The Marrying Kind

by Sharon Ihle

  "I wanted to break your big fat head, you double-dealing snake in the grass, and I'll call you Willy any time I take a notion to." She leaped to her feet and stormed across the room, steam-piston style, one boot on, one boot off. Raising her fist when she reached him, she shook it in his face. "As for violence, you lousy flim-flammer, when I think about the things you said to me in Laramie and the way you had me groveling at your feet, doing something violent is the kindest thing I can think of."

  "Now, Libb—"

  "Don't 'now Libby' me. Not while I can still hear you saying, 'You want a camera, little lady?'"—she mimicked his voice, slaughtering it by adding a countrified accent. "'Shore 'nuff, ma'am—you kin have anything you want. Juss ask, and it's all yours.' Why I ought to punch you right in the mouth for leading me on that way."

  He'd been halfway amused until Libby mentioned his mouth. Now suddenly, all Donovan could think of was hers—not punching it, but burying it beneath his own lips. Without thinking or even questioning himself, he impulsively dragged her into his arms.

  "And what," he asked, his throat tight, "would you suggest I do to your mouth in return?"

  He didn't wait for an answer, or expect one. He just came down on her, a little too hard at first, and took what he wanted.

  As Donovan suspected she would, Libby fought him in the beginning, smashing her fists to his shoulders and twisting in his embrace. Although she struggled mightily, it wasn't long before her inviting mouth became soft and pliant, and moments after that, as eager as his own. Something exploded between them then, a power or force so strong and unfamiliar that Donovan couldn't identify the sensation. But he did recognize that what they shared here was no mere kiss. This was an assault on the senses, an awakening of dark and utterly insane hungers, a need urging him down a path he was quite sure he should never follow.

  Shaken, in spirit, body, in every way imaginable, Donovan drew away from Libby's mouth, and caught his breath. He relaxed his grip then, unable to turn her loose the way he should have, but giving her freedom. Rather than try to escape him as he hoped she would, Libby clung to his jacket, her dark eyes and wondrous expression mirroring his own unexpected and tumultuous feelings. They stared into each other a long moment, briefly glimpsing private places and raw desires, and then as if frightened by what she saw in him, Libby finally broke out of his embrace.

  "Holy hell," slipped out of her mouth before she fully realized the thought.

  Embarrassed, she turned her back to Donovan and, on trembling legs, made her way to the chair she'd been sitting on earlier. Leaning heavily against the soft velvet upholstery, Libby tried to quell the shaking that had taken over her entire body. Her insides felt as if they'd melted into a big pot of jelly, and even though she was free of Donovan, she could still feel his vigorous embrace and the way his wicked mouth had plumbed her. How in God's name, after all she'd found out about the man, could she have responded to him this way? She ought to be lashing him within an inch of his life, not kissing him.

  Libby breathed deeply, still trying to get a grip on herself, and caught Donovan's scent still lingering on her skin. There was something more to the aroma than spicy cologne, something infinitely more disturbing—the slightly salty, earthy tang of the man himself. She shook her head to clear it of such thoughts, and again wondered how she could be so attracted to someone who'd made such a fool of her.

  "Libby," came his throaty voice from behind her. His tone wasn't particularly apologetic, but she thought she heard something akin to regret in it. Donovan touched her shoulder then, sending a little shudder up her spine, and gently turned her to face him. "I hope you won't make too much of what just happened here..." His gaze skimmed her lips. "I don't know what came over me, and maybe it's best that I don't. It might be a good idea if we just forget about it."

  "Oh, well, of course. Why not?" She'd tried to sound relieved by the suggestion, but why did she feel so let down? Perhaps, Libby thought, that was the irony of it all. Back in Laramie, she'd all but busted her buttons in an effort to bedevil Donovan, and to no avail. Yet here in San Francisco, where she'd practically taken his head off with her boot, for some reason, he'd found her irresistible. Comforted by the thought, she smiled and added, "In fact, I've already forgotten about it."

  She thought she saw Donovan's eyes narrow for a moment, but then he just shrugged and said, "Good. Now why don't we sit down a minute. There's a few things we ought to talk over."

