Almost a Lady (9 page)

He waited until he was fully dressed, until he had his disappointment sufficiently tamped down, until his breathing was slow and even. Then he turned to face her.

She sat with her back to the ornately carved
headboard, that
bloody red robe wrapped around her lithe form once again. And in her eyes . . . in her eyes was a flicker of passion that had nothing to do with what they'd just shared in that bed. No, he suspected the passion burning in those amethyst orbs had more to do with anger than lust.
Anger and betrayal.
He had used her, seduced her,
dragged
her into bed. Only to roll away and abandon her moments after he'd gained satisfaction.

He was a heel. Lower than gutter swine, rooting through day-old trash and refuse.

And even though he was miserably unhappy about her past experience with men and her . . . well, her past in general, he was no better for treating her so abominably.

He opened his mouth to apologize.
And couldn't think of a single thing to say.
Was he sorry he'd slept with her, or sorry she hadn't been a virgin? Sorry he'd moved away like that, or sorry they'd tainted their working relationship with passion?

Truth be told, he wasn't sure he was sorry for any of those things. He certainly couldn't be sorry they'd made love; he'd wanted to do that since he opened the door to her room at the Silver Spur and caught a glimpse of her long, luxurious legs while she removed her stockings.

And he should be
glad
she hadn't been a virgin. For God's sake, he'd made a practice of avoiding innocents since soon after he'd been one himself. An experienced woman could give a man untold pleasures in bed. They also knew enough about secret liaisons to not catch a child in their bellies.

Granted, neither of them had had much time for, nor given much thought to, that sort of thing, but in the future, an experienced woman like Willow would know how to be more cautious so that they could enjoy the company of each others’ bodies without the risk of serious and unwanted consequences.

He
was
sorry he'd moved away from her so quickly. His rioting emotions had gotten the better of him and caused him to bolt instead of thinking things through while remaining in the warm comfort of her embrace. And the fact that she apparently thought he'd moved away from
her
and not simply what—in his mind—she represented, caused a sharp pang of regret.

It did concern him a bit that their relationship had crossed a line from professional to personal. They hadn't been getting along very well as investigative partners; what had they—
he
—been thinking to let things get so far out of control? He'd wanted her, true. But he'd wanted other women before and been able to avoid them. How were he and Willow going to work together now that they'd slept together? As though Willow hadn't harbored enough animosity toward him before . . . one look at her hard, stern face told him that her demeanor toward him earlier was nothing compared to what it would be from this moment forward.

"Willow, I—"

She cut him off before he got two words out, holding up a hand and swinging her legs over the mattress. “Don't bother,” she clipped out. She tugged the robe more tightly around her body as her feet touched the floor. Her chemise was left behind, crumpled on the mattress where they'd made love.

"But I want—"

"I know what you want,” she snapped, her eyes shooting fire. “You wanted me—or so you say. You wanted to fulfill your base, animal desires and I was handy.
Fine."

She plucked her wrinkled chemise from the bed and tossed it away. He felt sure she treated the garment as she wanted to treat what had happened between them; throw it into a corner and forget about it.

"Now that you've had your satisfaction, I suggest we forget this ghastly mistake ever occurred and go back to investigating Charlie's murder."

He'd been right, he thought, as his eyes darted to the crinkled-up ball of linen in the corner. But he'd be darned if he was going to let her toss him away as easily as she had her soiled chemise.

"Willow, listen."

Willow watched his lips move, watched his hands fist and
unfist
in the pockets of the trousers he'd donned so quickly after their little liaison. When would she learn? When would it ever sink into her thick skull that she and men were as volatile a combination as a stick of dynamite and a lit match?

She refused to meet his eyes as she marched past him toward the sitting room door. “No, thank you,” she said in response to his request. “I've had about as much of you as I can stomach tonight. I'm tired and not in a particularly good mood, so I would really prefer you simply leave."

Although she refused to look directly at him, in her peripheral vision she saw his lips compress into a thin line, a muscle in his jaw jumping. He began to open his mouth, to again plead with her for . . . what?
Sympathy?
Understanding?
Forgiveness?
Sorry,
she thought,
but I'm just not that good an actress.
And she wasn't in the habit of thanking men for making her feel like a paid companion.

"Go. Now,” she said, before he could utter a word. “Please."

It was the please that got through to him. His shoulders
slumped
a fraction, his jaw relaxed, and he pulled his clenched hands from his pockets. She pulled the door wider as he walked past, and even though he turned toward her once he'd reached the other side, she didn't give him a chance to say anything more, but closed the door on his face.

If tears sprang to her eyes, she refused to acknowledge them. She'd never had time for tears and she'd be damned if an arrogant Union Pacific officer would be the one to bring them forth. No, if anything her sadness stemmed from a deep, gut-wrenching disappointment in herself. Hadn't she learned her lesson the last time she'd let a man into her heart—and her bed?

