Almost a Lady (8 page)

"How do I know you'll still be here in the morning?"

"Because I don't intend to go any farther than that mattress."

"Why don't you give me whatever you found tonight and let me go through it? You can get some sleep and we'll discuss things in the morning."

Willow bristled at that suggestion. She had broken into the Pinkerton building, denied her best friend's office, and stolen files kept under lock and key. She'd be damned if she would let someone else get the first real look at that information.

"No."

His eyes narrowed. His arms went across his broad chest in an irritated fashion. “Don't tell me you intend to keep it from me. I thought we fought this battle already."

"We did. And I am resigned to the fact that I have to put up with your miserable hide until we solve Charlie's murder. But I'll be damned if I'm going to let you study that stolen file without me."

His muscular frame lurched up from the bed.
"Stolen?
You didn't tell me you
stole
it.
From where?"

She swallowed, cursing herself for a slip of the tongue. “Really, Brandt,” she said, licking her lips nervously. “One would think you'd never investigated a murder before."

"I've never
stolen
information before. Where did you get it?"

Sighing, she averted her eyes before answering in a low voice.
“The office."

"What office?” he pressed.

"The Executive Office!” she snapped sarcastically.
Then, honestly, “The Pinkerton office, where do you think?"

A frown appeared, making the skin around his eyes pucker. “Wait a minute. You broke into your own office? Why, for God's sake? You work there."

"Yes, but I felt there was something about Charlie's murder that Robert wasn't telling me."

"So you broke into his office."

"Yes."

"And stole the information he wouldn't give you freely."

"Yes."

"Do you know that's a crime?"

She clamped her jaw shut. “Yes."

"You could go to jail."

Her teeth ground together. “Yes."

Brandt paused, taking in her tall form, me straggling knot of hair pinned atop her head, the loose black shirt and trousers encasing her body. The thought of her getting caught, being sent to jail, soured his stomach.

And yet she had broken the law.
For a case.
For a friend.

He just hoped the authorities didn't come looking for her. Because, God knew—the way his body tightened at the very thought of touching her—that if the police came knocking at the door, he'd confess to the whole blasted thing and let them drag him away instead.

Willow
covered her mouth as a huge yawn escaped.

Brandt insisted he be allowed to go through the file she'd filched, and since she didn't want him looking at it by himself, she had no choice but to stay awake. She'd exchanged the pants and shirt for her shift and robe and now sat on the floor in front of the settee, photographs and papers cluttering the table.

Brandt sat beside her, sifting through the pages of files she'd copied. For some reason she didn't understand, he found it easier to concentrate while keeping up a normal, totally unrelated conversation. More than once while studying the photographs of the dead girl, he'd hit her with obscure questions like, “What's your favorite color?” and “What do you think you'll want for breakfast?"

Without looking up from her scribbled notes, he said, “Why did you tell Robert we met in St Louis?"

Vaguely, through the foggy web of drowsiness, she heard him.

He nudged her in the ribs with his elbow. Her head fell off the pillow of her hand and her eyes popped open. “What?” she
asked,
startled. And then she remembered where she was, and who was with her.

She ran a hand over her face, stifling another yawn. “What did you say?"

"I asked why you told Robert we met in St. Louis."

Willow's mouth turned down.
“When?"

"At his office.
When he asked where we'd met before, you made a big production of covering up my answer. I was wondering why."

"Oh. Well, I'd already told him about losing Sammy, and your name hadn't come up. I didn't see any reason to alter my story."

His eyes darted to her for a fraction of a second before returning to their perusal of the papers in his hand. “Just because we happened to meet in Jefferson City doesn't necessarily mean I had anything to do with your failed assignment."

She groaned and buried her head in her hands.
Logic.
At five o'clock in the morning. It was almost too much to bear. Her mind had shut down hours ago. She couldn't even come up with a decent reason not to answer him.

"Do you remember where you found me in Jefferson City?” she asked.

"Yeah.
In a dark alley, holding some guy at gunpoint."

"No,” she said wearily. “I mean, after that.
Before you knew who I was and you were simply looking for Willow Hastings.
Where did you find me?"

A wide, wicked smile spread across his face. Straight white teeth gleamed in the brightness of several burning oil lamps set throughout the room. “I seem to recall a rather seedy place by the name of the Silver Spur. A small, shadowy
room,
and a gorgeous brunette with legs that went all the way to Paradise."

