“My plan?” He snorted a laugh. “We were both ready to explode, Libby. Don’t deny that.”
“Be that as it may,” she retorted. “What we … what we did last night in no way expedites my decision.”
“You think I purposely seduced you so that you’d feel obligated to marry me?” He sounded more amused than surprised.
She turned away, fussing with the bowl that held the bread dough. “Don’t try to tell me that idea didn’t occur to you.”
“No. It didn’t.”
“I find that hard to believe.” She dumped the dough onto the counter and laced it with flour.
“Why?”
“Because you know that without me, Dawn won’t go with you.” From behind her, she heard him chuckle. “And what’s so darned funny?”
“You are.”
She gave the bread dough a savage punch, picturing his arrogant face. “I’m happy you find me so amusing.”
“You’re itching for a fight, aren’t you?”
She continued to attack the dough, kneading, pummeling, folding. “I’m simply telling you your plan didn’t work.”
The chair scraped, and suddenly he was behind her. “Do you want to fight, Libby?”
She didn’t rise to the bait, but his breath ruffled the hair on her neck, causing a recurrence of the feelings he’d stirred within her the night before.
“Don’t take your anger out on the bread dough. Look how you’re punishing it.” His hands caressed her shoulders and her neck, and as hard as she tried, she couldn’t pretend to feel nothing.
“Wouldn’t you like to do that to me? Ah, think of it, Libby. Think how much you’d like to come at me, pounding and screeching and screaming.”
She clamped her jaw tightly. “It’s rude to lose control,” she managed.
“It’s not healthy to keep your anger inside, either. Come on, Liberty O’Malley, let it go. Show me how you really feel.”
His voice had an annoying baiting quality, a tone she abhorred because it was so often used to intimidate.
“All right, you bully.” She swung around, her hands sticky, and shoved at his chest, leaving splotches of dough and flour on his shirt. He didn’t budge, so she pushed him again. The twinkle in his eyes and his smug smile were enough to make her want to double up her fist and punch him.
“Come on, Libby, you can do better than that,” he coaxed, egging her on. He put his fists up, fighter style, and danced the boxer’s dance before her.
She bit the insides of her cheeks to keep from smiling. “You’re an ass.”
“Come on,” he urged, punching her lightly on the shoulder.
She brushed him off and went back to her bread dough, but he continued to annoy her, tapping her shoulders, her spine, even her rump.
She swung at his arm, and missed.
“Oh, is that what it takes?” He tapped her rump repeatedly, all the while cajoling her.
“Stop that!” Turning, she swung at him, landing a punch on his arm.
“That’s better, Libby girl. Much better.” He continued to spar with her, touching her nose, her chin, her arm—in essence, becoming a prize nuisance.
She waved him away with both hands, fending off light punches, and felt a wonderful freedom. They remained locked in playful battle, Libby fighting off his feathery punches and biting back the urge to scream with laughter.
One of his hands grazed her side, just above her waist, and she gasped and pushed him away.
“Aha! The maiden is ticklish.” He touched her again, getting another rise out of her, and she shoved him. He was immovable and relentless.
Unable to stand his teasing and unable to keep from laughing and shrieking at his touch, she turned, grabbed a handful of flour, and tossed it at him.
He stopped, momentarily stunned, flour cascading from his long eyelashes and his nose. His expression was so comical that Libby doubled over, holding her sides as she laughed.
“Think that’s funny, do you?”
In a swift movement that belied his size, he spun her around and doused her with a handful of her own ammunition, causing her to sputter and cough.
Unable to keep the laughter from her voice, she shouted, “You wretch!” She brushed at her face and hair, flour filtering through the air between them.
“What in the devil’s goin’ on in here?”
The merriment stopped, and Libby turned toward the door to find a curious and puzzled Mahalia staring at them.
Apologetic, Libby began to stutter. “Oh … oh, Mahalia, I-I’m sorry we’ve made such a mess.”
“I don’t give a damn about the mess, honey, but I sure am curious about why y’all made it.”