Robert was her best friend now, but back then, he'd been her . . . infatuation. Yes, that was the best word to describe how she'd felt about him. She'd been young. He'd been young, but still older and more sophisticated than she. He'd been her supervisor, the dapper son of Allan Pinkerton, whom she'd loved like a father. And she'd fallen in love with him. Or so she'd thought. In truth, it had been merely a girlish fascination. She'd given him her heart, and her virginity, but it had taken Allan Pinkerton's death and the realization that Robert was not the man for her for Willow to come to her senses.

It had been a hard, painful lesson, but she'd learned it well. And since then, she and Robert had been able to get through the embarrassment and insecurities of their past to not only continue working together but to care for each other like family. She loved him as a brother now and wouldn't change that for anything in the world.

She sighed and moved farther into the bedroom, avoiding the bed as she moved toward the luxurious lavatory. She looked at her reflection in the large oval, gut-framed minor hanging above the water basin. Her hair was a wild tangle and her normally pale skin turned an even deeper shade of pink as she thought about what she had done to turn her hair into such a wild mess.

At least with Brandt, she had the luxury of retaining her heart. He hadn't come remotely close to touching her there. And if she'd made a gargantuan mistake by getting swept up by his passion and letting him into her bed, at least there was no chance of losing her heart as well as her reputation and peace of mind.

He was a fine male specimen, she'd give him that. His tall, muscular form and broad shoulders had caught her attention the first time she'd seen him in that alley. And soon after, she'd taken notice of his hair, eyes, and strong hands. But she'd seen any number of handsome men in her life. Though they occasionally had the power to turn her head, they never turned more than that.

With her personal history, not to mention the responsibility of keeping her job in order to provide and care for Erik, she knew better than to let her head fill with any silly notions of love and happily-ever-after. Unless the man who turned her head was willing to accept her brother and support them both for the rest of their days, he had no place in her life.

Brandt had gotten past
her defenses, that's
all. A momentary lapse in diligence, brought on by their late night of looking over Charlie's files, too little sleep, losing Sammy in Jefferson City, the fear of losing her job altogether, of living in the Silver Spur for too long . . . All of those things and a dozen more had compounded and worked against her better judgment. She'd suffered a setback, but it was nothing she couldn't work through.

After a few hours of sleep, she would wake, dress, and confront Brandt in a much more reasonable frame of mind. She would simply tell him that tonight . . . last night . . . had been a mistake. It would not happen again, so it would be best that they both put it behind them and move on. They would work together on Charlie's case if they must but would otherwise have nothing to do with each other.

Simple.

And if Brandt had a problem with that, she would just have to remind him exactly what she was capable of with her little pearl-handled stiletto. Only this time, a measly cut wouldn't be the extent of the damage.

At exactly midnight, beneath a crescent moon, the dark-haired prostitute was returned to the edge of the wharf, to the very spot where she had been standing not two hours earlier. A perfect white rose rested between her breasts, clasped tightly between hands folded in prayer.

Despite being tired enough to rest comfortably on a bed of nails, Brandt didn't sleep after leaving Willow's room. He'd lingered in her sitting room for several minutes, gathering and organizing the files and photos they'd been looking over. A part of him was relieved that Willow had kicked him out, saving him from having to say something when he wasn't quite sure what to say. But another part of him hoped she would come out and let him explain. Not that he had a clue how to go about that. If he had, he'd have done it much sooner.

He was used to sharing a few blindingly passionate moments with a woman—sometimes one he barely knew—and then walking away. But with Willow, he didn't want to walk away. He didn't want to leave with this animosity between them. And it had very little to do with the fact that they still had to work together.

So Brandt lingered in the sitting room. And when it became apparent that Willow wouldn't be coming out, he meandered across the hall to his own room. Then he lingered there, pouring himself a drink, staring into the flames of the fireplace, wondering how in God's name he could have bolted from one of the most pleasant sexual encounters of his life.
Calling himself ten kinds of fool.

When the clock on the mantel chimed eight and he lifted his head to see daylight pouring in through the open drapes, he rubbed his tired eyes, threw back the last swallow of scotch in his glass, and steeled his resolve.

Willow had wanted them to begin their partnership at eight o'clock this morning, so they damn well would. He set his glass on the fireplace mantel with a clink and moved toward the hallway.

He opened the door, only to find Willow standing on the other side, a hand raised to knock. The moment he saw her, a spark of awareness flared in his belly and spread outward through his bloodstream. She wore a gown of deep, vibrant plum that perfectly matched her eyes. Her hair was braided and twisted into a complicated coronet that gathered at the back of her head, a few sprigs of flowers stuck in the strands for decoration. Except for the slight hint of shadows beneath her eyes, she looked entirely rested and ready to tackle another day.

