The Marrying Kind

by Sharon Ihle

  He didn't have any idea where she'd gotten it, but she was dressed in a flashy gown of bright rose-colored sateen that sported a scandalously low-cut bodice of emerald velvet. At the valley between her breasts, where the gown dipped to its lowest, she wore a large satin rose that matched the skirt of the gown. He'd imagined Libby at this shindig more than once already, and with a good deal of remorse as he pictured her wide-eyed curiosity and bubbling laughter over some of the excesses he'd witnessed here today. But never had he dreamed that she'd actually show up. And yet, there she was, nervously making her way across the ballroom.

  She was glancing this way and that, searching, Donovan supposed, for his father. When she was close enough, he reached out and grabbed her arm. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded.

  Libby yelped in surprise, then quickly turned to him with fire in her eyes. "I was invited, remember?"

  "I also remember that I sent you packing." That's what he told her but Donovan couldn't stop thinking about how good she looked, how great she smelled, or how badly he wanted to drag her back behind the palm with him and kiss her till the rose between her breasts wilted from the heat. He went on, unaware at first that he was shouting, "Why aren't you back in Laramie, where you belong?"

  "You tossed me out of your house," she gently reminded him. "But I don't believe you have the authority to toss me out of the city, too. I've as much right to be here as you do."

  Donovan took a fast glance around to see if anyone had heard him shout, but as far as he could tell, the little disagreement between himself and Libby had gone unnoticed. Determined to keep things that way, he roughly pulled her back behind the palm with him. "Where are you staying? I know you can't afford a hotel. And where the hell did you get that... that dress?"

  Removing his hand from her upper arm, Libby made a great show of studying the row of faint dots his fingertips had left on her skin before favoring him with an answer. "If you must know, and I'm not sure you have the right to know anything about me anymore, I met someone who was more than happy to fix me up with a decent gown so I could attend this party."

  "Decent? I don't think so." Donovan's gaze automatically dipped into the bodice of her dress. Near as he could figure, the only thing keeping him from a shocking glimpse of her nipples, was a double row of rose-colored lace tucked beneath the lush green velvet. But something else troubled him even more. "Exactly where are you staying?"

  After popping her silk fan open, Libby peered over the top edge of it and murmured, "Again, I'm not sure that it's any of your business, but my new friend has taken me in for a few days."

  "What?" Donovan's eyes flared with outrage and the veins in his neck surfaced like a pair of dueling swords. "Dammit all, Libby. You can't go around trusting strange men, especially in a big city like this."

  "I didn't have much choice." She paused to fan her flushed cheeks, knowing they must be scarlet with excitement. Dell had always said, the best way to find out whether a man cared or not, was to try to make him jealous. While Libby didn't know that jealousy was the emotion turning his throat red above his starched white collar, she thought it might be close. Pouting, she added, "I had to make a new friend after you banished me from your home, didn't I? I had nowhere to go and practically no money. Naturally, when I was befriended by the nicest, kindest—"

  "Befriended, my ass." Champagne splashed along the back of his hand as Donovan waved his arms, but he hardly noticed. "All you would have had to do was twitch your tail at any man in town, and you'd have had a place to stay for as long as you liked. Hasn't it occurred to you that before the night is over, your 'friend' will have you on your back with your bloomers down around your ankles before you can even shout 'uncle'?"

  Smiling demurely, Libby waved her fan just beneath her nose. "Why Donovan, I thought you knew me well enough to realize that I'm the kind of woman who'd never shout 'uncle' once I'd agreed to be someone's 'friend.'" He made a kind of strangled sound over that, pleasing her immensely. "If you'll excuse me, I see your father over by the punch bowl. I want to thank him for inviting me to such a lovely party."

  Before he could respond, Libby snapped her fan shut, swished around to head toward the fountain, then released the palm frond she'd pulled aside as she made her exit—which in turn slapped Donovan full in the face. Behind her, Libby heard him yelp, but she didn't dare turn around to see what kind of damage she'd inflicted on him. Her legs were shaking so badly she was lucky to be still standing, much less making her way across the room. But so far, knock on wood, everything was working out just the way she'd hoped it would—maybe even a little bit better. Libby didn't know much about men, but she could tell that Donovan Savage cared about her at least a little—enough to be jealous, at any rate—or her name wasn't Liberty Ann Justice. Now if she could just make a good impression on his father, her troubles might finally be over.

