Almost a Lady (12 page)

That made two of them.

She shrugged the thin straps that passed as sleeves down her arms and let the stiffened material of the bodice, separate from the matching skirt, fall to the floor. She stood before him in nothing more than her skirt and corset. Another shift of weight and her jeweled, satin evening slippers slid across the carpet.

"
Ahh
,” she sighed.

He envisioned her wiggling her toes underneath the hem of her skirt, and a bolt of desire hit him square in the groin.

"Are you going to unlace me?” she asked, tossing an impatient glance over her shoulder.

Taking a step forward, he swallowed hard. With only the tips of his fingers, he grasped the ties of her corset and set about loosening them. He was careful to graze only fabric and not flesh, not wanting to touch her any more than necessary.

Oh, he
wanted
to touch her. Only St. Peter himself wouldn't—if St. Peter were truly that strong a man. But Brandt knew physical contact for the disastrous idea that it was. Just brushing her back as he undid her stays would bring on a desire to caress her shoulders, which would urge him to run his hands down toward her breasts. And who knew what he might want to touch then.

Ha! He knew precisely what he would want to touch next.

No, that way
lay
madness. That way
lay
the soft moans and whispered pleas he knew she uttered during lovemaking, and the pleasure he knew could be found within her supple body.

Just untie her corset and back away,
he told himself.
Turn around and walk into the other room before you do or say something you'll regret.

Once she felt an inch of give in the too-tight undergarment, she gave a sigh of relief and stepped away from him, toward the tall wardrobe in the corner. Opening one of the double doors, she found her red satin wrap and pulled it on, keeping her back to him. He watched the long, oriental dragon design wriggle and sway as she did. Soon, the corset slid past her hips to her feet and she kicked it aside with derision.

"You don't need that thing, you know,” he heard himself say.

Her head turned slightly at his assertion, but she didn't look at him or turn around. “I do if I expect to fit into these bloody French gowns. I think Mary ordered them a size too small on purpose."

With that, she pulled another undergarment out from beneath the red robe and tossed it away.

His eyes widened and then narrowed as he studied the object. Could it be what he thought it was? “And you certainly don't need
that,
” he added, taking a chance that his knowledge of ladies’
underthings
was up to snuff.

She turned sideways and spared a glance for the discarded piece of clothing before grinning at him. “Now on that, I will agree with you. Another insistence on Mrs. Xavier's part, though how anyone could think I need to enhance these"—she brought her hands up to encompass the region of her more than adequate bosom—"is a mystery."

He laughed. He couldn't help himself. Both her expression and her sentiment as she stood there framing her own ample charms struck him funny. Though now his attention was focused on the exact spot he'd been so determined to avoid. Blast and damn.

Willow tightened the belt of her robe and turned away from him once again, fiddling beneath the material with what he assumed was her remaining skirt, which hadn't been removed earlier. With a soft
swoosh,
the emerald taffeta pooled at her feet, followed by her garters and stockings. She did a bit more fiddling and then stepped away from the entire mess.

And Brandt's mouth went dry for the second . . . no, the third time that evening. On top of the pile sat Willow's drawers, discarded like just one more annoying piece of frippery.

Which meant that beneath that robe the color of sin . . . The rest of that thought stuck in his brain.
But the results of the image seemed to have no trouble reaching his already throbbing manhood.

Brandt had never met a woman so uninhibited, so unconcerned with modesty. One of the first times he'd seen her, before he knew who she really was, she'd been dressed much like this . . . in her fire-breathing dragon robe, with nothing underneath.

He'd wanted her then, and he wanted her now. He wondered if she would even be able to fathom how very
much
he wanted her. And he was beginning to think his desire for her stretched a bit farther than just the bedroom.

But before that train of thought could lead him down a track he'd rather not traverse at the moment, he cleared his throat, took a step backwards, and prayed she wouldn't turn and notice the prominent bulge in his trousers.

He tried to force his thoughts in another direction. If such a thing was possible while standing this close to Willow. All of his attention was captured by her warmth and vitality, the hint of her rose-scented perfume invading his nostrils, the wispy strands of coppery hair running in rivulets against the pale flesh of her neck.

Willow moved to the bed and scooped up the file he'd noticed earlier.
Work.
The perfect topic of conversation—something far from desire and sensations and sex.

"So it wasn't a headache that drove you from the party, after all,” he ventured, glad his vocal chords hadn't dried up completely from the parched feel of his mouth.

