He stepped away, planted his back against the wall opposite the door, gritted his teeth, and kicked. Wood splintered. He kicked again. The door burst open.
Venice stood pressed against the door leading to the balcony. The light from a guttering hurricane lamp flickered over the folds of her white nightgown, gilding her features. Her eyes were wide and stricken.
“I was going out there.” She lifted a shaking finger toward the verandah. Her shadow parodied her movements on the wall behind her. Noble slammed the door shut, picked up a blanket, and jammed it at the base of the door to keep the poisonous smoke at bay.
In three steps, he was before her. Another step, and she was in his arms, pressing her face to his chest. He held her fiercely, tightly, then effortlessly lifted her in his arms. She was safe. His relief was a physical sensation.
Katie’s voice rose, loud and imperative above the commotion outside. “It’s out! Do you hear me? Just smoke left! Some asshole set the carpet on fire, but it’s out now! Don’t kill yerselves stampedin’! Stay in yore room and open the windows!”
The tension ebbed from Noble’s arms. “Did you hear?” he asked Venice, his mouth skimming the glistening black tresses that spilled over her shoulders.
“Yes,” she murmured.
“You won’t be able to spend the rest of the night here. As soon as we can, we’ll get you over to the Pay Dirt. You can have my room there.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was a faint sigh. The feel of her lips moving against his throat, combined with the abrupt release of tension, was wreaking havoc on his body.
The skinny little girl had become a womanly armful. Hard on the heels of that thought came self-disgust. Gingerly, Noble lowered her to the ground. Disgusting old goat. Here the poor girl is shaking like a leaf and all you can think about is kissing her senseless.
Brusquely, Noble set Venice at arm’s length and, determined to be reassuring, patted her gently on the shoulder. Not a good idea. She was warm beneath the thin cambric nightgown. Now that the danger was over, he was remembering with disturbing clarity every detail of her body against his: the weight and movement of breasts freed from bindings, her softness pressed to his hardness, the curve of her waist, the jut of her hip bone low on his belly.
Seemingly of their own volition his fingers curled over her upper arm, pulling her closer. She came willingly, bending toward him, graceful and yielding and comely. Her eyes, as soft and dangerous as the smoke, met his expectantly. Slowly, incrementally, he lowered his head. Wonder and welcome touched her lips with the promise of a smile.
Then he was touching her mouth with his own. Petal soft and warmly pliant beneath his. Her breath was as sweet-tasting as nectar. With a groan, Noble sipped the exhalation from her lips, afraid to ask more of the kiss, unable to help himself.
He released her arms to keep from dragging her closer to him. His traitorous hands slid to the silk-textured column of her throat, measuring its length, pausing on the fluttering pulse beneath her skin before lifting his palms and cupping her delicately formed head. He winnowed his fingers through the downy soft hair on the nape of her neck, smoothed the curls from her temples, his lips never leaving hers.
They could burn me for a witch, Venice thought wildly. She had conjured him here. She must have. For reality could never so faithfully adhere to fantasy.
She should be appalled by his boldness, frightened by his unexpected embrace. But his touch was so gossamer light, so undemanding. She could only stay, held by the awesome gentleness of his touch, the perfect, quivering control he exercised.
His warm breath sluiced over her mouth. The firm curve of his lips gently polished her own. His long, strong fingers played over her features with the delicacy and dedication of a blind artist.
Her heart thudded in her breast. Her body, awakened suddenly to an unsuspected universe of pleasure, urged her forward, demanding more. She gave in to the need to touch him in turn, to feel his body, his face. Carefully, she stroked his lean, dark cheek. His lashes slashed down on his cheeks as he closed his amber eyes. He turned his head, rubbing the side of his face against her palm.
His long, tangled hair coiled on his throat, antique gold strands gleaming against brown skin as rich as autumn oaks. She hesitated only a second before bracketing his beard-roughened jaw between both hands.
Instantly, his arms came about her. He stroked to her waist, arching her into him, with his other hand tilting her face to his. She would have fallen, but his arms held her fast, locked against his powerful male body bending over her.