  Back in his corner nursing his wounds, Donovan stewed for several minutes in the juices of his anger. He absently rubbed at his right cheek, soothing the welt one of the palm spears had made as it snapped back into position, and worked at calming his suddenly explosive temper. He glanced at what was left of his champagne, thought of tossing it back, but dumped it into the base of the plant instead. At this point, alcohol would only make him feel even more deranged than he already felt. Tugging at the stiff collar of his formal dress shirt, feeling choked by it, he watched Libby sashay up to his father and begin a rather animated conversation. It was then Donovan decided to act as her escort for the rest of the evening. To hell with her new "friend," whoever and wherever he may be. Someone had to protect her from herself.

  "...and, I'm sorry to say," R. T. commented, "I haven't had the time to review your request. Let me think about this a moment." As he considered his options, the man's gaze skimmed Libby's bosom, lingering there long enough for his eyebrows to lift a little in spontaneous homage. "Tell you what we'll do. My son Francis actually handles most of the newspaper business for me—he's managing editor—so I think it'd be best to turn your problem over to him. If you like, I'll introduce you to him a bit later, and maybe the two of you can set up an appointment."

  "Oh, well, if that's what you think is best..." She was tired of having her business problems put off. Then, aware that Donovan had drifted up beside her, Libby gave him a brief smile of acknowledgment and gracefully accepted R. T.'s decision. "Then that's what we'll do."

  "Good. I'm pleased to know that's settled." R. T. beamed at Donovan. "There you are—I was wondering where you went off to. Your friend here was just..."

  As his father droned on about editorials and such, Donovan sneaked several furtive glances at Libby. He couldn't help wondering all over again how she'd come to be here and who her new friend might be. Who'd fixed her hair, piling perfect little curls into an artful coif, complete with a spray of satin roses woven throughout? Where had she gotten not just the gown and matching accessories, but the simple strand of pearls draped provocatively around her throat?

  Something ugly churned in him at the thought of another man outfitting her so seductively, of that faceless interloper touching her silken skin even long enough to fasten the clasp of the necklace. The next thing Donovan knew, he was picturing himself tossing Libby onto his bed, then mussing those carefully arranged curls until they were strewn across his pillow. Adding to the illusion, he mentally stripped her until she was wearing nothing but that somehow tantalizing strand of pearls. His entire body quickened at the thought, then grew rigid with sudden desire—along with something else, something just as urgent and explosive: a rush of anger. Who the hell had taken her in, he wondered, enraged again. And what could he do to prevent her from returning to the bastard tonight?

  "Donovan?" said R. T. "You look ready to commit murder."

  "What?" He had no idea what his father could be talking about.

  "Are you all right, Son?"

  Jamming his hands in his pockets, angry at himself now for letting his imagination run away, Donovan mutt
ered, "Sure. All this is just a little overwhelming, I guess."

  "Ah, yes, I'm feeling that way myself. Tell you what—why don't we slip away from the party for a while. We haven't had a moment to ourselves, given all the well-wishers and nosy chatterboxes. Come, I'll show you parts of the house where guests are forbidden to enter."

  Although R. T. hadn't actually included her in the invitation, in fact, hadn't so much as looked her way when he'd issued it, Libby tagged along with the men. Not only was she curious about the way the Savage family lived, but she had a job to do for Lil that required her to keep either R. T. or his newest son by her side at all times.

  Trying to keep from looking too awestruck over the place as she moved out of the ballroom and into an inside courtyard filled with aromatic flowers, bubbling fountains, and marble statuary of Grecian design, Libby recalled the way Savage had classified his living quarters as a house. To her way of thinking, she lived in a house in Laramie, and Donovan lived in a nicer house in San Francisco. However, this Italianate villa constructed of cut stone and marble was anything but a house. This was a shrine, an art museum, a palatial castle, all rolled into one.

