by Beth Ciotta
“Speaking of stories,” Emily said as they neared the front door. “I do a bit of writing myself.”
“Paris mentioned.”
“I was wondering if, later, well, if you might be willing to help me with a pesky plot point?”
“Sure.” In his youth he’d been an avid reader. Hopefully that, logic, and a bit of imagination would be enough.
“Good. Great. Thank you.”
She didn’t look at him, but he could feel her pleasure. Yup. For sure and certain he’d know her secrets within two days, if not sooner. Then it was a matter of dealing with the blackmailer. He was used to wrangling murderers and thieves. A spineless bully would pose little challenge. Less of a challenge than delivering Athens’s proposal and obtaining a favorable reply. What had she said to Sawyer? The last thing I want or need is a husband.
My kind of woman, Seth thought with a wry grin and quickly shunned the notion. That kind of trouble he didn’t want or need.
Territory of Arizona
This was a bad idea. He knew it. Yet it didn’t stop him. In fact, he’d had to caution himself not to run. Twice between his house and hers, Athens had had the overwhelming urge to sprint. Now that he was standing on her veranda his heart thumped as hard and fast as if he’d done just that.
“You’re an idiot, Garrett.” Even now, Seth could be reading his proposal of marriage to Emily. Regardless, Athens knocked on Kaila Dillingham’s front door.
He knew where she lived because he and Zoe had walked her home yesterday. She’d invited them inside, but he’d declined. He needed to get his daughter home, needed to address that fight with Zach. He also needed to burn the midnight oil, reviewing several criminal cases, only he’d ended up burning for the Englishwoman instead. He’d tossed and turned reflecting on her in those bloomers, in his arms. Imagining her out of those bloomers and in his bed. The images had been erotic and unrelenting. Restful sleep, even after self-satisfaction, had proved impossible.
Since moving to Phoenix, he’d been obsessed with establishing the Peacemaker Alliance, going so far as to work seven days a week. He couldn’t focus on those files any more today than he could last night. Maybe if he saw her again, talked to her, maybe the intense infatuation would cease. Maybe he’d learn she was pretentious or ignorant. Or that he’d been blinded by the sun and she was, in fact, butt ugly.
The door swung open.
Or not.
“Mr. Garrett.”
“Mrs. Dillingham.”
He took off his hat and fingered the brim as he grappled for a sane thought. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. It was more than her striking face and figure. She exuded a raw sensuality that summoned his most primal urges. The devil of it was she personified sophistication. Her green bustled gown was European chic. Her fiery red hair tamed and twisted into, what did they call it, a chignon. He visualized pulling loose the hairpins, one by one, and setting free thick, long ringlets. Erotic images filled his head. The same as last night only more intense because here she was. In the flesh.
She peered around him. “You’re alone?”
“Parker, my assistant, took Zach and Zoe over to watch the J.P. Fishburn outfit pitch a big top tent. Although I think they’re more interested in catching a peek at an elephant, Parker included. A traveling circus rolled into town this morning,” he explained, wondering if he sounded as foolish as he felt.
“I read the posted advertisements regarding their performances. I’m most keen on attending.” She fingered a locket around her neck, calling attention to her left hand. Yesterday she’d worn a wedding band. This morning it was conspicuously absent. “You look surprised.”
He started to comment on the ring then realized they’d been speaking of the circus. “I would have figured you a fan of more highbrow entertainment.”
“Such as the opera?” She smiled, and his heart rate tripled. “I’ve been to dozens of operas, Mr. Garrett. I’ve never been to a circus.”
That was his cue to invite her, but the words stuck in his throat. He hadn’t courted a woman in years. He wasn’t free to start now, what with his impending engagement.
“I was hoping you would call,” she said, filling the awkward silence. “I wanted to apologize for my brisk manner yesterday. It would seem I’m not entirely fond of heights.”