His mouth left hers, finding the arch of her neck. He rubbed his lips along her throat, tasting the flesh with exquisite care.
Wet, hot, and dangerous. She quivered in response to his sensual assault, her palms reading the thirsty motion of his open mouth.
With a groan, he lifted his head, his golden gaze burning down at her. His chest heaved beneath the worn shirt. Heat and hardness, brute strength and poignant tenderness assailed her senses. She clung to him, light-headed and breathless.
He gritted his teeth suddenly, wrenching his gaze away, releasing her from the molten heat holding her captive. Passion was an addiction, an instantly acquired one, and Venice’s long-denied body ached for sensations just learned. She moved her hands down the strong pillar of his neck, following the broad slope of his shoulders, and finally drew him back down to her. He resisted. His body tightened.
In confusion, Venice searched his face.
He was staring at the bed where she’d heaped her dresses, preparing to throw them from the balcony. When his eyes returned to hers, they were shuttered. He straightened, hauling her upright, grasping her wrists and dragging them down to her sides.
“It was you,” he said, “You’re the woman in the blue dress.” His golden eyes gleamed; the moonlight washed over his clean, angular features. They were set in a fierce, familiar expression. And suddenly she knew.
“Slats McCaneaghy,” she breathed.
Chapter 6
So, she remembers, Noble thought. Well, at least she’s still capable of being embarrassed.
He dropped her hands as though they were scalded by the same heat that flamed her cheeks. He stepped back, disgusted because a part of him didn’t care that she’d teased him from her balcony with no thought to the possible consequences. A part of him just wanted to feel her pressed against him once more.
It made him so angry that he swore. Venice gave a little gasp. Damn, if he didn’t have to stifle the impulse to apologize—apologize to her—for being less than a gentleman! God, where was his sense of humor?
“Slats. This is wonderful! Where have—”
“It was you on that balcony, wasn’t it?” he demanded again, refusing to believe in her radiant welcome. He wouldn’t be duped by her again.
“Yes,” she said. “But where have—”
She was a white-faced, bold little piece of goods.
“And you hadn’t any idea who I was.” He didn’t even try to sort out why it mattered so much that she hadn’t recognized him. Why should she? He was the cook’s brat.
“No. I would never have recognized you at first glance,” she said, smiling.
“‘First glance’?” Noble echoed dryly. “Honey, that was more than glancing you were doing.”
She blushed. He could see the pink stain even in the flickering light of the oil lamp. “I couldn’t see you clearly.”
“Ha! I got the distinct impression you saw everything just fine,” Noble said. “What was wrong, honey? You get bored waiting to close down the spur line? Needed a little diversion?”
“Diversion?” her voice rose. “Just what do you think I am?”
God, she sounded indignant. Then again, she’d sounded indignant when she was ten and explaining how she hadn’t been spying on him and the parlor maid in the gazebo. Seemed like Venice had graduated from spectator sports to active participation.
But he wasn’t a sport.
“You’re just another thrill-seeking socie
ty hussy.”
“How dare you?” Her voice was low and furious.
“I’ll tell you how. Answer me this—if you’re capable of honesty—what were you doing on that balcony? Trying a little experiment? Didn’t you just want to see if the mountain tramp was as easy to get all worked up as one of your New York boyfriends? Wal, let me warn you, darlin’, I’m no one’s experiment.”
Picking up her periwinkle dress, he crumpled the fragile fabric. She was a born heartbreaker. He was glad he had missed watching her turn into another Adele, sneaking off with the cook’s son to discover if they did it better.
He was glad Trevor had barred him from the Leiland mansion . . . and Venice.
“Experiment?” she exploded, quivering. “What inconceivable temerity, you insufferable piece of . . . of . . . gandy prancing buffalo swallow!”
His mouth gaped. “Where the hell did you learn that?”
“That is none of your business.”
“Yeah, right. And I can’t begin to tell you how glad I am about that.”