  "I'm fine right where I am. Besides, now that you've shown yourself for what you really are—a lying, cheating gambler—I don't see what we have left to talk about."

  "You're still mad at me?"

  She should have been madder than hell—Lord, if she shouldn't still have been angry enough to pound a few knots on his head—but for some reason, every drop of her outrage had sizzled away to nothing. It was probably that innocent act he was giving her, the charismatic charm-the-bloomers-off-a-nun grin he displayed whenever he thought he might be in trouble. "Of course I'm still mad," she said, unable to force any harshness in her tone. "But it seems I've calmed down considerably."

  "Then we do have something to talk about. I really want to help you, now more than ever. Do you believe that?"

  She didn't want to, but Libby knew she had to try to trust him a little if she were to stay in San Francisco long enough to confront R. T. Savage. She definitely required help from someone, and since Donovan was the only person she knew in all of California, her choices were narrow. Either she tossed her lot in with his—on her terms, of course—or she went back to Laramie empty-handed.

  Determined to hang onto her newspaper and the fight for equal rights at almost any cost, she said truthfully, "I'm not sure what I believe where you're concerned or if there is a way you could help me now."

  "There are several ways in which I can help. The first is the easiest—I'd make an excellent choice as an escort when you go to the depot to catch the train back to Laramie. Can I help you pack?"

  "Absolutely not. I'm not going anywhere yet."

  "I didn't think so." He favored Libby with a smile, not his usual smug or mocking expression, but one of admiration, she thought. "I guess that means you're planning to stay in San Francisco until R. T. returns?"

  "That's right, even if I have to sleep on the bench in front of the Savage building until then."

  He nodded thoughtfully. "You already informed me that you can't afford a hotel room, so I figure, after what I put you through, I owe you at least room and board. You can stay here, if you like, until you get your business at Savage Publishing straightened out."

  Libby hesitated, even though she was very tempted to accept. Donovan was right about her lack of funds, but how could she stay here with him after what they'd just shared? "I don't think that, well, after what happened, it would be very wise of me to stay with you."

  He arched one ebony brow and flashed that devastating grin. "I thought you'd forgotten about my little... indiscretion."

  "I have." Donovan's bluntness startled her, and Libby had to look away as she considered the offer again. How was she to forget what they'd shared, with him standing so close to her, reminding her about it. "It's just that I'm not sure—"

  "There's really nothing for you to worry about. You have my word as a gentleman that you'll be quite safe."

  Libby gave him a skeptical look. Now that she knew him to be a gambler and saloon-owner, not the respectable son of a publishing scion, her staying here with him—alone, no less—was even more scandalous and improper than ever, but she honestly couldn't think of another viable choice.

  "Oh, all right," she said. "I accept your hospitality. It might even go a long way toward making up for some of the dastardly lies you've told me. Just be sure you don't tell anyone that I'm here—certainly none of the Savages—and stay out of my way when it's time for me, not you, to keep that appointment with R. T. when he returns."

  "Try not to be so blasted independent for once, would you? Whether you like it or
not, you can use my help at Savage Publishing."

  "Oh, no, I can't, so the matter's closed."

  "The satchel, remember? I have to keep the appointment in order to return Andrew's belongings and inform the poor man of his son's death. You surely don't want to be put in a position of explaining that to him, do you?"

  Libby realized that if she tried to see the old man before Donovan explained about Andrew, that R. T. would be full of questions about his son's visit to Laramie—and wondering why the devil his son hadn't returned to San Francisco with her. She surely did not want to be the bearer of those sad tidings.

  "All right," she said with a sigh. "You go first, but leave me and my newspaper out of your conversation with Savage."

  "If that's the way you want it, I will, but if I should happen to spot an area regarding your newspaper where I can smooth the way for your talk with the man, I don't see why I can't put in a good word for you. Fair enough?"

  "Fair enough," she muttered, wishing he weren't such a handsome and silver-tongued devil. "Now, if that's all, I'd like to go to my room."

  Donovan bunched his usually jaunty brows. "There is a little something else I think we should discuss, but I'm not sure exactly how to broach the subject."

