Wildstar

by Nicole Jordan

  "I didn't mean to wake you," Jess whispered when she had caught her breath.

  Devlin smiled languidly, his eyes a tangled brush of dark lashes and pale smoke. "You can wake me anytime, angel," he replied in a voice raspy with sleep.

  Fumbling in the clothespress for her garments, Jess dragged them out and clutched them to her breast. "Go back to sleep," she told Devlin when she realized he was watching her. His gaze was moving over her with an inten­sity that felt as physical as a stolen kiss. Instead of the blue sateen wrapper she wore, she might as well have had nothing on at all.

  "I could think of better things to do than sleep if you would come to bed with me."

  His outrageous remark brought a furious blush to Jess's cheeks. "I c-can't," she stammered. "I have to go to church. I mean . . . I wouldn't if I could."

  "A pity," Devlin said with another sleepy smile. "You don't know what pleasure you're missing." Rolling over, he snuggled his face deeper into the pillows. "Call me when it's time to eat," he mumbled, and was breathing evenly in another instant.

  More shaken than she cared to admit, Jess dragged her gaze away from the muscular splendor of Devlin's bare back and let herself out of the room. In her flustered state, she was thankful to have found an outfit that matched.

  The fawn-colored skirt boasted a short train, and was covered by a wraparound overskirt of coffee-striped gren­adine, drawn up behind to produce a bustle. After fussing with the skirts, Jess donned a white muslin waist that form-fitted her high, corseted bosom, then the basque jacket made of the same striped grenadine as the skirt. A lace collar fastened by a broach and a small feathered toque hat completed the ensemble. Critically eyeing her­self in the cheval mirror in the sitting room, Jess thought she looked feminine and chic enough that not even Devlin could find fault with her appearance.

  She attended the service at the Methodist church and re­mained afterward, talking with longtime friends, answer­ing inquiries about last week's terrible shooting, receiving condolences, and accepting good wishes for Riley's swift recovery. She walked home, enjoying the quiet of the beautiful August morning. The stamp mills were blessedly silent, while far above her, lofty granite summits pierced the azure sky, flirting with puffs of snow-white clouds.

  Jess was gazing up at the mountains when a carriage went bowling past her, driven by a groom attired in livery. She tensed when she recognized Ashton Burke. He might have been checking on his numerous properties in Silver Plume, or more likely, he'd spent last night gambling and then stayed at his Diamond Dust Hotel rather than return to his fancy home in Georgetown.

  To Jess's surprise and immense wariness, he ordered the driver to pull over. She couldn't believe even the lordly Ashton Burke would have the audacity to stop and speak to her after what he'd done to her father, but he was ob­viously waiting for her, and she refused to be intimidated.

  When she reached his carriage, Burke tipped his hat to her, his blond hair glinting in the sunlight like a new-minted gold piece. "Good morning, Miss Sommers. I trust your father is recovering."

  His polite greeting, voiced in that clipped, haughty Brit­ish accent, grated across her nerves. She was certain Burke didn't give a fig about her father. And although his tone oozed sympathy, she had the distinct feeling the silver king was taunting her. She managed a stiff "Good morn­ing" in reply.

  "I thought I might call on your father this afternoon, if he is free," Burke announced.

  Jess bit back the urge to say, "Don't bother, you won't be welcome," not only because it was Sunday, when one was obliged at least to try to exhibit a Christian spirit, but because she wouldn't let this ruthless baron drag her down to his level.

  "I regret that will not be possible," she returned in her best boarding school manner. "My father is not well enough to receive visitors."

  "Oh? I had heard he was seen yesterday riding up to the mines."

  Jess pressed her lips together. News traveled fast in a small mining town, but it was more likely Burke had spies in his employ who were instructed to report on her father's movements. "If you know that, then you know my father suffered a relapse yesterday."

  His tawny eyebrows rose in concern. "Not a serious one, I hope."

  His unctuous tone made Jess grit her teeth. "No. He could probably hold a gun if he needed to."

  "There have been no more accidents to your mine?"

  "I imagine you would know that better than I."

  The maganate's blue eyes grew a shade cooler. "You wrong me."