Smoothing her hands over her dress and her hair, Libby tried to think of a logical explanation. There wasn’t one.
“I’m afraid it’s my fault,” Jackson interceded. “I was trying to get her to let her hair down a bit, and … well, I guess we kind of got carried away.”
Mahalia arched her brow, appearing not quite certain she believed him. “Well, that bread won’t get baked that way.”
“Never mind, Mahalia. I’ll finish up in here,” Libby promised. “After all, this mess is my fault. You shouldn’t have to clean up after me.”
“And I’ll help her” Jackson offered.
Libby glared at him, her good humor having fled. “Don’t you have to arrest someone or something?”
He studied her, his eyes continuing to glisten. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. We’ll continue our discussion later, though. Count on it.”
Mahalia snorted. “In some other room, I’m hopin.’ My kitchen ain’t safe with the two of you around.”
Jackson gave her a quick wink and was gone.
Libby studiously began to clean up the flour that had spilled onto the floor.
“Lan’ sakes. I don’t know about the two of you. One week you’re tossin’ plates and skillets at him, the next you’re dousin’ each other with flour. Am I missin’ somethin’?”
“I could no more explain it than I could fly, Mahalia.” Libby felt her housekeeper’s gaze on her.
“Uh-huh.” She clucked her tongue. “You’d best go up and change that frock, honey. I’m just gettin’ clothes together to wash.” When Libby continued to wipe up the floor, Mahalia added, “Scoot, now. Let me finish in here. I’ll bring you fresh towels in a minute.”
Too embarrassed to argue, Libby took the stairs to her room and stepped out of her flour-spattered gown. Standing in her camisole and drawers, she finished rinsing the flour from her face, then took down her hair and was brushing it free of debris when there was a soft knock on the door.
“Come in, Mahalia,” she called out. “I’m as decent as I’ll ever be.” When she didn’t enter, Libby crossed to the door, realizing she probably had her hands full.
She flung it open and stood, rooted to the spot, as her gaze traveled up the tall, perfectly honed body of Jackson Wolfe.
“Oh, Lord,” she muttered, attempting to close the door.
His foot became a doorstop, and he eased his way inside, closing the door behind him.
She swallowed, her heart in her throat and her pulse hovering somewhere between her navel and her knees. “This isn’t one bit proper.” She tried to sound indignant. She failed.
“God.” His voice was a husky rumble, and his gaze moved over her slowly and thoroughly. “Look at you.” He picked up one of her long, loopy curls and raised it to his face, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Jackson, please. You’re embarrassing me. I’m ….”Belatedly she crossed her arms over her breasts. “This isn’t proper, and I’m not decent.”
“Propriety and decency belong in stuffy drawing rooms, Libby. What we have between us is hot and intense, and I’m not going to let you forget it.” All the while he spoke, his hands traveled up and down her arms, making her quiver.
He placed her hands on his shoulders, then turned her right arm to expose the sensitive inner surface, and ran his mouth fr
om the elbow to beneath her shoulder.
She shuddered at the sensation, closing her eyes and forcing herself not to melt against him. “I’m still not ready to marry you, and … and if you think that by constantly assaulting me with your … your …”
His eyes twinkled, and he drew her close, so close she could feel him growing behind his fly. “My … what?”
She swallowed. “You act like a rutting ass.” She tried to sound incensed, but knew she failed, for his hands were on her hips and he was slowly drawing her back and forth across the front of his jeans.
“I know, but I’m good at it, don’t you agree?”
She raised her head to scold him, which she instantly realized was a mistake, for his mouth came down on hers, clamping hard. The kiss was one of possession, and Libby had no strength or desire to resist.
He broke the embrace, stepping swiftly to the door. “Sooner or later you’re going to give in, Liberty O’Malley.”
Feigning anger, she answered, “Not before I fight you with every breath I take.”
His smile was devastating. “If the little overture in the kitchen is any indication of our future together, Libby girl, I’m going to enjoy the struggle.” Returning briefly, he kissed her hard on the mouth, and before she could fight him, he was gone.