She avoided his gaze and answered with an evasive, “Not exactly.” Resting her bottom on the edge of the bed, she opened the folder and began running one slim finger down the first page, obviously looking for something specific.

He loosened the cravat at his neck and shrugged out of his dress coat, tossing it over a nearby chair. It wasn't easy, but he did his best to ignore the slim strip of bare leg that had become visible when she'd sat and the sides of her robe fell open a fraction. “Mind telling me what you're looking for?"

"A name,” she muttered, absorbed in scanning every line of writing before her.

He undid the cuffs at his wrists and rolled up his shirt-sleeves. If she could be so undressed and comfortable, so could he. Then he came around to lean a hip on the mattress beside her. It was a dangerous place to be, he knew that. He also wanted to know just what she was looking for that had been so important that they'd needed to leave a gathering—a gathering where a killer might very well have been in their midst—unfashionably early. “What name?"

"Virgil Chatham. Do you recall any mention of the name Virgil Chatham in Charlie's notes?” she asked distractedly.

His brows knit as he thought back. The name struck a familiar chord. “Wasn't he at this evening's function?"

She nodded, flipped a page, and continued to study every word.

"Big, blustering bloke with long sideburns and a belly that enters the room five minutes before he does,” Brandt recalled. He let his other hip rest on the bed as well, snug beside Willow. She shifted slightly, as though troubled by his proximity. But her robe was caught beneath him and if she continued to move away, she risked baring even more skin than she had already. She sat still, clearly choosing to abandon the fray.

"What is it about him that has you so agitated?” he asked, making no move to release her. His position also gave him a prime view of her inner knee. Just a spot of shadowed skin, but quite a lovely spot, he decided, and well worth his concentration.

And then Willow slapped the file in her hands closed, pulled her robe free with a no-nonsense yank, and stood to face him. “If you can focus on the matter at hand for just a moment,” she stated with annoyance, “I think he's the killer."

Brandt blinked in surprise, all thought of bedding Willow fleeing at this turn of events. Well, not
all,
but her words certainly had a dousing effect on his ardor.

He rubbed a finger in his ear to be sure he was hearing correctly and blinked again. “Excuse me? Did you say you think he's the killer?"

She gave a fervent nod, then turned and left the room. He raced after her, wanting to get to the bottom of her sudden deduction.

"And just how did you come to this monumental conclusion?” he asked as she plopped down on the sofa, folded her legs beneath her, and once again opened Charlie's file. “Did he confess? Or better yet, perhaps you took one look at his long jowls and decided he looked evil enough to have committed such heinous crimes."

Willow looked up from her endeavor long enough to spear him with an irritated glare. “If you must know, I overheard him talking about the murders and thought he sounded a bit . . . zealous about the entire situation.” She returned her attention to the papers in front of her, adding with a hint of arrogance, “But I would have suspected him anyway. The man makes my skin crawl."

An unexpected wave of protectiveness rolled over Brandt, followed quickly by a spurt of anger. He moved close enough to comfort her, his hand curling around her wrist and lifting it from where it rested on her lap. “Did he touch you?” he demanded.

She looked down at his fingers wrapped about her thin arm, dark against light, masculine against feminine, powerful against delicate.

Instead of loosening, his grip tightened. If he had been with her this evening, if he had refused to leave her side, he would
know
if the bastard had put his hands on her. Brandt's jaw clenched as he repeated the question. “Did he touch you?"

"No.” She raised her head until their eyes met. “No more than a brush of his hand when we were introduced,” she assured him.

It took a moment, but the rage finally ebbed out of him and he released his hold. He felt a modicum of relief that Virgil Chatham hadn't made a move toward her, hadn't hurt or threatened her in any way. And more man a modicum of peculiarity regarding his sudden sense of protectiveness over a woman who was his partner in this investigation only, and who made no secret of the fact that she wanted nothing more from their relationship than to find Charlie's killer.

Still, he wouldn't let her out of his sight again. If he had to perpetuate her earlier claim to everyone at the Burtons’ party that she desired him beyond reason and tie a rope around her waist to keep her at arm's length, so be it. She'd bristle at the very idea, he was sure, but he'd do it anyway, if that was what it took to keep her safe.

Calmer now, he asked, “So what did he say that got your hackles up?"

