Almost a Lady (7 page)

"And then I
thought,
what if I didn't meet two different women with eyes that sparkled with amethyst fire? What if those magnificent orbs belonged to only one woman?"

His hand came up to cup her chin, tilting her head back so that he could look more deeply into her eyes. “Is it possible that, without realizing it, I've met the same woman twice?
First in
Missouri
, now here in
New York
?"

Willow pulled away from his grasp, taking a step back to put more space between them. “I don't know what you're rambling on about, Donovan, but I'm tired. If you don't mind, I'm going to bed."

He shrugged a shoulder carelessly. “I was just wondering if maybe we had met somewhere before.
Maybe in
Missouri
."

"Have you completely lost your senses? Of course we met in
Missouri
. You came there to check on me for Lucas and Megan, remember?” She rolled her eyes at him, then turned and took another step toward the bedroom door.

"Oh, I remember,” Brandt answered. “I also remember getting into a slight scrape in an alleyway just inside Jefferson City."

Willow halted with her hand on the doorknob. She swallowed convulsively.

"You see,” Brandt continued, “I thought I could help when I spotted two men in the alley, one being held at gunpoint. Imagine my surprise when the man with the gun got the drop on me. I was standing with my back to the wall, a knife at my groin. That's when I noticed the eyes.
Bright, vibrant violet eyes.
Now, when was the last time you saw a man with violet eyes?” he mocked.

His arms came up on either side of Willow's still form, imprisoning her against the door. She felt his chest brush her back but refused to turn around. Felt his hot breath on her neck but refused to respond.

"I didn't get a very good look at the woman in the alley. She was wearing a knit cap.” His finger traced the thick band around her ears. “Kind of like the one you have on right now."

She shook her head, trying to dislodge his finger.

"She was dressed all in black. Much like you
are
. What a coincidence.” He straightened, dropping his arms from her sides.

"It's a shame that I didn't get a better look,” he sighed. “But all I really saw were her eyes.” With two fingers against her cheek, he slanted her face toward his. Pointing directly at them, he said, “Eyes just that shade of purple."

Turning up his palms, he shrugged dramatically,
then
moved back to the settee. “Quite a coincidence, wouldn't you agree?” he asked, dropping onto the brocade cushion.

She didn't answer. Her mouth felt like she'd been chewing on sawdust. Her heart pounded in her breast. Her blood drummed through her veins in silent panic.

He knew. She had been lucky until now, but he'd finally put two and two together.

He knew. And he was sitting there, supremely pleased with himself. Playing with her like a cat after a mouse.

He knew. He was simply waiting her out. Letting it sink in.
Giving her time to walk into the trap of her own volition.

Well, she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. If he wanted her to panic and admit to being in that alley, then she would remain calm and keep her mouth shut.

Besides, maybe he really didn't know anything. Maybe he was grabbing at straws, trying to draw her into confessing something he only suspected.

"Good night,” she said shortly and pushed open the bedroom door.

"Good night,” he called after her.
Then, before she closed the door behind her, “Oh, Willow, you wouldn't happen to own an ivory-handled revolver, would you?
With a matching stiletto blade?"

Willow
leaned weakly against the bedroom door, covering her ears to block out the demonic sound of his mocking laughter.

So he knew. So what?

Brandt already knew she was a Pinkerton agent, so what did it matter if he also knew she'd been the one to accost him in that Jefferson City alleyway? If he hadn't been so blasted nosy in the first place, he wouldn't have gotten a knife put to his groin.

Willow was beginning to wish she'd done as threatened and cut it off.

But what if he told Robert?

Robert would have no problem with her trying to apprehend a criminal in such a manner, but if Brandt also related the circumstances of her residence in Jefferson City, Robert would have her guarding the mayor's poodle before the day was out.

And the only way to keep Brandt from letting the cat out of the bag was to come clean, level with him, be . . . honest.

The thought made her shiver.

How long had it been since she'd practiced honesty? She couldn't quite remember. Lying had become second nature to her, a reflex. She lied to get out of sticky situations; she lied to get into them. She lied to keep her profession a secret, and she lied to cover up her family background.

She wasn't sure she could tell the truth if she tried.

But now was as good a time as any to find out.

She shrugged out of her heavy black coat and tossed it on the bed, covering the file she'd stolen from Robert's office. Spine stiff, shoulders braced, she held her head high and marched back into the sitting room.

Brandt lounged in the corner of the settee, eyes sparkling in merriment. “I didn't expect to see you again until morning,” he said.

