't be concerned about."

  He remained silent, and she feared she'd lost the battle. That he would storm out and she would lose not only the touch of his warm body against hers, but a person she was becoming quite fond of—as a friend, as a lover, as a man.

  "I won't stop you if you choose to leave,” she told him softly. “In fact, I'll understand completely. But I'd rather you decide to stay. The only thing I ask is that you not bring up the topic of marriage again. That subject is definitely closed."

  She watched him thinking, his face a careful blank while he weighed his options.

  "So you think this is a situation any man would be delighted to find himself in,” he commented.

  "By all accounts, and given what I know about the male of the species, I would have to say yes."

  He took a step forward, and then another. A strange light entered his eyes as he cupped her face in the palms of his hands. “Then I suppose I do my gender proud. I won't plague you further with talk of marriage,” he agreed, “but I won't promise not to try luring you over to my way of thinking.” A small smile lifted his mouth. “You can't fault a man for attempting to charm a beautiful woman, can you?"

  Anticipation shivered through her. “I could,” she said softly, already succumbing to his smooth seduction, “but I won't."

  "Good. Because I have a plan."

  "A plan?” she repeated, distracted by the touch of his lips on her cheek and the corner of her mouth.

  "Mmm-hmm. To woo you.” His kisses moved to the other side of her face, tormenting the lobe of her ear and the long line of her mandible.

  "How do you . . . intend . . . to do that?” she asked breathlessly.

  "I thought that I would start here. . .” He placed a kiss in the hollow of her neck. “And move down.” He dragged his lips to the opening of her silk robe and the swell of one breast.

  "Oh, yes,” she moaned, her fingers clutching at his hair. “That could work."

  He gave a low chuckle and backed her up to the bed. And then he proceeded to show her the rest of his plan.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The next few days were spent tracking down and following Virgil Chatham, the evenings at assorted events set up by James and Mary Xavier, and the wee hours of the night . . . those were spent at the most pleasant of activities while Willow and Brandt did their best to convince the world they were newlyweds—in and out of the bedchamber. And, as promised, Brandt didn't bring up the topic of marriage to her again.

  They sat now in Robert's office, giving what had turned into a weekly report of their progress, which at the moment was practically nonexistent.

  "I don't know what else to do. We've spent every moment we can watching him. He barely leaves his house unless it's to attend religious services.” After spying on him for a full week, Willow had told both Brandt and Robert that her instincts pointed more strongly than ever toward Chatham. The man went to church nearly every day, and she didn't think it was a coincidence that his town house was located only a few blocks from the wharves where all of the bodies had been discovered. “We've even followed his valet,” she added.

  "A frightening fellow,” Brandt put in. “Seven feet if he's an inch, shaves his head down to the skull, and has never spoken a word in public as far as I can tell."

  "What do you suggest we do next?” Robert asked, and Willow could feel his impatience. They all wanted to catch the murderer, and none of them were very good at waiting.

  She hadn't discussed this option with Brandt, but she cast him only a darting glance before announcing her newest plan. “We're obviously getting nowhere by following Chatham, and just in case we're wrong about him, I think the best next step would be to bait the killer."

  "How?” Robert asked.

  Brandt scowled.

  She took a deep breath, preparing herself for the opposition she was about to face, and rushed on. “I'll dress as a prostitute and walk the docks."

  "No! Absolutely not” Brandt was out of his chair in a shot, towering over her and firing a glare so hot, it nearly singed her eyelashes.

  "I think it's our best option,” she stated calmly. “If the murderer is going to continue killing young women, he's going to eventually come to the dock to choose a new victim."

  "No."

  "Brandt's right,” Robert said from behind his desk. “It's too dangerous. We don't have the resources to keep men at the docks round the clock, but if you want the docks watched a little more closely, I can assign a few additional agents to the area."

  "You're not going to get anywhere that way,” Willow persisted. “The most the agents will see is a man—or men—paying women for their services. If they move to another location, or the woman gets in a carriage as we suspect, the agents will have to follow them. And what if Chatham isn't our man? The agents will either follow him and risk missing the real killer, or they'll follow each man who appears and risk missing Chatham.” She met Robert's eyes. “I doubt you have enough men to cover the docks and chase down individual customers."

  Robert didn't respond, but his lips pinched in displeasure.

  Brandt wasn't so cooperative. “And what do you suggest we do? Allow you to parade the wharf and get picked up by God knows who? Possibly dragged off somewhere to be raped and murdered? Or are you willing to cooperate with the men if it means eliminating suspects?"

  "Of course not.” She shot him a chilling gaze, even though she suspected his animosity stemmed more from worry than anything else. “Don't be vulgar. The most I'll have to do is get in a carriage with some of these fellows. And if you're willing to have agents there, as you said, they won't have to follow everyone, they'll only have to follow me. Besides, it may not go that far,” she added when she still met with opposition. “We may happen upon something quite helpful with me doing no more than walking around for an hour or two."

  "I don't like it,” Brandt put in doggedly. “I won't have it."

  She sat back in astonishment. She turned to Robert for support, but he seemed content to let her fight this battle on her own. “You won't have it?” she repeated. “You won't have it?” She rose to her feet and stood nose to nose with the man who had shared her bed these past several nights. Apparently, that had given him some erroneous views about how much say he had over her life. “I'm sorry to have to point this out to you, but you are not my father. Nor are you my brother or husband. You have no say over what I can or cannot do. I'll d
o what I feel is best for the investigation, with or without your consent."

  When a muscle low in his cheek jumped from the pressure he was applying to his jawbone, she expected him to argue further. Instead, he spat out a gritted, “Fine. But I'm going with you."

  "Fine,” she agreed. That had been easier than anticipated. “I already told you that I think it's a good idea for agents to be around. And having attended so many parties the past few weeks, you would be the one most qualified to identify Virgil Chatham, or any other Society gentlemen who find their way down to the docks."

  "Oh, no.” A cruel grin spread across Brandt's lips. “I'm not going to hide in the shadows while you're putting yourself in danger. I'm going to be right there beside you."

  "You can't,” she said simply, falling back into her chair in frustration. “No one will come anywhere near me if they think I'm already entertaining a customer. And if Chatham or anyone else recognizes you, it would destroy our entire case."

  "Where you go, I go,” he asserted stubbornly.

  "Might I remind the both of you,” Robert spoke from behind his desk, “that I haven't approved this idea yet. It may be too perilous for either of you."

  "I can handle this, Robert.” Willow had to cock her head to see around Brandt's rigid, unyielding figure, hands jammed angrily on his hips. “I've been in tighter situations than this, and your men will be there in case I run into trouble. I'm not worried."

  A frown turned down Robert's mouth. “I am, but I'm going to give you permission anyway.” Brandt turned on him, apparently redirecting the aim of the daggers he'd been shooting at her these past five minutes. “You'll go with her,” Robert addressed him calmly. “You'll stay as close to her as possible, provided you two can come up with some way for you to remain nearby without either being recognized or jeopardizing the operation."

  He shifted his gaze from Brandt's hard countenance to Willow's much softer, approving expression. “Anything else?” he asked, even though the tone warned them not to get into another argument in front of him. Neither of them said a word. “Good. Let me know what your plans are and how many agents you'll need. We'll be ready when you are."