"He said the women down by the docks deserved to die,” she told him, derision tainting her voice. “While everyone else in the room was discussing the murders as just a passing event, he talked about sinners and the Bible and. . .” She stopped suddenly, pressed her lips together, rattled a few papers, then licked her lips and continued. “And he just seemed a little
too
fervent about it"

She was good, he'd give her that.
Truly talented and quick on her feet.
But he was beginning to know her too well to be drawn in as easily as before by her fast thinking and innocent looks.

He knew she was lying now, the same way he'd known she was lying a few days ago in Robert's office, when she'd told her employer that she'd been to visit Charlie's widow—and Brandt knew she'd done no such thing. She'd licked her lips, something he noticed she didn't do on a regular basis otherwise.

As tells went, it was a good one.
Not terribly noticeable or out of place. And if the target of her lie was of the male persuasion, Brandt was sure the fellow would be drawn in by the sight of that lovely pink tongue darting across those lush pink lips and not pay a whit of attention to the falsehoods tumbling out of Willow's tempting mouth.

But Brandt liked to think he was heartier than the average man, and if not immune to Willow's charms, at least cognizant of them.

"What are you not telling me?” he inquired.

Her head jerked up and she regarded him through wide, falsely faultless eyes. “I don't know what you mean,” she said with a quick swipe of her tongue at the corner of her mouth. And then she snatched up a handful of papers and shoved them in his direction. “Here, help me look for Virgil Chatham's name in Charlie's notes,” she ordered, hoping to distract him, Brandt was sure.

Brandt moved in front of her, taking a seat on the low mahogany table before the sofa to face her. “Have I ever told you how much I enjoy looking at you?” he asked innocently.

Her head whipped up again so fast, he imagined he heard the bones in her neck snap. This time, she didn't lick her lips, but her eyes did narrow as her mouth fell open in disbelief.

"You're quite beautiful,” he continued.
“A pleasure to gaze upon."

At that, suspicion began to creep into her expression. Her mouth closed in a flat line and her brows met in consternation. “If you're hoping to seduce me again, or catch more of a show than you were treated to in the bedroom, I'm afraid you're going to be sorely disappointed."

"I wasn't aware that
I
seduced
you
the first time,” he clarified. “But regardless, that wasn't my intention.”
Yet.
“I was merely pointing out how much time I've devoted to the simple act of studying your features. How familiar I've become with the nuances of your face."

Her shoulders lifted as she inhaled deeply, and then fell when she let out a disgusted sigh. “Are you going to help me look for Chatham's name or are you going to sit there all cow-eyed for the rest of the night?"

Cow-eyed?
Never in his life had he been
cow-eyed.
He'd have taken offense at the very suggestion if he hadn't noticed the look on her face and the way her fingers clutched the papers in her lap. From her apparent discomfort, he imagined she hadn't had much flattery aimed in her direction lately. Or rather, that such flattery had been less than sincere.

He meant every word, and wished seduction was his intent at the moment. But first, he had to find out what she was hiding from him.

"I'm going to help you look for his name,” he assured her. “But I'm also going to tell you that because I've spent so much time admiring your beauty, I've begun to notice a few things about you."

"And what might those be?” she asked, back to searching the documents before her.

"Besides the tiny mole at the very corner of your upper lip and the slight scar above your right temple,” he began, earning another sharp glance and her full attention, “I'm beginning to know when you're lying."

She licked her lips, an action that tempted Brandt to capture her moist lips with his own. “I don't lie,” she said with a strained laugh, the words firm. Her lashes swept down to veil her eyes, and any thoughts that might be visible in them. “But if I did lie,” she ventured cautiously, meeting his gaze once again, “which I don't, mind you—how is it that you think you can tell?"

Holding her gaze, he leaned forward a fraction of an inch, until he could feel her rapid breath against his skin, until the satin of her robe brushed his chest and he could smell the rosewater she'd dabbed behind her ears hours earlier. Until her lips parted slightly and he felt her chest hitch as she struggled for air. And then he touched his tongue to her lips and showed her exactly what he was talking about.

Willow
blinked,
every muscle in her body unmoving, every cell on alert. The minute she saw Brandt moving toward her in that sleek, predatory way of his, she knew she was in trouble. She knew she should run but couldn't seem to move, even as she watched his face nearing. Even as she saw his lips part and knew he was going to kiss her.

