by Sharon Ihle
She was in the midst of having a quiet chuckle over that image when Joy burst into the room without knocking, as was her wont. "Did you send for me?"
Turning in the barmaid's direction, Libby smiled warmly and said, "Yes. I was wondering if you'd help me dress tonight, you know, fix me up kind of special."
Joy closed the door behind her and cocked her head. "Why doncha wear that buckskin outfit of yours? It seems to me if you was to strap on a gun with that get-up, you know, maybe get a big ole hog-leg of a pistol, put it right about here," she jabbed a fingertip at her navel, "then aim the barrel straight down at your fun house, the fellas would probably go crazy."
Looking away to keep her mortified expression from showing, Libby shook her head. "I don't want to look like Calamity Jane, and I sure don't want to be making any men crazy." With the exception of one, she silently amended, but even then, she didn't want to get him that crazy. "I was thinking I should wear something completely different for a change." She eyed Joy's scanty costume, then broke into a grin. "Here's what I'd like you to do for me..."
* * *
Downstairs at the faro table, Donovan had just about decided to call it a night. He'd been making stupid, irrational bets since he sat down—playing to lose is what he'd have called it had he been observing such behavior in any other gambler. And yet, self-punishment wasn't his way at all—at least it hadn't been before. He sat pondering that very disturbing realization, when a lush, slightly impertinent, and very familiar voice slid over his shoulder from behind.
"Would any of you gentlemen care for a drink?"
Sure he'd imagined the voice was Libby's after thinking about her the way he'd been all night, Donovan didn't even glance her way as the barmaid took drink orders from the other gamblers. But when she leaned up close and whispered against the back of his ear so that no one else could hear, and that springtime scent of hers hit him right between the eyes, he damn near fell out of his chair in shock.
"And what about you, Mr. Savage? Anything you need?"
Choking on something—surprise, rage, horror, maybe all three—he spun around on his chair. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded.
"Earning my keep." Libby straightened, pleased by his reaction, but cautiously placed her little serving tray between herself and Donovan for safety. "What'll it be? A beer? Or should I get you something a little stronger?"
"I'll get it myself," he muttered, jaw tight, as he looked her up and down. "In fact, I'll just go help you with the rest of the drinks." Nodding to the faro dealer without looking at him, he slowly rose from his chair and unnecessarily added, "I'm out of the game."
Libby could practically feel Donovan's gaze burning holes in her back as he followed her to the bar, but it wasn't until after she'd relayed the order to the bartender that he even acknowledged her presence. He did that by gripping her nude shoulders and setting her aside. Then, acting as if he'd merely rearranged a piece of furniture instead of a full-grown woman, he addressed the barkeep.
"Have Suzie or one of the other girls take those drinks to the faro table. This little lady is finished for the night."
"Oh, no, I'm not." Libby straightened and dug in for the fight. "This little lady has only begun. If you'll get out of my way, I'll just—"
Donovan jerked the words right out of her mouth as he roughly took her by the hand and hauled her away from the bar. Libby reluctantly allowed him this, only because she didn't want to cause him further embarrassment in his own establishment. Once they'd passed through the doorway and into the relative privacy of the San Francisco night, however, she balked.
"Turn me loose." She dug at his fingers with her free hand, but he was too strong, and much too determined. "Donovan—let go, you're hurting me."
Only then did he ease up, but not enough to release her. The full moon and soft glow from a gas lamp directly above them lit his rigid features, bathing him with a pale, buttery sheen. Yet Donovan's face was ashen, his eyes glittering like a pair of cold, hard diamonds. "If you don't want me to hurt you," he hissed, "then stop fighting me."
"But why shouldn't I fight? I haven't done anything wrong."
"No?"
His angry, silvery gaze raked the bodice of her scanty costume, becoming almost vicious as he noticed the way the bulk of her breasts seemed ready to plummet over the low scooping neckline of peacock-blue velvet. Joy had strapped her into a corset she called the squash-the-sides-push-'em-up-and-flop-'em-out special, a contraption guaranteed to "pop" the eyeballs of any man, even a eunuch. Libby thought perhaps the garment was working a little too well on Donovan.