  Marveling over the profusion of oil paintings, gilded furniture, Oriental carpets, and bowed windows featuring dramatic views of the city and bay as R. T. guided her and Donovan toward the home's vast foyer, Libby paused to admire the spiral staircase that led to the second and third floors. She expected to be led up the elegant Oriental runner gracing those circular stairs, but the magnate bypassed them and beckoned her to join him at an elaborately scrolled iron gate a few feet beyond the staircase.

  "I thought we'd take the elevator," R. T. explained to Donovan, ordering the attendant to open the gate by just crooking his finger. "I usually like to climb the stairs, but Olivina finds it cumbersome and even dangerous to negotiate them in her ball gowns. Since Miss Justice decided to join us, I thought we should show her the same consideration." He swept his arm toward the car. "After you, dear lady."

  Libby stepped into the elevator, awed to find that like everything else in the magnate's home, the car exuded his vast wealth. Three small paintings depicting idyllic mountain streams were hung among several gilt-framed mirrors along the interior walls. The wainscoted redwood had been recently polished, rubbed with linseed oil, Libby thought, recognizing the scent of a compound also found in her favorite aroma, that of printer's ink. After the conveyance lurched to a start, within a matter of seconds she was standing in the hallway of the second floor of the Savage mansion, her stomach feeling as if it had been left behind, somewhere closer to the first floor.

  "Come," said R. T. to Donovan, his long strides eating up the long hallway much faster than Libby could. "Let's go into my study, where we can have a little privacy."

  Moments later, when Libby stepped through the massive arched doorway leading into the private library, father and son had already taken seats across from one another at a small, intimate table for two by a window overlooking one of several courtyard gardens. R. T. waved to Libby without really looking at her.

  "Take a seat anywhere you like, Miss Justice. Or, if you think you'd be more comfortable, you may wish to return to the party. Just pull the rope near the elevator door, and my man will take you back down."

  "Oh, goodness, no. I need to sit for a moment to catch my breath." Trying not to look too agog over the ostentatious display of embroidered purple and gold velvet draperies, shelf upon shelf of leather-bound books, and frescoed walls set off by purple satin furnishings, Libby reclined against a gilded chaise longue not far from where the men sat, and pretended disinterest in their conversation.

  "As I was saying, Son," R. T. continue,; "now that you've seen a little more of the house, I imagine it's quite a shock for you to discover how well we've lived all these years, while you most likely, have lived a little differently. Just exactly what business are you in?"

  "I'm half-owner of a gambling theatre here in San Francisco. I do all right."

  R. T. nodded thoughtfully. "How long have you lived in the city?"

  Donovan shrugged, looking uncomfortable with the line of questioning. Maybe, Libby mused, Lil was wrong to worry about what secrets might be traded between the men.

  "I've been here a while."

  "And your mother?" R. T. asked so quietly, Libby almost couldn't make out the words. "We haven't even had a chance to talk about her. How is she?"

  Taking her cue, Libby jumped to her feet. "Shouldn't you two get back downstairs to greet the rest of your guests? We've been gone a spell."

  R. T. turned to her, smiling, but somehow, not smiling. "I'm sure they're fine. You may join them, if you wish." Then he returned his attention to Donovan. "Go on and tell me about your mother, Son. How is she?"

  "She's doing fine, thank you," he answered noncommittally. "Healthy and just as beautiful as ever."

  "Umm, I rather assumed she would be." R. T. closed his eyes, as if savoring some private memory, then opened them to resume his queries. "Where is Lillian now, still 'mining' the miners in mother lode country? Or did she come along to San Francisco with you?"

  Libby had been squinting at the subject of an oil painting that took up almost the entire wall above the marble fireplace, and trying to make out the blond woman's features without resorting to her spectacles. When she heard R. T.'s question, she quickly asked, "Who's the pretty lady in the picture, Mr. Savage? Your daughter?"

  His gaze pointed, R. T. shot her a thin smile. "The lady is my wife, Olivina. She'll be amused that you think she's young enough to be my daughter."