Brandt, on the other hand, looked like hell, and he knew it. He hadn't gotten a wink of sleep, was still wearing the same clothes as last evening, and probably smelled like a distillery since he'd nursed a bottle of whiskey ever since returning to his room.

He immediately experienced another sharp jab of regret at the way they'd parted and tried to make amends. “Willow,” he began, “about last night. . ."

A flare of hurt darkened her eyes a moment before her shoulders pulled back and her spine snapped ramrod straight. “I'd rather not discuss last night, if it's all the same to you,” she informed him in a lofty tone.

His jaw clenched, his fingers tightening around the doorknob under his hand. “No, it's not all the same to me,” he told her, struggling to keep hold of his temper. “We need to talk about what happened, about where we go from here."

Willow toyed with the drawstrings of her matching purple reticule and shot him a glare filled with cool indifference. “Last night's incident isn't worthy of debate. It's over and done with and never should have happened in the first place."

A measure of her righteous indignation seemed to be replaced by modest chagrin as she turned her head away. Her eyes refused to meet his as her tone softened only a degree. “And since there's absolutely no chance of it happening again, I see no reason to waste time conferring over what occurred."

He could see she had no intention of uttering another word on the subject. And most times that would be just fine with him. This time, however, it wasn't.
And damned if he knew why.

He only knew that his jaw throbbed from the grinding of his teeth. His hand squeezed the crystal-cut knob of the door hard enough to draw blood, and if he let himself touch her, he'd most likely rattle the teeth right out of her head.

So he would let the subject drop.
For now.

After several seconds of tense silence, Willow crossed her arms beneath her breasts and assumed an agitated stance. “I take it you're once again planning to hold up my investigation,” she stated primly, slanting a distasteful glance over his wrinkled shirt and breeches and summarily dismissing their prior topic of discussion.

Caught slightly off guard by the change of subject, he opened his mouth to correct her—it was
their
investigation, not hers alone—but realized he was too tired to pick up that argument once again.

"On the contrary,” he said instead, deliberately relaxing his muscles and loosening his hold on the door. “I was just on my way over to wake you. I thought you might have slept in but knew how eager you were to get an early start this morning.” He stepped out of the room, forcing her back a pace. “Shall we go?"

"Like that?” she asked. “You intend to walk around like that?"

He looked down at himself, wondering just how bad he must look for
her
to be offended. After all, this was the same woman who had stumbled in last night dressed in fisherman's garb and smelling like week-old carp.

A small amber stain marred the front of his shirt Scotch, no doubt.
Spilled when he was concentrating more on Willow than getting the liquid fully into his mouth.
Lifting an arm, he took a quick sniff and admitted that he smelled none too pleasant this morning, himself.

Catching his subtle self-assessment, Willow raised a brow. Her haughty air set his teeth on edge. So he hadn't bathed or changed clothes since early yesterday morning and was beginning to turn ripe. She had lived in a brothel and sung to a roomful of cowpokes
who
smelled much worse than he, he was sure.
Which didn't give her much room to judge, in his opinion.

"Come in,” he ordered, pushing the door open once again. “I'll just be a minute.” He turned and marched across the room, not bothering to make certain Willow followed. As he reached the bedroom, he heard the main door click shut and out of the corner of his eye saw the swish of her skirt across the room. He gave a silent huff of approval. At least she'd done one thing without argument.

"What do you have planned for today?” he asked as he discarded his wrinkled clothes and poured a bit of tepid water into the deep sink of the connected wash-room.

"Does the name Yvonne Xavier ring any bells?” she asked from the other room, her voice raised to clearly reach his ears.

He rolled his eyes, wondering if Willow thought him daft.
“The name on the file.
Of course,” he answered shortly.

"Yes, but I mean otherwise. Other than the fact that she was murdered, have you ever heard her family's name before?"

With a damp cloth and a sliver of soap, Brandt swabbed his chest and under his arms, trying to recall any recognition of the name. “I don't think so; why?"

"Being from Boston, you might not be familiar with some of the wealthier families here in
New York
. I didn't even catch the relation at first.” Her voice drew closer and he quickly fastened the clean pair of trousers he'd just slipped on.

"The
Xaviers
live here in town. The father owns a local fabric mill. Yvonne was their only and very beloved daughter. This morning I remembered reading a newspaper article on the train back to New York about how she disappeared after a function at the family's home one evening last month. She was only nineteen years old."

Willow's form appeared in the doorway as she rested a shoulder against the jamb. She didn't bother glancing in his direction. Just as well, he decided as he tugged at the waistband of his clean pants.

"Since Charlie Barker was working Yvonne Xavier's case, I can only assume her family hired Pinkerton to find her."