She made some sort of strangled noise and shook the black coils of her hair. The movement drew his eyes to the sway of her unbound breasts beneath the pristine white nightgown. His body clenched in immediate response. He fought back the desire he felt building.
“Just what the hell are you doing in Salvage, anyway?” he asked furiously. “Flirting with strangers, alienating every decent woman in town, and nearly getting yourself killed in a fire?”
“I don’t appear to be dead. But given a few more minutes with you, one of us may yet succumb,” she returned just as furiously.
“You can’t take care of yourself any better now than you could ten years ago,” he spat in disgust.
“I beg to differ. I’ve had to learn to take care of myself. And since we’re demanding explanations . . . where did you disappear to ten years ago? And why didn’t you tell me who you were downstairs earlier? Were you afraid of me . . . or ashamed of yourself?”
What an act. Had she cared so little for him that she hadn’t even inquired about where he’d gone after he’d been banished from the Leiland’s mansion? It was a new hurt. On top of all the old ones.
“Ten years ago I was drafted into the union army, sweetheart.”
“Oh, God. I didn’t—”
“Course,” he broke in, “you might not have realized there was a war going on, being all wrapped up in cotton batting on Park Avenue like you were.” He didn’t care that he was being unfair.
“Why, you presumptuous, sanctimonious, insufferable . . . scarecrow!”
“Scarecrow? Wal, I’m real sorry, honey, that I’m not all greased up and slicked out like that society eel you have slithering around your ankles.”
“Are you, by some chance, referring to Mr. Reed?”
“Yeah.” Noble thrust out his chin. “I am.”
Her silver eyes disappeared between thick black lashes. “At least Mr. Reed has a sense of commitment. At least he cares enough to honor his promises.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I’ll tell you what I mean! You promised you’d always, always, be my friend and then you left, disappeared without a word, not one word, in ten years!” She had taken a step closer and Noble found he’d backed up.
“What were you going to do if I showed up on your doorstep, Venice? Offer me a job as your stable boy?” he asked sarcastically.
“I can’t believe you think our friendship meant so li—” She stopped herself, apparently thinking better of her words, and cast a deliberately disparaging look over his half-buttoned shirt, ill-fitting jeans, and bare feet. “It might have been a step up!”
He pulled himself straight. “You,” he pronounced, “have become a snob.”
“And you have become a bully!” She had to tip her head back to look him in the face. She glared at him.
“I am not bullying you!” Noble thundered.
“You are so! You sweep in here without so much as a by-your-leave, kiss me, and then start shouting at me because I didn’t recognize you!”
“That is not why—”
“How could I have recognized you! You’re six inches taller, sixty pounds heavier, and—” she reached up and grabbed his ponytail, “—you have hair!” She gave it a sharp yank.
“Ouch!”
She put her hands on her hips. “And, I might point out, you didn’t recognize me either!”
He had begun to feel a bit sheepish, uncomfortably aware that her accusations were justified. But the reminder of her wanton behavior rekindled his righteous indignation.
“I would have recognized you if you hadn’t been hiding in the shadows, whispering throaty come-ons to me.”
A muscle jumped in her cheek. “Well,” she said stiffly, “I may have acted impetuously in whistling at your ridiculous masculine posturing earlier today, but I certainly wasn’t whistling out the window a few minutes ago.”
“Ridiculous masculine—!” Noble sputtered. “You seemed to like it all right when you were sighing from your balcony. In fact I thought you were gonna throw yourself off the damn—”
“You awful man! The way you’re acting, one would suppose I’d set this dratted place on fire myself, just to lure you out of whatever hole you’ve spent the night in, for the extremely dubious pleasure of being slobbered on by you!”
“Slobbered?” He’d had enough. “Lady, if I hadn’t seen that damned dress, I’d have you on your backside with your skirt up around your ears right now. And we both know it!”
A lady would have succumbed to a fit of the vapors at such raw language. Apparently Venice was no lady.
She took a step closer, her nose an inch from his chest, and the belligerent thrust of her delicate jaw matched his own. “You’d like to think so,” she said defiantly.