“Yet you climbed up after Zoe.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t realize I’d developed a fear until it was too late. Nevertheless, I was, as Zoe pointed out, flustered. Thank you again for saving me from a potentially disastrous fall and the embarrassment of having to walk home in my bloomers. If your daughter hadn’t recovered my skirt . . .” She shook her head, laughed. “Although, perhaps the risqué scene would’ve increased business at Cafe Poppy. People wandering in for a firsthand look at the scandalous Englishwoman. If I could just get them through the door . . . But I digress.
“To show my appreciation, I baked a sugar cake for you and the children. Zoe seemed fond of my Ginger cookies and I’m rather fond of baking. I was going to bring it over, but here you are and . . .” She waved off her words. “I’m babbling. How did your talk with Zach go?”
Generous, good humored, and sensitive. Just his luck. “I managed not to whup him. Barely.” He smiled as her cheeks burned brighter. “Where’d you hear that term anyway?”
“Zoe.”
“Ah.” Sultry eyes. Sultry voice. That accent. Besotted. He was utterly, hopelessly besotted. He fingered sweat from his brow.
“Where are my manners? We should be having this discussion inside where it’s cooler.” She opened the door wider, a silent invitation.
“Bad idea.”
“Why?”
“Best not to put it into words.” He saw mutual desire sparking in those brown eyes, felt himself harden. He subtly lowered his hat to crotch level. Good God.
She smiled. “I had intended an afternoon stroll. Would you like to join me, Mr. Garrett?”
“I would.” In truth, he had other ideas, but he’d take what he could get.
“I just . . . I need my parasol.” She waved him indoors. “Do step in out of the heat. Please. I’ll only be a moment.”
He stepped inside, but as she turned away, he nabbed her wrist and pulled her against him, closing the door and shutting out the world in one fluid move. If she’d resisted in any way, signaled or verbalized outrage or disgust, he would have released her.
She kissed him.
He didn’t have time to respond. He’d been too stunned and she wrenched back, much too soon, wide-eyed. “Oh, dear. I’m so sorry, Mr. Garrett, I--”
He silenced her apology with his mouth. Lips, teeth, tongue. Hard, hungry.
She reciprocated, her response fevered, as if she couldn’t get enough of him. As if she’d fantasized about him as well.
She set him on fire.
He backed her against the wall, knocking over a footstool and a stack of books along the way. If she noticed, she didn’t say, then again her tongue was tangled with his. He pressed into her and explored her curves. Her hips. Her breasts. The more bold his actions, the more eager her response. It had never been like this with Jocelyn.
That thought stopped him cold. He planted his hands on the wall, on either side of her head and pushed away.
“What’s wrong?” she rasped.
“This.”
“I was too aggressive. You’re appalled.”
“On the contrary. Your enthusiasm is indescribably . . . attractive. You, Mrs. Dillingham--” “Kaila.”
“--are . . . I’m not sure there are words to describe your beauty.”
“Those will do fine.”
“Me being here. Like this. I don’t want to tarnish your reputation.”
She swallowed hard, looked earnestly into his eyes. “I am twenty-eight years old. I have acted in a responsible and proper manner for each and every one of those years. I am here to tell you that a sparkling reputation is overrated.” He smiled at that.
“I don’
t want a commitment, if that’s what’s bothering you. I’ve experienced marriage and found it lacking. I cherish my freedom. It is why I am in the Americas and not at home. It is why I am here in the west. I’m keen on an adventure, Mr. Garrett.”
He dropped his forehead to hers. “Ah, Mrs. Dillingham--”
“Kaila.”
“Kaila. You’re making this too easy.”
“Good.”
“There are things about me you don’t know.”
“A man of mystery. How exciting.”
“There’s no future in this. In us.”
“One passionate moment could make for a lifetime of contentment.”
His heart hammered. “Meaning?”
She nabbed his lapels and peeled off his jacket. “You better make this bloody good.”
CHAPTER 9
Napa Valley, California
You’re making this very difficult, Mr. Pinkerton.”
“I thought we decided on Phin.”