For a split second, as he looked up from tugging on his boots, he caught Willow staring at him, her eyes centered on his still-bare chest. As soon as she realized he'd raised his head, she quickly turned away. With her mouth turned down in a frown, she stared across the room, focusing on a rather unspectacular piece of artwork, in Brandt's opinion. Once again, she began to fidget with the strap of her satchel.

Like hell it was over, he thought, fighting a grin. She may think their bout of lovemaking was only a fluke. She might even believe it. But if he had anything to say about it, last night's events most certainly would occur again.

He turned toward the bureau for a clean shirt, nearly breaking out in a whistle. Willow could be determined and mule-stubborn, but she'd never yet run up against him when his mind was set. And right now, his mind was set on her.

"You were saying. . .” he prompted casually over his shoulder. He took his own sweet time deciding on a shirt.
Studying first one, then another.
Feeling the fabric and making sure to flex the muscles of his back as he moved.

After a moment he felt Willow's heated gaze on him and smiled. He'd known that water lily painting couldn't occupy her for long.

"I was saying . . . what?” she mumbled.

"You thought the Xavier family had hired the Pinkerton Agency to find Yvonne, since Charlie was working the case,” he reminded her. He chose a shirt and turned, using slow motions to slip his arms into the sleeves, pull the sides closed,
slide
each button through its proper hole.

"Yes.” She cleared her throat and forced her eyes to his. “Yes, that's what I thought,” she said more strongly. “And when Yvonne was found dead, Charlie apparently stayed on to find the killer."

"Until someone murdered him,” Brandt added, knowing Willow was thinking the same thing. He tucked the tails of his shirt into his pants, done toying with her. For the moment “Do you think he figured out who killed the Xavier girl?"

"Possibly.”
The lines on her forehead deepened in distress.

"And whoever that person is, he killed Charlie to cover up his crime?"

"Most likely,” she reluctantly agreed. “Otherwise. . ."

"Otherwise, there was no reason for Charlie to die.”
New York
might be crowded and have a higher risk of crime than other cities, but even so, people did not go around stabbing innocent people on crowded passenger trains.

There was no reason for Charlie to die, regardless, Willow thought with a spurt of anger. Charlie had only been doing his job. And anyone who would murder a young girl deserved to be brought to justice.

"There was no mention in the file of who Charlie suspected of Yvonne's murder.” She worried her bottom lip with her teeth.

Brandt finished dressing and moved to stand before her. She lifted her head absently, meeting his hazel eyes. Being so close to him brought back a wash of memories from the night before and she quickly looked away. She didn't care to think about last night. Nor did she care for a repeat performance.

And she didn't even want to consider why witnessing his bare torso had sent her pulse rate soaring. It was just a chest, for heaven's sake. She'd seen the male variety before and would no doubt see it again upon occasion.

If Brandt Donovan's bare chest seemed to be exceptionally well chiseled, if the muscles seemed to flex and flow a bit too gracefully, the smooth skin to glisten a golden bronze . . . why, that was just a trick of the early morning sunlight streaming through the open drapes.

She hadn't slept, was forced to deal with Brandt again this morning, still needed to find out who had killed Charlie, and had so far been unable to dispel the unfortunate memory of her misspent lust not two hours before. All of these things combined to lower her defenses. Otherwise, she was sure she would find Brandt Donovan loathsome rather than sinfully handsome.

Give her half a minute to gather her wits and she would. Turning the other way, she strode across the sitting room.

"Do you think she knew her attacker?” he asked from several feet behind her.

Willow's brows knit and she stopped, his pointed question bringing her back to the matter at hand. It was possible
she
knew Yvonne's attacker.
Gideon
. That was, if Charlie's note was accurate and connected to the girl's death, as she suspected. Unfortunately, she couldn't be sure. She couldn't even be certain Gideon was a person. It could just as easily be a social club, a street address, or the name of some man's horse.

"Why do you ask that?” she questioned Brandt, turning slightly to face him.

"You said she disappeared from a function at her family's home. Chances are
,
she remained at the house all night. She would have had no reason to be out where a stranger could abduct her."

"True. She could have known the person and gone willingly."

"Or known the person and not realized the danger she was in until it was too late.
Which means that we may not be looking for just anyone.
We may be looking for someone in Society.
A wealthy aristocrat, an acquaintance of the Xavier family.
What do you think?"

He had a good point, which might narrow the scope of their investigation. “There's something else I discovered in Yvonne's file this morning.
A handwritten note on the back of one of the photographs, which is probably why we missed it the first time.”
She didn't bother to add that the only reason she'd spotted it at all was because she hadn't slept a wink last night and had ended up poring over all of the notes and evidence in the hours before she decided to get dressed and pretend nothing had happened between Brandt and herself.