  "Do I?"

  He smiled suddenly. "I don't wish there to be hard feel­ings between us, Miss Sommers. I would merely like your father to know my offer to purchase the Wildstar mine is still open. Please tell him for me, will you?" He inclined his head politely and motioned his driver to proceed. "Give my respects to Mr. Sommers."

  Jess stared impotently after the retreating carriage, her beautiful morning spoiled.

  Resentful, depressed, she returned home to find Riley awake and fretful, feeling more pain from his wound than he had in the entire past week. She fed him a bowl of soup, gave him another spoonful of morphine, and stayed with him till he fell asleep. Then she proceeded to fix Sun­day dinner—roast beef, mashed potatoes, vegetables, bis­cuits, and raspberry pie.

  Normally she would have changed out of her Sunday clothes, but after her run-in with Burke, she defiantly suc­cumbed to feminine vanity and left on most of her finery so Devlin could see it when he woke up. Shedding only the basque jacket and hat, Jess covered the striped skirt and lawn blouse with a bibbed, white gingham tea apron so they wouldn't get soiled.

  She felt oddly nervous when she went in to wake him for dinner—or breakfast, as it was in his case. "Devlin?" she murmured, setting a cup of coffee on the bureau for him. When he didn't answer, she moved to the side of the bed where he lay on his side with his back to her. "Dev­lin? It's time to get up."

  Still he didn't stir. Jess leaned over him, gently touching his bare shoulder. "Devlin . . ."

  Before she could finish the word, he reached up and trapped her hand in a light grip, pulling it down against his naked chest. The feel of hard, hair-dusted masculine flesh still warm from sleep made her pulse leap. "Devlin!" Jess gave a jerk and dragged her hand free.

  As he rolled over to face her, she backed away, clasping her fingers, which were still tingling from his touch. She suspected that he'd been lying in wait for her, and the self-satisfied smile on his lips convinced her of it.

  "Dinner," Jess said tersely, "will be ready in less than an hour. Your bathwater's heated so you can bathe and shave first."

  Devlin yawned and stretched languidly, looking as sleek and relaxed as a well-fed cat. His hair was tousled in a en­dearingly boyish way that did anything but make her think of boys.

  "I'd rather you join me here first," he said with a husky undertone of laughter that raked across her aroused nerves.

  "Only a city slicker would laze around all day," Jess snapped.

  "What's turned you into such a crosspatch?"

  She could have answered that with one word. Him. His unkempt masculine beauty had affected her far more than she liked. But then having a stunningly handsome, half-naked man in her bed would make any woman feel urges that she shouldn't feel.

  The gray eyes surveyed her intimately, traveling slowly upward. He was staring at her bold as brass, and yet there was something warm and exciting and flattering in the way he was looking at her.

  "You've done something different with your hair," he commented, his tone lazy and deeply sensual. "I like it." Jess was inordinately pleased that he had noticed, but her pleasure tempered at his next comment. "I'd like it better loose and wild around your shoulders. Come to think of it, it would look even better spread across this pillow—"

  "Mr. Devlinl"

  "Yes, ma'am?" His innocent smile was not the least convincing.

  "If you don't want your bathwater dumped on your head, you will please keep your lascivious comments to yourself!"
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  "I'm surprised you even know what the word lascivious means, darlin'."

  "Well, I do. And I don't appreciate your teasing."

  "It isn't teasing. I'm totally serious about wanting you in my bed." He patted the mattress beside him. "You're sure you won't reconsider?"

  "Yes, I'm sure! I will not go to bed with you! I don't care what pleasure I'm missing. Now will you please get up so I can serve dinner?"

  Obediently, Devlin pushed aside the yellow quilt and moved in an easy uncoiling motion, dropping his bare feet to the floor. Expecting him to be naked, Jess felt a gasp catch in her throat, but thankfully, he wore long Johns.

  Even so, it was not a sight for a lady. The red flannel hugged all the masculine contours of his lower body—his lean hips . . . his long, muscled legs . . . and one undeni­able bulge evidencing gender. Jess's gaze flew to Devlin's, the gold of dismay colliding with the impassioned glow of gray. He smiled his devil's smile.