  "If you're afraid what you have to say might upset me," she said, her mood turning surly, "maybe it would be best to skip the subject altogether."

  He shrugged. "Whatever you say. But if I were you, I'd be interested in anything that might help me make the best damn impression I could on Randolph T. Savage."

  "Oh?"

  Donovan nodded solemnly as he looked her up and down. "You didn't happen to bring any normal clothes along, did you?"

  "Normal? What do you mean by that?"

  "Something other than those buckskins that make you look like Calamity Jane, or the dress you're wearing, which makes you look like a Salvation Army sergeant. When you meet Savage, you'll need to play on his sympathies, not make him feel like you're about to parade a group of suffragists through his office."

  Libby glanced down at herself. "I thought this dress made me look businesslike, but maybe it is a little severe. I also brought the red and white gown I wore to supper in Laramie. Would that be better?"

  "I'm afraid not." Picturing the outfit and the way Libby had carried herself while wearing it, Donovan cringed. "Please don't take offense, dear, but that one makes you look like you're wearing someone else's dress."

  So he'd known all along that she'd been wearing a borrowed gown. Her cheeks burned with humiliation, but Libby was determined enough to impress the publishing magnate, to encourage Donovan's suggestions. "I'm afraid those are the only clothes I brought with me. As I said before, most of my work requires comfort, not style, so I have a very limited wardrobe. Is there a way I can fix them up a little?"

  He shook his head. "You don't have to apologize about your clothes, and I don't mean to criticize them either, but I do think we need to get you into something else before you go to see Savage."

  "I appreciate your advice, but I'm afraid that it's been quite a struggle for Jeremy and me since pa died. We're just now getting some of the bills caught up." Libby glanced over to where her boot had landed, regretting the two dollars she'd wasted on it. "I'm afraid I simply don't have the extra money to go out and buy new clothes."

  "I wasn't suggesting that you should. After what I put you through, I feel that I owe you something more than an apology and a place to stay. Why don't you let me make it up to you by taking you shopping? I'll outfit you from head to toe, and by the time you meet Savage, you'll knock him dead."

  Still staring at the uncomfortable boot, again she found herself considering one of Donovan's inappropriate offers. It wouldn't be the right or proper thing to do, accepting clothes from a strange man—one who'd tricked her, at that. It wouldn't be right at all. But right wasn't going to do much to help persuade Savage Publishing to see things her way. And if Donovan had a point about the importance of her appearance—and she suspected that he did have—she really couldn't chance wearing anything she owned.

  Lifting her gaze to meet his, Libby gave him a wan smile. "I guess a new dress would go a long way toward making me forget what you did to me in Laramie." But to make sure he wouldn't think of her as beholden to him in anyway, she added, "Since you're willing to do all that for me, I'm willing to call it even between us."

  "Done," he said magnanimously, sensing that he'd finally gotten the upper hand with the sassy little ink-slinger.

  * * *

  As promised, Donovan had taken Libby shopping for clothes, and had even spent a whole afternoon showing her the sights of San Francisco—most notably, a lovely carriage ride through heavily wooded and thoroughly charming Golden Gate Park. Having lived in Laramie all her life, Libby had never seen anything like it or the San Francisco Bay, with its throngs of sea gulls and fishing boats. He'd even treated her to restaurant suppers twice now: once at Sam's Grill, where she'd tried green turtle soup; then again last night, when he'd taken her down to the wharf, to a place called the Cobweb Palace, for clam chowder and cracked crab. "A prelude," he'd said then, "to the victory supper of lobster we will soon share at Delmonico's."

  Libby didn't have a reason in the world or the right to complain about a thing. Donovan went off to the "theatre" each and every night, leaving her to manage on her own. He slept most of the day, and then disappeared into the night again. His long absences did not bother her, as he did have a business to run, no matter how morally questionable this "theatre" of his might be. Besides, what woman in her right mind groused because a man treated her like a lady?