She had half a notion to ask why he was still here, in her room, then. Instead of gracing his arrogant presence with a reply, she remained silent. From her waistband, she pulled the pearl-handled Smith & Wesson American revolver, setting it on the low table in front of him. Next
came
the stiletto knife from inside her boot and the tiny derringer stuffed at the small of her back. The line of weaponry glowed in the lamplight, each positioned pointedly at Brandt's belly.

"I assume that answers your question,” Willow said matter-of-factly.

He stared at the miniature munitions collection set before him. Each piece had ivory handles with the carving of a man and woman in seventeenth-century dress beneath a weeping willow tree.

He reached for the pistol, palming it, testing its weight. His eyes never left the ornate carving.

"I take it this is symbolic,” he remarked.

"My name is Willow,” she answered blandly.

"Was it your idea to have all of your weapons customized this way?"

"They were a gift."

That brought his head up. His green eyes drilled
into her own
.
“From whom?"

"Is that a professional question, or a personal one?"

"I'd like to know who knows you well enough to present you with a veritable armory—all bearing the same scene, indicative of your name. Let me guess: Your parents were so proud of their little girl's decision to work for Pinkerton
that
they had them special made for you."

Her teeth clamped shut. “My parents were already dead when I joined the Agency."

A hint of remorse touched his eyes. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to dredge up painful memories."

She shrugged indifferently, then took a deep breath and tried to
relax,
reminding herself that Brandt's opinion didn't matter. She was not here seeking his approval. Her stance, however, remained defensive.

"If not your parents, then who?” he asked, going back to his original question.

"Robert,” she answered, preparing herself for the onslaught of his contempt.

Instead of lashing out, he simply queried. “Robert Pinkerton?"

She nodded.

Brandt replaced the revolver and picked up the knife. The silver blade attracted a ray of light and bounced it off the far wall. “I didn't realize the Agency gave such expensive gifts to their new operatives.” His eyes rose to meet hers. “Or was this a gift of a more personal nature?"

"Robert and I are friends,” she answered defensively.

"Friends?” he asked. “Or lovers?"

Willow grabbed the knife out of his hand, tucking it back into her boot. In quick, agitated movements, she replaced the rest of the weapons on her person. “Your curiosity goes beyond business, Mr. Donovan. Robert and I are friends, and I resent your implication that there's more to it than that. Now, if you'll excuse me,” she said, walking away, “I would like to get a few hours of sleep before I have to see your despicable face again."

"Willow,” Brandt called after her. “Willow. . .” He caught up to her just as she crossed the threshold into her bedroom. His fingers curled around her arm, anchoring her in place. She remained facing in the other direction, holding herself rigid, still as a statue.

"I'm sorry,” he whispered into the hair above her ear. “I didn't mean to suggest that anything inappropriate is going on between you and your supervisor."

She pulled away from him.

Brandt moved to the foot of the bed, pushed her earlier discarded coat out of the way—without uncovering the photos from Robert's office, thankfully—and sat down. “Now, how about enlightening me as to your presence in that alley the night we first met."

Willow turned, taking in his curious expression and relaxed pose. He sat on the edge of her bed, his back propped against a post, one boot heel digging mercilessly into the soft white of the bedspread.

How was it that this man seemed at home in any environment? She remembered his stance as he stood inside her room at the Silver Spur. The first time she'd found him helping himself to a glass of brandy in her hotel room.
And now this.
The man looked positively ridiculous perched there at the foot of the huge canopy bed, surrounded by ruffles of angelic white.

A devil on an angel's cloud
popped into her head, quickly followed by the thought that she was definitely not an angel.

"Do you make a habit of barging into ladies’ rooms?” she
asked,
her tone scornful.

In true devil's form, a wicked grin spread across his face.
“Only when I'm invited."

"I didn't invite you,” she pointed out.

"No,” Brandt replied smoothly, “but, then, I wouldn't necessarily categorize you as a lady."

Her brows lifted for a moment, until she realized that he was probably right. At least she had never been much of a lady in his presence. She had held a knife to his groin, been found living in a brothel, purposely undressed in front of him, and any number of other very unladylike things.

Still, he wasn't much of a gentleman to say so.

"Besides,” he continued, “I intend to discover just why you felt it necessary to nearly emasculate me."

"I didn't nearly emasculate you,” Willow defended.

"You did!” he barked. “You broke the skin with that blasted knife of yours!"

Her eyes widened. She didn't recall pressing that hard against his manhood.

"Right here,” he said, spreading his legs. He pointed to the very spot she'd supposedly injured, high up—very high up—on the inside of his left thigh.

His trousers covered the abrasion, but his outraged demeanor told her that she must have truly drawn blood. Pride swelled in her chest and she had to pull a straight face to hide her amusement. It wasn't often that she held a blade to a man's groin, but she now knew that when she did, she could do considerable damage.