"You don't think there's anything wrong with running around half-naked in a room full of drunken men?"
Libby tried to hide her grin, but felt the corner of her mouth lift as she softly said, "No, I don't—and if I don't, I can't see why you should. Unless, of course... you're jealous."
"Jealous? Me?" At that, he finally released her hand, but remained hovered over her, hawk-like in his possessiveness, trapping her there as surely as his grip had. "Jealous, hah. What a hoot."
Still grinning, but no longer trying to hide it, Libby shook off a sudden chill. The barmaid costume may have been unfair competition for Donovan, but it was no match for the damp night air. "If you're not jealous, then what difference does it make to you if I earn my keep at the theatre?"
"What difference?" He thrust his hands above his head. "What difference? I own the place, remember? I didn't hire you, and... and I don't want you working for me. Isn't that reason enough?"
"It would be, if not for one little thing." Too cold now to pretend she wasn't, Libby folded her arms beneath her breasts, which increased the length and breadth of her cleavage, and briskly rubbed her hands up and down her chilled skin.
Donovan's gaze raked her bodice and he scowled as he asked, "And that little thing would be?"
"Your partner hired me. I expect she'll want to be the one to fire me."
"My part—Lil hired you? My mother is your new friend?"
Libby nodded, so cold now, she was barely able to speak. "And, if you don't mind, I'm going b-back inside to work for her now before I f-freeze to death."
"Oh, no—no, no." After practically ripping off his own jacket, Donovan quickly draped it over Libby's shoulders. "You've got a lot of explaining to do." Distracted by a few ribald remarks being bandied about by passers-by, Donovan raised his fists at them. "What are you looking at, huh? Go on, get out of here."
Several of the strangers snickered and muttered a few more remarks, but they all gave him a wide berth. Donovan's anger seemed to have multiplied after hearing that his mother had taken part in Libby's extended visit. "Come on," he said, taking her by the hand again. "We'll have to finish this little discussion back at my house, but finish it, we will."
This was exactly what Libby had hoped for and was the reason she allowed him, again, to drag her away with him. Still, it wasn't until after they'd finally reached his house, out of breath but warmer now, between the jacket and brisk walk, that she was sure she'd made the right decision.
Muttering to himself by then, Donovan pulled her into the foyer, paused just long enough to light a small lamp on the hallway table, then continued on into the living room with Libby still in tow. Once inside the small but cozily furnished room, he didn't bother to offer her a seat or even illuminate the area beyond the steady glow from the foyer and generous swatch of moonlight streaming in through the bay window. He got right down to business.
"When I asked you to leave my house a few days ago, I didn't expect you to go running to my mother or to dress up like, like..." He waved at her costume, this time concentrating on the hem of the slender skirt, which ended about two inches short of her knees. Of course, he might have been pointing at her black French stockings or even the red satin garter wrapped around her thigh just above her right knee. "Like... like that."
Though it was totally unnecessary, she glanced down at herself. "Like what?" Libby asked innocent
ly. "This is the way the rest of the barmaids dress at your place."
"Yes, well... you're not like the rest of my help."
Now that he had her inside his own home, Donovan couldn't seem to get enough distance between himself and Libby. It was she who closed the space a little as she moved toward him, arms spread wide, and said, "What do you mean? I'm different from the rest of the women who work for you? Don't I fill out this dress as well as any of them?"
"Hell, yes, you do, and that's just the problem." He'd looked as if he were about to sit down on the window seat, but as she drew near, he locked his knees and edged in the opposite direction. "You don't belong in a dress like that, and you know it. In fact, I demand that you go upstairs and take it off this instant."
Smiling to herself, feeling more certain than ever that Donovan cared for her, Libby followed him as he moved about the room. "You like me, and you are jealous."