"Yes, yes,” she said, waving off his colorful description. “I'm sure Stella showed you the time of your life, but do you remember finding me?"

Brandt leaned close, until his breath caressed the side of her face and ear. “I was talking about you,” he whispered.
“And
your
legs."

She looked at him, wide awake now. Then a modest grin curved her lips. “I didn't think you'd noticed,” she said.

He snorted, leaning back against the sofa. “A man would have to be dead not to notice,” he scoffed. “And even then, I think he'd put a hold on Heaven just to get one last look."

The compliment, no matter how coated in pure male egotism, warmed her heart. It felt good to be appreciated—even for only her looks. Even by drunks in a barroom, or arrogant investigative partners.

"I didn't want Robert to know where we really met because I didn't want him to find out what I'd been doing or where I'd been staying. I was afraid you'd let it slip."

The papers in his hand forgotten, he focused his undivided attention on Willow. “You mean your supervisor didn't know you were singing in a brothel? Didn't know you kept a room there, as well?"

"Not exactly,” she answered. “And it wasn't
only
a brothel. There was a saloon there, too."

"It was a whorehouse!” he bellowed.

She cringed at his harsh tone of voice.

"It's one thing for you to be singing for your supper as part of your disguise, if your supervisor knows. But rooming with a bunch of prostitutes like it's a boarding house is another matter entirely.
Especially if your supervisor doesn't have the faintest notion!"

"What are you getting so upset about?” Willow asked. “It's not like you're responsible for my welfare."

"You could have gotten hurt,” he ranted. “Or worse, one of the customers could have decided that you were as good as any other whore in the place."

That rankled. “Beverly made sure everyone knew I wasn't for hire. And there were some rather large bouncers who kept an eye out for me."

"How convenient,” Brandt snapped.
“So why didn't these overly attentive bouncers happen to notice you sneaking in and out of the place dressed like a man?"

"Because I was dressed like a man!” she yelled back. “And because I was careful."

"Not careful enough, obviously, or you wouldn't have let me get the drop on you."

Her pride stung. Her hackles rose. “You may have gotten the drop on me, but you did not best me. Or did you forget that it was my knife that nearly unmanned you?"

By this time they were on their feet, hands on hips, faces red with anger. Mere inches of empty space separated them.

"You may have held a knife to my groin, but you didn't have the nerve to do anything about it."

Willow blanched at his tone of voice. “I'll show you nerve,” she threatened. “Give me a knife and I'll gut and geld you before you have time to blink."

Brandt seemed at a loss for words after that declaration. His cheeks turned pink. His lips thinned into a chalky white slash across his face.

"You're a tease,” he said with no real conviction.

"You're a cad,” she tossed back, not in the least offended by his remark.

"You're a lying, conniving little harlot."

Her eyes widened for a moment at that one. “You're an obnoxious, conceited bastard."

"You're a manipulative little twit."

"You're an arrogant scoundrel."

"You're a dim-witted old maid."

"You're a brainless Neanderthal."

His jaw locked. His voice became rough. “I want you."

She swallowed hard, feeling an undeniable heat climb its way up through her stomach. “What are you waiting for?"

Brandt reached her in one stride. His arms came around her in a
vicelike
grip, cradling her close to his chest. His lips were like fire, licking, burning her tender skin. Their mouths met in a powerful, passionate kiss, scorching in its intensity.

Willow moaned as her legs gave out. Without breaking the kiss, Brandt swept her up in his arms and made his way to the bedroom. He whipped back the covers and deposited her in the middle of the bed, following her down. His lips trailed away from her mouth, marking a path of wet, sucking kisses down her throat.

Her head fell back, granting him greater access. The weight of his torso resting between her legs sent shivers of excitement through her limbs. Her fingers went to the front of his shirt, deftly releasing the buttons and pulling the tails from the waistband of his trousers.

His hands smoothed down her sides, stopping at the belt of her robe. With a quick tug, the narrow tie came loose. The red satin fell open to reveal the nearly transparent material of her shift. He slipped an arm around Willow's waist and lifted her so that the robe fluttered from her arms to the sheets.

He eased her back onto the mattress,
then
moved away. Willow cried out at his sudden absence and then took a sharp breath when she saw that he was only discarding his own constricting clothing. He came back to her,
splendorously
naked.

A hand raked beneath the shift, forcing the material up as his hand stroked her hip, belly, the underside of her breast. She lifted her arms and allowed him to slip the annoying article over her head.