She felt that she should make some sort of reparation. The best she could manage was a nearly solemn, “I'm sorry."

Brandt snorted.

"I was on a case,” Willow explained. “I'd been following that man for quite a while. So when you interfered, I was not only afraid you'd figure out that I was a woman but furious that you let him get away."

His soulful emerald eyes burned into her. “You weren't the least bit worried that I'd turn you over to the law, were you?"

She smiled, feeling more at ease with this man. She kicked off her boots and perched at the head of the bed. “No."

"Why not?"

"Because all I had to do was show them my Pinkerton badge."

"That wouldn't have blown your cover?"

She shrugged a shoulder. “Probably, but the man from the alley was already long gone. My case was blown."

"All because of me?"

"All because of you,” she answered bluntly.

His brow creased as he concentrated. “Robert was awfully nice to me, being the guy who'd botched your case."

Willow averted her gaze, rubbing an imaginary itch beneath the rough fabric of her trousers.

"You didn't tell him, did you?"

She turned back to find Brandt staring at her intently. “No, all right? No, I didn't tell Robert that you interfered and made me lose Sammy the Snake."

"Why not?"

"Because the only thing Robert hates more than hearing about a fouled-up case is hearing a load of excuses for fouling up in the first place."

"But it wouldn't have been an excuse,” he pressed. “It's the truth."

She waved a hand in the air. “It doesn't matter. I shouldn't have let you get the drop on me. It was my own fault that Sammy got away."

"Willow,” Brandt said with a chuckle, “I'm twice your size. How, exactly, were you supposed to keep me from getting the drop on you?"

"For being only half your size, I'd say I did a pretty good job of defending myself. Or weren't you afraid of becoming a eunuch?"

He winced. “All right, so you had me a little concerned,” he admitted. “Who taught you that, anyway?"

"Robert."

"Robert,” he repeated.
“Of course.
You two really must be good friends,” he acquiesced, but she thought she detected a note of rancor in his voice. “A man wouldn't show just any woman that move. He'd be too afraid of having her turn it on him."

"I would never hurt Robert,” Willow vowed. “I
like
him."

"And you don't like me very much, do you, Willow?” he asked quietly.

She flushed. It was one thing to possess uncharitable feelings, another matter entirely to be called on them. “It's not that I don't like you,” she explained. “It's just that I don't particularly like you being around."

Brandt frowned. “What's the difference?"

"Well, I imagine that if we had met under different circumstances, we might have gotten along very well."

"You might have fallen into my arms rather than kicking me in the shin, you mean?"

She sniffed, raising her chin a notch. “I wouldn't go that far."

"So why don't you like me being around?” he asked.

"Because you're compromising my investigation,” she answered honestly.

"Charles Barker might have been one of your operatives, but he was killed on one of our trains,” he reminded her.

Willow shifted on the bed, sitting up a bit straighter against the headboard. “Charlie was my friend. That makes this case personal."

"Then maybe you shouldn't be working on it at all,” Brandt ventured.

She shot him a furious glare.

"If you're planning to make this into some sort of personal quest for revenge, then you're more likely to mess up. You may end up just like Charlie Barker, bleeding to death on the floor of a passenger car with a hundred strangers standing around, staring."

Willow leapt off the bed to pace, shaking an angry hand in Brandt's direction. “Just because I knew Charlie does not mean I'm going to make mistakes. If anything, I'll be more careful and more aware.
You're
the one who's going to foul things up for me."

"Why do you say that?” he asked, not the least offended by her accusation.

"Because this is just another case to you, a problem you need to deal with before you can go back to Boston. You're likely to overlook significant facts, important points that could pull this case together."

He stiffened at the insult, but all he said was, “Then it's a good thing we're partners."

His quiet statement stalled her pacing. She looked at him for some explanation. Hands on hips, she asked, “What does that have to do with anything?"

"You're worried that I'm going to overlook something because I'm not close enough to this case. I'm concerned that you're too close. Since we're partners, we'll be able to keep each other in check."

She didn't want to keep him in
check,
she wanted to throw him out the nearest window.

"I guess this means you're not reconsidering,” she said.

"Reconsidering what?"

"Going back to Boston."

The corners of his mouth lifted. “Not until we wrap this up. And we're never going to do that if you don't tell me where you were this evening."

She sighed wearily. This was one discussion she really didn't want to get into—not this late at night. “Do you think we could talk about it in the morning? I'm awfully tired, Brandt.” She felt as though she had been awake for seventy-two hours. All she wanted to do was peel out of her pants and sink into the soft cushion of the bed.