  As she stood there frozen, his hands went to the waist­band of his underwear and hesitated. "You're welcome to stay and watch me undress if you like."

  Alarmed, Jess beat a hasty retreat, while the self­satisfied, totally masculine chuckle Devlin gave made her ears burn.

  She filled the tub in the bathroom with the hot water she'd had heating on the stove, and added another bucket of cold from the hand pump at the sink. Devlin came in just as she was straightening up. Jess was glad to see that he was dressed—if one could call hip-hugging denim trou­sers, bare feet, and no shirt or undershirt "dressed." She was also glad to see him carrying a straight razor and shaving brush so he could get rid of the disreputable shadow of whiskers on his jaw that made him look dan­gerous and far too masculine.

  "How is Riley?" Devlin asked.

  "He's asleep. I had to give him more medicine for the pain."

  "You mean I have you all alone?"

  Jess didn't dignify his suggestive remark with an an­swer. Instead she left Devlin to his bath, shutting the con­necting door to the kitchen behind her.

  She was putting the biscuits in the oven when he called to her through the door. "Miss Jess, I could use someone to scrub my back."

  "I'm your employer, Devlin, not your personal servant."

  "I'll scrub yours in exchange, if you like."

  Jess gave an unladylike snort and refused to reply. She listened to him splashing in the tub for another minute, be­fore he called to her again.

  "Jessica, would you mind bringing me some fresh wa­ter? I have soap in my eyes."

  She turned to stare at the bathroom door. She absolutely did not want to enter that small room with Devlin in there naked, even if he was telling the truth about the soap in­stead of trying to lure her into a compromising situation.

  "Jess, please? I promise I won't ravish you."

  Hearing the husky cajolery in his tone, she gave a sigh of disgust. No matter how she liked to pretend, she was no different from Flo or any other woman when it came to withstanding Devlin's charm. She filled another bucket and kept her eyes averted as she entered the bathroom.

  "Pour it over me, will you?"

  "You can't do it yourself?" she asked warily.

  "How can I when I can't see?"

  Summoning her courage, Jess made herself look at him, although not allowing her gaze to drop below the level of his head. Devlin had his eyes shut tightly, and there were soap suds all over his face. Yielding, she lifted the bucket and tipped it over, pouring a stream of water on his dark head.

  "Ahhh," he said in relief, "thank you, angel." Wiping the water from his eyes, he flashed her another one of his sinful smiles. "I'll return the favor anytime you like."

  "You know, Devlin," she said in exasperation, "you re­ally missed your calling. Instead of a gambler you should have been a snake oil salesman."

  His grin blossomed into appreciative laughter.

  Blushing in spite of her determination not to, Jess re­turned to the kitchen. Fifteen minutes later, Devlin joined her. He was dressed in a three-piece gray suit and string tie, looking elegant and as stunningly attractive as she'd ever seen him.

  "Dinner smells great," he said genially as he came to stand at the cast-iron stove and sniff the roast. "I'm starved."

  "I'm not surprised. You stayed out late enough last night."

  He gave her an amused glance. "Jealous, sweeting?" "Of course not," she replied with too much conviction. "I don't care what you do on your time off." "You should have come with me. I won." "You were gambling?"

  The teasing light in his eyes intensified. "What else?" He picked up a spoon, tasted the rich gravy she had made for the roast, and made an approving sound of pleasure deep in his throat.

  "Will you please go sit down?" Jess exclaimed, nervous with him so near. "I can't work with you hovering over me."

  He settled himself at the kitchen table while Jess fin­ished preparing the meal. Watching her labor at the hot stove with her pots and pans, Devlin decided he'd never seen her looking lovelier than she did just now, with her face flushed and damp tendrils wisping around her face. That was how she would look in the throes of passion, he decided. Except that she had on far too many clothes. The lace collar at her throat, though, gave her a touch of fem­inine fragileness, while the apron she wore did little to hide her curvaceous figure.