Nah-uh. Not this time. He’d call her bluff. He speared his fingers through her thick, sleek hair, roughly pulling her closer, cradling the back of her head.
Her eyes widened in surprise and she placed her hands on his chest, her fingertips just grazing his naked skin above the unfastened opening. She pushed ineffectually at him. He smiled, an evil smile of intent, and forced her nearer. He stared into her moonlit eyes a second before lowering his mouth over hers.
She tasted like a man’s most erotic dream. His tongue slid between her lips touching the rough silk texture of her own. He had meant to frighten her, but the force and intensity of his passionate response to her confounded him. He tore his mouth away.
Without a backward glance, he spun on his bare heels and ripped the blanket from beneath the door jamb. He flung it aside, cursing profusely as he left.
Venice raked trembling fingers through her hair. She wasn’t afraid. Despite the danger radiating from his long, tensile body, Noble McCaneaghy hadn’t frightened her.
She’d spent years mourning his loss, wondering when he would come back, and more years wondering what had happened to him. Now she knew.
He wasn’t “Slats” any longer. That pale, scrawny, skin-headed boy had become a hard, bronzed panther of a man. Only his golden eyes were still familiar.
She picked up the periwinkle dress from the floor and amended that appraisal. His dictatorial, bull-headed disapproval of her actions was familiar, too.
If he felt so sure that she had become a seasoned hussy, then why had he kissed her so . . . hungrily?
She planted her fists on her hips, the movement drawing her attention to the matronly folds of thick, virginal white cambric. No holy sister in a cloistered order wore a more blameless gown. Her sense of remorse faded as her sense of injury grew.
So, she had whistled at him, displayed a minor degree of aesthetic appreciation. So what? And if she were guilty of using her feminine charms— flirting, she believed he’d called it—to ease her way in the world, what of it?
It was a male-dominated world and women— even rich, privileged women such as herself—had been given a completely unsatisfactory arsenal with which
to compete. A woman would have to be a fool or a saint not to use every weapon at her disposal. Venice didn’t claim to be either.
She stomped over to the bed, retrieved her dressing gown, and gave it a violent snap to shake the smoke fumes loose. Wrenching open the door to the armoire, Venice flung the gown inside. As she did so, Katie appeared in the doorway, a garishly embroidered kerchief held over her nose. The concern drained from her eyes when she saw Venice.
“Hey, was that McCaneaghy leaving your room?” Katie’s voice, muffled behind the cloth, was alive with interest. “Boy, do you work fast! Honey, you got a future here, should your daddy ever lose his money and—”
“It wasn’t like that,” Venice said. “Mr. McCaneaghy is not at all what I expected.”
“Better?” Katie asked in an awed voice.
“No. I mean, I didn’t have the opportunity to. . . I mean I don’t want to know if. . . . oh, damn and blast!”
“Wal, fine, Venice, whatever you say.”
“Nothing happened! Nothing!”
“Calm down, honey. Rome wasn’t built in a day . . . you’ll get him.”
“I repeat: I don’t want him.”
It was a lie. Judging by the way Katie’s lids narrowed in patent disbelief above the handkerchief, she knew it, too.
One little fact stood like a wall between Venice and her anger: Noble’s kiss.
It wasn’t her first kiss, but it might as well have been. When she’d used the word “slobber” to goad him, she’d used a word her other suitors had inspired. There had been nothing in the least “slobbery” about Noble’s mouth on hers, his tongue . . .
Oh, Lord.
It had been as wonderful, as magical, as marvelous and beautiful and exhilarating as anything she’d ever experienced.
And it had come from a man who’d broken her heart once already.
Bright, late morning sun streamed in through the window. Pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, Noble groaned. It felt as though someone had emptied a bucket of sand devils behind his lids. But he deserved his discomfort. He’d been so busy storming around in high dudgeon last night, he’d forgotten he’d originally offered Venice his room. So much for chivalry.
Connie Brockway Page 7