“We did. But I guess that doesn’t work for me any more than Phineas. What was your mother thinking? No disrespect intended.”
“None taken. What would you like to call me, Emily?”
Her breath caught just like the first time he called her by her Christian name. Silly. He wasn’t being familiar; after all, he preferred men. That didn’t work for her either. She couldn’t imagine. How could she be so aware of someone so totally unaware of her? Then again, she had the same relationship with Rome. For all her adoring, he couldn’t be less interested. Clearly, she was clueless where men were concerned.
“I don’t know,” she said on a huff. “Poet. When I think of you I think Poet as you surely have a way with words. Anyway, that’s beside the point.”
“The point being?”
“It’s hard for me to concentrate when you’re hovering.”
“Hovering?”
“Yes. Hovering. Crowding me. As if you’re afraid I’m going to cause someone serious harm except there’s no one around for me to injure.” They were in Weaver’s Meadow, a lush open area stretching between her property and Bellamont Winery. Rolling hills surrounded them on three sides. Due north, a dense patch of woods. They were very much alone with the exception of the targets she’d set on stumps and fallen logs. “I’m pretty sure empty wine bottles don’t have feelings.”
“Right.”
“Or empty tin cans.”
“Doubly so.”
“Can I fire now?”
“Be my guest.”
She took aim, jerked the trigger and . . . yes! The can flew off of the tree stump even though she only nicked the rim. “I winged it!”
“You can do better.”
“Of course I can. With time and practice--”
“You can do better now. Improve your technique and you’ll improve your marksmanship.” Why was he walking on egg shells? “I can help, but . . .”
“What?”
“I’d have to hover.”
“Oh.”
“It gets worse. I’d have to touch you.”
She looked over her shoulder, astounded and impressed that he had taken words uttered this morning to heart. His sensitivity melted her reserve. “Then by all means, touch me, Poet. I’m eager to learn.”
He mumbled something, stepped in behind her, his front flush against her back. “Your stance is all wrong. Look at your feet. Squared off parallel like that? Compromises proper balance. You want a power stance, a fighter’s stance. Think of your lower body as a triangle. Left leg forward, right leg back.”
She complied, though it was hard to concentrate on the precise directions. His warm breath tickled her ear and his husky tone sent shivers to her toes. His closeness was unsettling and at the same time exhilarating. If she was this distracted by Pinkerton, she couldn’t imagine what she’d feel like if Rome were giving her hands-on instruction.
He grasped her hips, adjusted her position. “Pelvis at a 45-degree angle.”
Mercy.
“Shoulders forward. Not that much.” His hands shifted upward. “Like so.”
“Sorry. I’m nervous.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No! I mean, I’m fine.” Liar. “Please go on.”
His palms glided down her arms. “For now, use both hands. You want a high grasp on the grip for premium control. Thumb curled down for strength, index finger on the trigger like, yes, good.”
No, bad. She couldn’t breathe. With his hand wrapped around hers, his body pressed against the length of her, his mouth close to her ear. She felt faint.
“Your grip is excellent. A hard grip ensures less kick. Also makes it tougher for someone to snatch or knock away your gun. Emily. Em.” She licked dry lips. “What?”
“Relax.”
“I’m fine.” “You’re trembling.”
“Anticipation. You can step back now,” she croaked. “I’ve got it.”
“Not yet. Aim for the first bottle. Focus on the front sight. Got your target?”
“Yes.”
“Focused on the sight?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’m going to ease off now. When you’re ready, fire. Slow and smooth on the trigger. Understand?”
“Slow and smooth.” She breathed easier when he broke contact, her concentration no longer divided. Strong stance. Tight grip. Focus. Fire--slow and smooth.
Glass popped and shattered.
Emily whistled low.
“Nice,” Pinkerton said with a smile in his voice. “Do it again.”
There were three more wine bottles lined up on a decaying log. She hated those bottles. Shattering them to Kingdom Come would be a pleasure. But even more, she wanted to impress the man behind her. The approval in his tone soothed an ancient void.