"Brandt,” she whispered. And the sound was swallowed up by his mouth. His tongue delved deep, tangling with her own, drawing her into a maelstrom of hot, fevered emotions and tiny, mewling cries.

His hands kneaded her breasts, his thumbs making devastatingly arousing circles over each nipple, drawing them into hard, pebbled peaks.

"Brandt,” she breathed again as his lips closed over one aching tip. His mouth was so warm on her breast, his hands
so
strong and sure as they grasped her hips. He positioned himself between her legs, his shaft pulsing at the opening of her desire. His fingers brushed through the downy auburn curls, seeking the hidden nub of pleasure within.

He found her slick and ready, her need so strong that she arched into his hand. He had never been with a woman who became so hot so fast The urge to drive into her, to let himself be swept away in a tide of pleasure was so great he had to bite down on his lower lip to maintain a thin strand of composure.

As far as he knew, she was a virgin, he reminded himself. He had to go slow. He had to make it good for her, too.

She whimpered and twisted beneath him, nearly severing his last tenuous thread of control. “
Shh
,” he whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It's all right,” he told her. “I'll be gentle, I promise."

She answered by tangling her fingers in his own hair and tugging his mouth down to hers. Her breasts pressed flat between them. Her legs wrapped around his hips.

Brandt slid into her easily, groaning with the exquisite pleasure that simple motion brought. He buried his face in her neck until he thought he could breathe without coming apart. Then he began to move.
Slowly at first, giving her body time to adjust to his invasion.
Her nails dug into his back, urging him to continue.

He kissed her ear, nipping the
lobe,
let his tongue trail across her jaw until he reached her mouth. Her lips opened beneath his and he kissed her, wrapping his tongue around hers, licking the edge of her teeth while one hand toyed with a pert nipple and the other delved between their bodies.

His fingertips skirted the mat of hair between her legs, drawing a line straight to the source of her enjoyment. While he moved inside her, increasing his rhythm and movements, he touched the bud of sensation and felt Willow tense with pleasure. Her breath caught in her throat and it took a full minute for her to begin breathing again. All the while, his finger flicked and whirled, drawing agonizing cries from her near-frozen lungs.

He wanted to give her fulfillment. Wanted her to come before he did, but as her cries and undulations increased, his control began to slip. He
grit
his teeth, hanging on with a silk-thin strand of control. If she didn't reach her climax soon, he would be forced to go before her—and then backtrack to give her
her
pleasure.

Willow's nails dug into his shoulders, her head arched into the pillows, and her hips rose to meet his thrusts. “Now,” she whispered raggedly. “Please, now."

And that was all it took for Brandt to grant her wish. He clutched an arm around her waist, pulling her closer, at the same time locking his mouth to hers. And as her legs wrapped more tightly about his waist and her cries of delight reached a crescendo, he held a thumb to her clitoris and took one last, hard thrust.

Tremors of satisfaction wracked them both and he rolled to his side to keep from falling off the edge of the bed. Willow went with him easily, her arms around his neck, her face pillowed in the curve of his neck. He was still inside her, but she didn't seem to mind. She simply pulled her knees up to accommodate their position.

Which made him wonder. . .

Had she seemed a touch too passionate for an untried virgin?
Had she fallen into bed with him just a little too easily?
Had his passage been a bit too smooth?

He gave his head a mental shake. Of course she'd been a virgin. Willow might possess the smartest mouth he'd ever encountered on a woman, she may even toss around innuendoes like they were confetti, but she had only been in that brothel on a job for the Pinkerton Agency, not as a working girl. She had to be. . .

Then again, did it matter? It shouldn't. But in the recesses of his mind, he couldn't help thinking that it did.

He wasn't used to deflowering virgins—avoided them like the plague most times. But then, he wasn't used to smart-mouthed, hot-blooded female Pinkerton agents, either. And he damn well didn't like the idea of Willow being with other men. One or a dozen, it didn't matter. He damn well didn't like it.

With hot coals of anger suddenly burning a hole in his gut, he shifted to roll Willow away from him and then moved to the other side of the mattress to get out of bed. He didn't bother looking back as he rounded the bed and picked up his discarded clothes, then began to dress with quick, efficient movements.

He heard a soft rustle and assumed Willow was shrugging into her robe. He was glad. He wasn't sure he could maintain this level of moral outrage if he turned to see her still naked and lovely on that soft, warm mattress.