"I feel responsible for you, and that's a whole other thing." He shoved his fingers through the hank of dark hair that had fallen over his eye, but it soon tumbled back down his forehead again. "Now get upstairs."
Her smile grew broader. "You walked out on your own business and went to the trouble of bringing me back to your house. It seems to me that a fella would have to be feeling awfully responsible to do that." She caught up with him by a corner cupboard filled with volumes and miniatures in silver frames. "Why don't you just admit it and get it over with? You like me—a lot."
Donovan reached out to her then, looking as if he was going to drag her into his arms, but then at the last second, he jammed his hands into his trouser pockets instead. His shirtsleeves were a brilliant, ghostly white in the moonlight, and the satin brocade of his red vest caught sparks of light with each rapid breath he took. "What I do or don't like doesn't have a damn thing to do with this conversation. We're talking about you here, and the fact that you don't belong in a place like Lucky Lil's. Now, are you going to take that damned dress off, or do I have to rip it off of you?"
His words and the deliberately harsh way he'd said them were meant to scare her, to bully her into following his orders. Libby knew this without a doubt since she was, if only a little bit, frightened by his dark expression and the threats she saw glittering in his eyes. Instead of turning her away or giving her second thoughts, however, the sensation excited her, sending tiny shivers along her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
She moved a little closer to Donovan and gave him a long, slow smile. "Actually, I think I'd prefer it if you took the dress off—but try not to rip the material. It isn't mine, you know."
With that remark, he did reach out and drag her into his arms, crushing the breath from her lungs in his fierce embrace. "Damn you, Libby—this isn't a game. Do you understand what you're asking for, looking the way you do in that dress, saying the things you're saying? Do you understand what you're doing to me at all?"
Her pulse beat a rapid tattoo against her throat and she found it almost impossible to breathe, but Libby didn't hesitate with her answer. "I think," she murmured softly, "that maybe I do."
"You don't give a man much of a chance to behave himself, do you." It wasn't a question. Donovan raised her up higher and tighter in his embrace, leaving just the tips of her toes beneath her for support. His arms rigid ropes of steel, his thighs and other parts of him, hot and hard where he pressed against her legs and belly, he caught her chin in one hand and forced her to look directly into his eyes.
"Just exactly what is it you want from me?" Donovan asked, his voice no longer harsh, but thick and husky. "And this time, be sure you say exactly what you mean. Be very, very sure."
All of your love, all of you, is what she caught herself thinking, but Libby still had barely enough control left to keep from vocalizing the thought. She almost said, "Nothing," because she knew he would never be hers, not even for one night if she were to ask for more than a few moments in his arms. But she couldn't keep from testing him just a little. Speaking in a breathless whisper, she asked, "What if I were to ask for... your soul?"
Surprising her, Donovan uttered a short bitter laugh. "We wouldn't have a problem. I don't have one."
The moment the last word was out, his mouth came down on hers, and in that moment, Libby felt as if she had everything she'd ever need right here in her arms.
Chapter 12
Libby's next lucid thought came when she realized she and Donovan were lying on the braided rug on the living room floor—and that she was wearing nothing but a pair of frilly drawers, black stockings, and the complicated corset Joy had talked her into donning. Given the way Donovan's fingers were tearing at the laces, she wouldn't be wearing it long. And then what? she wondered, gripped by a sudden attack of nerves.
Aware that she'd tensed, Donovan stilled his hands. Then he looked up at her, his silvery blue eyes glittering wickedly in the pale moonlight, and whispered breathlessly, "I can still let you go, if you've changed your mind, but I have to warn you—this might be your last chance to get away. If you know what's good for you, you'll take it."
Libby met his gaze with determination, hoping with all her heart that the room was dark enough to keep him from seeing the fear lurking there too. "I think I'm a better judge than you are of what's good for me. I happen to believe that staying right here might just be very, very good for me."