  Libby laughed, hoping she didn't sound too nervous. "That makes her Donovan's stepmother, then, doesn't it?"

  "Yes, and I'm sure that amuses her, too." R. T. sighed heavily. "I guess this really wasn't the ideal time for our little discussion after all, Son. Perhaps later, when most of the guests have gone home, we can have that private chat."

  Feeling that she'd done the job assigned to her, and done it well, Libby forced a cheerful expression as she followed the men back downstairs to the party. This time, and for reasons Libby wasn't clear about, R. T. bade them use the circular staircase—which not only made for a difficult descent for her, but gave her a momentary attack of vertigo in the bargain.

  Once they returned to the ballroom, R. T. pointed out to Donovan a small group of gentlemen who were laughing and talking. "Your friend, Miss Justice, has been wanting to talk with Francis. He can be pulled away from his cronies long enough to make her introduction. Do you mind seeing to that? Olivina is signaling me to join her, and if you know women..."—he paused to wink. "I think I'd best go see what she wants—now." Then with a short nod in Libby's direction, he turned and started across the freshly waxed floor.

  "I'll be right back," Donovan said to her, excusing himself. Returning a moment later, he presented his half brother to Libby. "This is Francis Savage, managing editor of Savage Publishing. And, Francis, I'd like you to meet Miss Liberty Ann Justice from Laramie, Wyoming Territory."

  Obviously catching the pun that could be made of her name, Francis repeated it, grinning just a little. "Liberty Ann Justice, is it? How charming. It's very nice to meet you."

  "It's a pleasure to meet you, too, Mr. Savage." Libby shook his hand, warming to him immediately. Francis bore only the vaguest resemblance to Donovan, and even so, she thought, the similarities were more in manner than actual looks. But something about him—the same sort of thing that drew her to his brother—made her feel at ease, as if she could trust him. Sure that her troubles would soon be over, Libby decided to get their business out of the way as quickly as possible. "Your father said that I should make an appointment with you so we can get together and discuss my newspaper, the Laramie Tribune."

  "I'm very much aware of your newspaper and your recent problems. Please, on behalf of Savage Publishing and myself, accept my condolences on the loss of your father."

  "I appreciate that more than you know." She looked beyond the brow furrowed with conce
rn to the man beneath, and knew instantly the sympathy he offered was sincere.

  "As for your efforts," Francis continued, "I must personally commend you for the excellent treatment you gave that heart rending story a couple of years back—I believe the article concerned a poor Irish girl who'd gone mad, and murdered her half-breed husband's uncle."

  "Oh, yes, I remember it well. Thank you for your kind words. The story was about John and Lacey Winterhawke, but she wasn't really mad and she didn't murder his uncle. His death was ruled an accident. The Winterhawke family still lives nearby and comes into Laramie fairly often. I think they have three or four children now."

  "It's nice to have a story with a happy ending, isn't it?"

  "Oh, yes. I just wish all of them did." Relaxing even more, she said, "Speaking of my stories, I have some questions regarding the editorial guidelines I'm expected to follow, and wonder if—"

  "Excuse me for interrupting, Miss Justice." The warmth had gone out of his tone, making him sound like Donovan whenever he was trying to talk her out of doing what she wanted to do. "But I'm afraid there's really no point in setting up a meeting."

  "Please, call me Libby." She sensed that anything she could use to her advantage—even something so small as inviting him to address her more personally—could help.

  "Libby, then." Francis looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I wish I had better news for you, but Savage Publishing has a very strict policy against promoting equal rights for women."

  "I'm aware of that, Mr. Savage, but I was hoping you'd see your way clear to letting me—"

  "Please." He held up one hand, then glanced at Donovan with a look that positively cried, "Help". If she hadn't been so worried on her own account, Libby might even have pitied the poor man. "My hands are tied in this matter. There's really nothing I can do to help you in regard to editorial policy. If you have any other concerns, say of a financial nature...?"

  Finances were the last things on her mind. The very last. "I don't think you understand how important this is to me, or what a service I can provide to—"