On shaky legs she crossed to the dry sink and studied her reflection in the mirror. Her lips felt swollen; there was high color in her cheeks. And that telltale pulse bounded relentlessly behind the flesh at her throat.
She knew she was a strong woman. Unfortunately, she sensed that the one thing that could break down her defenses was her own reaction to this incredibly handsome, virile, powerful … annoying man.
Burl Bellamy spat a stream of tobacco into the spittoon, briefly taking his eyes off Corey’s work while his brother snoozed in his chair. “So,” he said, shoving the plug against his cheek with his tongue, “someone pays ya to draw fancy pictures, huh?”
Corey carefully sketched the lobes of the big-leaf maple. “They sure do,” he answered. He was eager for his niece to get home from school. He had a surprise for her; that was why he was working outside, on the porch.
Burl cackled. “Dang, now I’ve heard it all. Can’t ’magine why anyone would pay a body fer such work.”
Corey smiled. “No, I don’t imagine you could.”
Bert snorted and awakened. He sat up straight, blinking his rheumy eyes at the other two. “Cain’t you two talk a bit quieter? How’s a body to get a nap with such racket?”
Burl chortled. “By dang, Bert, ya woke yerself up.”
Bert scowled, his mouth working and his flabby jowl wagging like a cock’s wattle.
The Bellamy boys were amusing, Corey would give them that. And it didn’t matter how many times they found him drawing and writing, they repeated their expressions of disbelief that anyone would pay him for it.
Lifting his head, he saw Dawn Twilight approaching, her schoolbooks under her arm. “Have a good day?”
She gave him a brilliant smile. “For a change. it’s the first time in days that bully Willie Frost hasn’t chased me.”
Corey jumped to her defense. “Do you want me to take care of that hooligan?” At her giggle, Corey added, amazed at her good humor, “I mean it, Dawn. I’ll thrash the rascal with a hickory whip.”
“You don’t have to. Chloe Ann has already taken care of that part.”
Corey raised his eyebrows. “She takes a stick to him?”
“Well, only his knuckles. And she uses a ruler. I don’t think she really likes doing even that much, but Willy is such a bully that nothing else seems to work.”
He could hardly believe that shy, delicate little thing could stand up to schoolhouse bullies.
“Well, if I can’t jump to your defense, at least let me give you a present.” He pulled the leather-bound journal from his inside coat pocket and handed it to her.
Her eyes big, Dawn slowly took it, running her fingers over the cover. “What’s this for?”
“Look inside,” he instructed, anxious to see her reaction.
Dawn dropped her schoolbooks on the step and opened the journal, her expression turning puzzled. “There’s nothing on the pages.”
“It’s a journal, or a diary. And it’s only blank because you haven’t written in it yet.”
She smiled, biting down on her bottom lip. “Oh, Uncle Corey. A journal, for me? How did you know I liked to write?”
“Oh,” he answered, leaning into his chair, “I have my spies.”
“You mean Papa and Mama.” She leafed through the blank pages, her expression rapt. “I must take after you. I want to be a writer someday, too, but I want to write stories about people I know.”
Corey jerked his head toward the Bellamy boys, who were both snoozing and snoring. “You could start with those two characters.”
She giggled again, then touched his arm. “Thank you so much, Uncle Corey. I love my present.”
He glanced at her hand on his arm. “Is that all I get?”
With a happy sigh, she flung herself into his arms. “I’m so lucky,” she murmured against his neck.
Corey hugged her, hoping she was right. Oh, she was a lucky little girl, but if Libby and Jackson didn’t get together, how lucky would she feel if she was taken away from her mother?
Jackson had left his mount at the livery, requesting that he be reshod. As he walked to the boardinghouse, he found his thoughts absorbed with images of Libby. God, what a life they could have together, if only she’d agree to marry him. Their union might not be based on love, but it sure as hell would be filled with passion.
But … a virgin? He couldn’t get over his surprise. Shock, really. And her reaction … He’d slept with enough women to know when they were faking and when they weren’t. Libby definitely hadn’t been faking. Even now he felt the bite of desire at the thought of bedding her again.