  Just then, Jessica bit her lower lip as she pulled the pan of biscuits from the oven, making him suddenly remember the taste of her mouth and skin. Devlin shifted uncomfort­ably in the chair. No matter how virtuous or genteel or sexually inexperienced she was, he couldn't help imagin­ing how Jess would feel in his arms, naked beneath his hands.

  His voice came out huskier than he intended when he took his flirtation a step further. "You know, swee-heart, it isn't often that I've had to apologize for depriving a lady of her bed. I feel guilty as sin for kicking you out of yours. You'd be doing my conscience a kindness if you would re­turn. It's just large enough for both of us, and I'm per­fectly willing to share."

  Jess stiffened at his provoking remark, treating it with the disdainful silence it deserved. She might have to put up with his scandalous teasing because she needed his help at the moment, but she didn't have to respond or encour­age him.

  "Aren't you going to answer, Jessica?"

  The laughter in his voice grated on her nerves. "Do you ever have anything else on your mind besides bed?" she retorted with her usual forthright manner.

  Devlin countered with his most disarming manner. "Can you fault me? Taking you to bed is what any red-blooded male would want to do with a beautiful girl. Actually, you should be flattered."

  "Well, I'm not."

  "I think you are. I think you wonder what it would feel like to let your hair down with a man . . . with me."

  She gave him a quelling look, only to find him watching her with a lazy lift to his brows. "You have a mighty high opinion of yourself if you think that."

  "Do you honestly expect me to believe you didn't enjoy kissing me the other night?"

  That she couldn't say, since it wouldn't be true. She had enjoyed kissing Devlin—far more than was proper. But she wasn't about to admit it. As it was, his swollen ego was probably twice the size of any normal man's.

  Refusing to answer, Jess busied herself with setting serving dishes on the table and tried to ignore him. It was like trying to ignore a lazing wolf. She could feel Devlin watching her every move, and as she took off her apron and hung it on a wall hook, she felt as if she had un­dressed for him.

  His eyes continued their indolent scrutiny, coming to rest on her lawn blouse and her high, generous bosom. "You have a gorgeous figure," he remarked in a voice as soft as a purring cat padding across satin. "It's a shame you cover it up with those high-necked outfits."

  "If you're trying to seduce me, Devlin, it won't work," Jess replied irritably as she carried the platter of meat to the table.

  "No?"

  "No. I realize you're used to women falling obligingly at your feet, but I'm not ab
out to add myself to their numbers."

  "But then, we've already established you're not a nor­mal woman."

  Jess put her hands on her hips. "We've established noth­ing of the kind. I am so a normal woman!"

  "No, you aren't, love. Just about the only feminine thing I've seen you do is cry." He followed up his silver-tongued attack with a deliberately provoking observation. "I think I was right. You're afraid of being a woman."

  "I am not!"

  "So prove it."

  She gave him a questioning look, her amber eyes wide and uncertain.

  "Come here and put your arms around me and kiss me."

  "You must be joking."

  His slow, beautiful smile told her very clearly that he was not. "You're afraid you won't be able to resist me."

  "That isn't true."

  "Coward," he taunted lightly, his voice suddenly be­coming soft and whispery.

  His smug arrogance was too much to ignore. Setting her teeth, Jess marched over to his chair. How she would like to shatter his confidence! He was certain he could seduce any woman to willing compliance, but she would show him she wasn't about to succumb to his practiced charm.

  When she reached Devlin, though, he slipped an arm around her narrow waist and, to her surprise, gently pulled her down on his lap. His thighs felt hard and uncompro­misingly male beneath her skirts, and the shocking contact discomfited Jess. She hadn't planned on letting things get so out of hand.

  She was about to change her mind about accepting his challenge when Devlin reached toward the table and set his dinner knife beyond her reach. "I'm not taking any chances," he replied to her inquiring look with a dancing light in his eyes. "I suppose it's a good thing I'm not wearing my guns."

  Jess felt heat rising to her cheeks at his teasing. Before she could retort, though, Devlin said softly, "All right, I'm ready now. Put your arms around my neck and kiss me."

  When she hesitated, his beautiful mouth curved in a very male smile. "Come on, 'fraidy cat, it won't hurt you. You might even find you like it."