She took a calming breath. Strong stance. Tight grip. Focus. Fire--slow and smooth.
She fired. Once. Twice. Three times. Pop. Pop. Pop. Three direct hits.
“Shit.”
His vulgar curse only half registered. The shots rang in her ears as did her own inner shouts of glee. She whirled, ready to whoop her joy. Instead, she shrieked. “You’re bleeding!”
Pinkerton’s shirt sleeve was torn, the white fabric stained red.
“What happened? How . . . ?”
Grim-faced, he stalked toward her, grabbed his gun and shoved her down in the grass. “Stay here. Stay low.”
He disappeared into the woods.
Heart racing, Emily shoved to her feet and followed. She burst into the copse of trees full speed. Her toe clipped an exposed root and she flew forward, plowing into Pinkerton and knocking him into a mighty oak.
“Dammit!”
That curse she heard loud and clear as they’d shouted it in unison. “Merciful heavens,” she said when he turned. “You’re bleeding!”
“I know.”
“No, I mean your forehead.” He’d smacked the tree hard, and although it only looked like a scratch, blood liberally trickled down his face. She rushed forward and tried to stem the flow with the cuff of her sleeve. “I’m so sorry. I tripped and--”
“I told you to stay put.”
“I was worried. Your arm.” She transferred her ministering to his first injury, hurriedly rolling up his left sleeve. “What in the world?”
“Grazed by a bullet.”
“What bullet? My bullet? How . . . did one of them ricochet? But you were behind me. Weren’t you?” Hands trembling, she yanked her shirt tail out of her britches and ripped off a long section of the hem.
Back up against the tree, he sighed and holstered his piece. “What are you doing?” he asked even as she wound the fabric around his bicep and tied a tight knot.
“Stemming the bleeding.”
“It’s nothing, Emily. A flesh wound.” Tears welled. “I feel awful. I don’t know how--” He grasped her chin, looked calmly into her eyes. “It wasn’t you.”
“Then who?”
“That’s what I was trying to find out before you waylaid my
search. Whoever it was is long gone.”
Her brain scrambled to make sense of his words. It was hard to think straight with him holding and gazing at her the way he was, all tender like. As if reading her thoughts, he broke contact and sleeved away fresh blood threatening to drip in his eye. Jolted out of her daze, she ripped more fabric from her tail.
“Keep that up and you’ll be as shirtless as I was this morning,” he said with a teasing grin.
“How can you joke? You’re bleeding something awful.”
“I’ve suffered worse.” He pushed off of the tree, grasped her elbow and guided her back into the meadow, looking over both shoulders and across the way.
“Why would anyone want to hurt a poet?”
“Remember how Paris’s father died?”
“How can I forget? She was devastated. Mr. Garrett was shot by a stray bullet. A bullet meant to silence the comedian on stage.” She nudged away his hand when he tried to pick up the picnic basket, and looped it over her own arm. “You’re hurt.”
“I’ll live.”
“I can’t believe people shoot at you in your line of work.”
“Believe it.” He started the long walk back to her house at a brisk clip.
She hurried to keep pace. “But you’re not on stage now.”
“No, I’m with you.”
She pondered that. “You don’t think . . .” She shook her head, pushed her glasses firmly up her nose. “Cole’s bullheaded and fights like Kilkenny cats, but he wouldn’t shoot you.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“I’m thinking someone was hunting in the woods and a bullet went amiss.”
“Or maybe they hit their mark. Maybe they figured on scaring off the likes of me.”
“A poet?”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Oh.”
“You mentioned Boris over at the Moonstruck frowns upon men who are, how did you put it? Delicate. I’m not saying it was him. I’m saying there are plenty of motives.”
She had a hard time thinking of Pinkerton as delicate now. She’d seen him ably handle what he perceived as dangerous situations twice today. Was it just yesterday he’d tripped over his own feet? “Boris would rib you. He wouldn’t shoot you. Heaven is riddled with conservatives and hypocrites, but not murderers.”