And then the tip of his warm, wet tongue touched her bottom lip, and every thought in her head dissipated into a fine mist of nothingness. Her blood, which had been simmering well enough at only his close proximity beside her in the bedroom and now in front of her here, shot to a full boil. And her skin, already heated and prickly, tightened in expectation.

Her eyes remained open, as did his, and she watched his already green irises darken to a deep shade of moss.

His tongue lingered at one corner of her mouth, men slowly stroked to the other, following the line of her lip. Letting just the tip rest there for a moment, he stared at her, and she wondered what he planned to do next. Wondered why he didn't simply kiss her, when that was what she—
he,
she corrected—obviously wanted. She held her breath and waited, her lips parted slightly in as much of an invitation as she could muster.

A part of her didn't want him to kiss her, didn't want him to touch or even be near her. While another part—the louder, more insistent part, it seemed—wanted nothing more. She fought the voice in her head that urged her to lean forward, closer, and take the initiative.
To kiss him, by God, if he was only going to sit there and
not
kiss her.

But as she was about to do just that, he moved back, his wicked and cruel tongue disappearing into his equally sinful mouth. Her jaw snapped closed and she sat back, squaring her shoulders against the lingering signs of weakness she feared might be evident on her face.

"And just what was that, pray tell?” She was relieved when the words didn't waver.

"Your one and only flaw.
The one and only that I've discovered thus far, at least."

She raised a brow and fixed him with what she hoped was an aggravated glare.

"When you lie, you lick your lips. It's damn sexy, by the way,” he added in a husky growl, “but telling all the same.” He raised his hand and tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. “When we were in Robert's office, you told him you'd gotten a copy of those files from Charlie's widow. We both know full well that isn't true. Which is when I noticed that you licked your lips both before and after you misled your boss."

He smiled faintly, showing a thin line of straight white teeth. “You're very good. And in your line of business, I imagine the skill comes in handy."

She didn't respond. Couldn't decide whether to admit or deny it, and was more than a little annoyed that she
had
a telling sign, let alone that he'd figured it out.

If what he said was true and she actually did lick her lips—or make any other move that could be deciphered to her detriment—she would have to be more careful in the future. No one had ever accused her of lying before. In fact, she considered herself rather good at it. She could create new and plausible stories or excuses for just about anything, in the tightest of spots. She'd even caught herself, on more than one occasion, telling falsehoods simply because it was easier or—God help her—more fun than telling the truth.

"Since we've established that I can indeed tell when you're lying,” Brandt continued, interrupting her thoughts, “I think it's safe to say that there's something about this Virgil Chatham fellow you're not telling me. Something he might have said that leads you to believe he's our killer.
Words more incriminating than just him speaking less than kindly about the victims."

She narrowed her eyes to slits, her fingers tensing in annoyance. As she opened her mouth to reply, her tongue darted to the corner of her lip and his brows rose in obvious mockery.

Damn him, he'd been right
She
did
lick her lips before she began to lie.

She tried again, taking a deep breath and swallowing as she formed the words. And then she opened her mouth . . . and her blasted tongue darted right out to wet the opposite corner of her mouth.
Bloody hell!

"Lick your lips and get it over with,” he said with a smirk. “And then try telling me the truth for a change."

It was an order, not a request, and as much as she loathed telling him what she'd learned and why her gut was urging her to focus on Chatham as a suspect, she feared Brandt would know she lied, even if she cut out her traitorous tongue and scribbled her fabrication on paper.

With a huff, she all but threw the pile of papers from her lap to his and stalked across the carpeted floor. In the bedroom, she knelt down in front of the ornately carved armoire that housed her clothing and began to root around for her peach slippers. They were at the bottom somewhere, beneath the many new pairs of shoes Mary Xavier had ordered to match her newest gowns. Once she found them, she rose and turned to go back to the sitting room, only to find Brandt standing in the doorway, one shoulder resting against the frame, his feet crossed at the ankles. He'd removed his
neckcloth
and jacket and unbuttoned his shirt halfway down to bare a good portion of his sun-browned chest

She sighed, as much at his tenacity as at the sight. Small wonder he was head of Security for the Union Pacific Railroad. He would make an equally successful Pinkerton agent. That same dogged determination was what made her a good investigator herself.

And even though it galled her to give away the last piece of this investigation that was entirely hers, to trust him with what might turn out to be the most vital key to this entire situation, she admitted that he did deserve to know. He was entitled to all the details so that he could see every angle of the case more clearly.