  Left alone much of the time, she'd filled her time by writing editorials and letters home to Jeremy, as well as making a few journeys around the city on her own. Her only source of irritation was Gerda, who'd come by the house another four times since Libby's arrival from Laramie, and still treated Libby as if she were one of the painted ladies from Lucky Lil's. The fact that the Frau steadfastly refused to set foot in her room didn't bother Libby much since she was unused to having anyone do her chores for her. But she was tired of feeling like an outcast, especially now that Black Monday—as she'd begun to view it—was here.

  Her nerves feeling taut as she sat in one of the lavish waiting rooms at Savage Publishing, Libby made a fast study of her appearance—again. She was wearing the smashing new outfit Donovan had bought for her—the tight-fitting jacket made of terra-cotta sateen set off by olive trim, the draped skirt checkered in strawberry red and white. He'd even insisted on buying her a saucy little English straw bonnet trimmed with pink roses and an ecru ostrich plume, a hat she could wear with everything she owned. She'd never possessed anything quite so cosmopolitan as her new outfit, or so comfortable as the soft kid leather shoes beneath it, but still, she couldn't lose the feeling that something wasn't quite right.

  Turning to Donovan for reassurance, Libby held her gloved hand out to him and said, "Look at me—I'm shaking so badly, I can't even hold my fingers steady."

  He reached for her hand just as an attractive young woman approached. "Mr. Savage will see you now, Mr. Donovan."

  Giving Libby's fingers a quick squeeze, he whispered, "Wish me luck." Then he lifted himself and Andrew's satchel up from the plush leather couch, and disappeared with the secretary through a pair of wide double doors at the end of the hall.

  Donovan walked into the publishing scion's office, sniffing the air. As he'd expected, it was permeated with the heady aroma of money and all the trappings such a vast fortune could buy. The scent of fine leather and premium burled walnut drifted past his nose along with a whiff of rich pipe tobacco. Blindfolded, Donovan would have known in an instant that he'd stepped into the domain of an extremely wealthy man.

  Not that another's prosperity made him feel humble or inferior in any way. In fact, ostentatious displays had always annoyed his sense of fair play, or something close to it. Answering what he viewed as a challenge, Donovan displayed the only riches he'd ever
possessed—grit enough to choke a full-grown horse—and strode right up to the magnate's expansive desk without waiting for a proper introduction.

  "It's, ah, Mr. William Donovan to see you, sir," the secretary said, stumbling over the words.

  While his sharp-eyed gaze never left Donovan's face, Savage waved the young woman away. "Thanks, Grace." Then he reached out and shook Donovan's hand, scrutinizing him as he waited for the secretary to close the door behind her. Once she was gone, he finally addressed Donovan.

  "Please," he said, his voice pleasant but firm, as he lowered himself onto his plush, barrel-shaped chair. "Have a seat."

  "Don't mind if I do."

  Donovan chose one of the three walnut and black leather chairs across from the man's desk, set the satchel on the floor beside him, then took another really good look at the man. Savage wasn't at all the way he'd pictured him; in fact, he was quite the opposite. Judging from Andrew's age, his father had to be close to fifty, but the publisher didn't look one hell of a lot older than Donovan. What Donovan could see of Savage's physique appeared to be trim and fit, and he still had a full head of coal-black hair, which was merely sprayed at the temples with gray, rather than streaked clear through. Even his eyes, clear blue in color, were as keen as any young sharper's Donovan had come across.

  R. T. smiled as Donovan perused him, and said, "I wasn't sure when I saw the name if it'd really be you, but from what I can see, I'd have to say that it is. What made you come looking for me?"

  This odd remark startled Donovan, making him feel like he was playing a game of draw poker, blindfolded. Savage almost sounded as if he'd already received information about his dead son. Before Donovan could draw any conclusions, R. T. asked yet another bizarre question, adding to Donovan's general confusion.

  "Did your mother have a hand in this, or does she even know you've come to see me?"

  What the hell did his mother have to do with this? Was the man baiting him for some reason, trying to make him feel like a kid in need of parental permission? Donovan tried to draw on his anger, but the hairs at his neck grew stiff with foreboding. "My mother doesn't have a damn thing to do with our business. I've come to see you about one of your sons."