He mouthed a curse. Of course, he’d promised her that if she married him, he wouldn’t bed her without her consent. He wondered if what they’d done the night before would make her more amenable to the whole idea of marriage or merely strengthen her resolve against it.
She’d been wound up as tight as a pocket watch before breakfast. But once she loosened up, she was delicious. Tussling with him, laughing when she threw flour in his face, letting loose when he attempted to tickle her … Lord Almighty, what a woman she was. How could any man married to her not take her to his bed? Who was this Sean O’Malley, anyway, and why hadn’t he touched her?
He continued to be deep in thought as he approached the porch.
“Papa!”
Smiling at his daughter, he held out his arms for her. She scrambled down the steps and went into his embrace. “Oh, Papa, look what Uncle Corey gave me.” She stepped away and held out the book. “It’s a journal, Papa. I can start writing all my thoughts and stories down in this book. Isn’t that wonderful?”
He caught Corey’s gaze, and they winked at each other. “Leave it to your uncle to think of a wise gift for such a talented girl.”
She expelled a satisfied sigh. “Everything’s so perfect. The only thing that would make it better would be if you and Mama got married.”
Again Jackson’s gaze met his brother’s. Corey gave him a quirky smile and wiggled his tawny eyebrows.
Jackson smoothed his hand over his daughter’s thick braid. He wanted to marry Libby, and Dawn Twilight wanted it, too. What would it take to convince the woman that it was the only thing to do?
15
The following morning Libby was informed that some-one else from Jackson’s family had arrived at the jail. Despite her reluctance to appear to have done anything special in order to make a good impression, she bustled around the rooming house, dusting, straightening, and making sure Mahalia’s evening meal wasn’t as hot as a Cajun summer. She had two vacant rooms, which she aired out and provided with fresh linens, in case whoever had arrived hadn’t made arrangements to stay anywhere else.
And for some inane reason, as afternoon waned and the dinner hour approached, she felt the need to primp. She rushed to her room, took a quick bath, and changed into one of her nicest frocks. She supervised Dawn’s dressing as well.
As they waited for Jackson’s return, Dawn displayed the nervous fidgets that Libby felt but tried to hide.
“Do I look all right, Mama?”
The new yellow frock with the ivy sprigs made Dawn’s skin look like polished sand, and her long, freshly braided hair gleamed with health.
“You look absolutely beautiful,” Libby answered, straightening the bright green ribbon at her daughter’s waist.
“You look pretty too, Mama. You hardly ever wear that dress.”
That was true. The dusty rose lawn was one of her best. “Well, I want to make a good impression, too.”
Dawn twirled away. “Did you know that Papa has an Indian name?”
“No, I didn’t.” But she wasn’t surprised.
“When he was little and was rescued by the Indians, Papa said that at first he was very bel … bel …”
“Belligerent?” Libby suggested.
“Yeah, belligerent. The Indians knew he was scared, but he acted tough, like a little warrior brave. So they called him Warrior Heart.
“Did you know that his real mama was killed?”
Libby digested this, seeing the similarities in Dawn’s and Jackson’s lives. It was no wonder he was so obsessed with regaining custody. She suddenly felt a bite of pity for a little boy who must have been so very frightened at having his world destroyed.
Dawn studied her. “Are you gonna marry Papa?”
Libby’s stomach dropped. “I … I don’t know.”
“Papa says he wants you to.”
Interested, Libby answered, “Oh, he does, does he?”
Nodding, Dawn announced, “Then we’ll be a real family. I’m gonna write a story about it, Mama. Everything will be perfect.”
Libby stifled a weary, anxious sigh. Perfect, indeed. For Jackson and for her daughter, but certainly not for her. The idea had begun to grow on her, however. She knew that living with Jackson Wolfe wouldn’t be dull, and she couldn’t deny that she was attracted to him. On top of that, he made her laugh. Who could resist a man who could make her shake off her inhibitions and squeal with glee? And, of course, there was that bedroom incident .…
Jane Bonander Page 18