"Libby... sweet Jesus." Her name and the way he said it was like an oath muttered in church, reverent blasphemy. He made a low rumbling noise in his throat, a sound akin to anguish, before giving her one final excuse to escape him. "I only hope you understand what's happening then, and that this is all I can give you. There won't be any promises of tomorrow or a future. Are you still so sure this is what you want?"
Libby forced herself to take plenty of time before answering. What Donovan offered wasn't all she'd hoped for, not by a long shot, and yet she wanted him with a near desperation, needed him too much not to allow a few sacrifices. Besides, wasn't what he proposed the exact kind of relationship so many of her sisters in the cause recommended? "Free love," they shouted to any who'd listen, be free to love and free to leave. It was, supposedly, the only way for a woman even to admit that she cared for a man if she wanted to make any kind of a mark for herself in this society created for and by men.
Shrugging off the last of her doubts, Libby looked Donovan right in the eye. "I understand what you mean completely. Now are you going to spend the rest of the night talking about what might happen, or do you think we could get to it?"
With a short, guttural laugh, Donovan crushed his mouth down on hers, the tender violence of the kiss touching her soul even as it rocked her body with its impact. Nudging her teeth apart with his tongue, he drove her wild with his explorations, teasing, tasting, tormenting every erotic sensation she held within her grasp. In the midst of his ever-deepening, head-spinning kiss, Libby felt Donovan's hands slide along her shoulders and return to her corset. His fingers busy at the laces again, moments later they were busy at her breasts, sending her deeper into chaos. Libby whimpered a little as his hands touched her nipples, caressing and worshipping them as if he'd never held such glorious treasures in his palm before. When his mouth followed suit, his sinful tongue exploring and laving her breasts even more thoroughly than her mouth, the sensations set off skyrockets within her, rivaling the display at the Savage mansion. Instinctively arching her back, she all but begged him to take her then and there.
"Donovan, my God... do something."
"Easy," he whispered, now feathering kisses across the tips of her rigid nipples. "This is something we don't want to rush."
Oh, but she did want to rush, to hurry along to each new delight the way she used to on Christmas morning. Libby could never sit still and wait to patiently open her gifts one package at a time, the way her brother did. She tore into them in a frenzy of eager anticipation, flitting from one treasure to the next until at last, her curiosity was satisfied. She felt that way now, wanting to taste, feel, and experience
all there was to know of Donovan, of what his caresses could do to her, of what she could do to him. And, she wanted it all this instant.
Libby tugged at his tie, freeing the bow, then went after the buttons at his starched collar. Frustrated when her fingers couldn't quite manage to loosen the snug buttonhole, she cried, "Help me get your shirt off. I have to feel your chest against me."
Chuckling deeply, Donovan propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at her. "I had an idea you'd be a handful, sweetheart, but this..." he practically growled the rest of the sentence, "Damn, Libby—you're really something."
"The buttons, Donovan."
The shirt was made in France of the finest linen available, interwoven down the frilly button path with silk threads of sparkling gold. It was his favorite shirt, too, but Donovan tore it up the middle as if it were merely a cheap muslin pattern, not the finished product. His gaze still pinned to Libby's expectant features, he quickly shrugged off the shirt, vest and all, then slipped out of his trousers.
Libby couldn't hide a gasp of surprise—or maybe it was sudden uncertainty. She'd had a really good look at every part of Donovan when he'd lost his trousers at the top of the stairs the other day. While the sight had been fascinating, to say the least, at the time, she hadn't concerned herself with the technicalities of the way his body would fit with hers. But now she had to wonder—could she accommodate a man such as this?
Donovan returned to her then, and before she could even figure a way to raise the question, he gathered her in his embrace, the coarse hairs fanned across his upper chest feeling rough against her erect nipples, and Libby promptly forgot her reservations. Her breath caught at the sudden intensity of sensation, then left her panting, starving for air. When Donovan slipped his hand beneath the waistband of her drawers, caressing the sensitive spot just below her navel as he tugged the garment lower and lower, her breathing stopped altogether.
