Angel in My Arms (3 page)

He walked up the painted white steps and across the porch. A swing
drifted back and forth in the breeze at one end. To his left were a row
of flower pots filled with dirt, zinnias or daisies yet to be planted
in them. A trowel lay beside the pretty clay pots, as if recently
abandoned.

His father's cryptic letter had said he would leave someone to watch
after the house. Apparently he'd had the good sense to hire a man as
caretaker, or perhaps a spinster nurse had stayed on after his death to
watch after the house and gain a roof over her head for a few months.
Fox wouldn't evict whoever it was immediately. He would give him or her
a few days to find lodging elsewhere.

Fox's first impulse was to walk right into the house. After all, it
was his inheritance. One of the few things his father had ever given
him. But he didn't want to startle the caretaker, or worse, be shot for
an intruder. He rapped his knuckles firmly on the paneled oak door, his
leather satchel still in his hand.

A dog barked wildly, and he heard the padding of the animal's four paws as it approached the door from the inside.

Fox heard footsteps behind the door. Light footsteps; confident, yet
feminine. It swung open and his gaze met with the clearest green eyes.
An angel.
A green-eyed angel with a halo of red gold hair.

Fox had never before experienced such an immediate attraction to a
woman. It wasn't his way. If he'd been asked only a moment before if he
believed in love at first sight, he would have denied its existence
with a cynical chuckle. Suddenly he believed otherwise.

A large yellow mutt thrust its black nose through the open door and
growled. Obviously a guard dog, it kept its hind end pressed into the
young woman's billowing skirts.

For a moment Fox didn't know what to say. This had to be Celeste, the woman his father had mentioned in his final letter.
Celeste, the heavenly angel.

A whore.
The moment Celeste's gaze met Fox's—for surely
this could be no one but Fox MacPhearson—she wished desperately that
she was not a whore. She wished that she was once more the young
socialite of Denver, her reputation unblemished. For the first time in
her life, she desperately wished she could turn back the hands of time.

"Mr. MacPhearson?" she asked with a catch in her voice.

Silver whined.

Celeste smiled at the stranger as she dropped her hand to her dog's
smooth head to let him know the man was welcome. Silver had been John's
dog, only now he was hers. "You are Mr. MacPhearson, aren't you?" she
asked when he didn't respond immediately.

"Uh, yes. Yes, Fox MacPhearson."

He seemed older than his thirty-some years, but not in a negative
way. His handsome, angular face had the look of a man of experience.
She was pleasantly surprised to see that he was clean-shaven, unlike
most of the men that passed through Carrington. He didn't even have
long side-whiskers, which were popular with city gentlemen of the day.
He had the same black Indian eyes as John, the same smile that could
make a woman swoon. Even a whore.

"Come in." She stepped back, self-consciously smoothing her cotton
day gown. She'd been gardening and felt rumpled. She nearly stumbled
over the dog as she stepped back into the foyer. "Silver, back, boy."

"How… how did you know it was me?" He followed her into the marble-floored foyer.

"Well, we don't get a lot of strangers here in Carrington, not since
the gold petered out in the gulch," she answered, trying to get past
her silly embarrassment. "And you look just like John, I mean your
father, I mean Mr. MacPhearson." She stumbled over her words, not
understanding her reaction. She had been expecting John's son for
weeks. Why was she suddenly so clumsy?

He laughed, his smile radiating a warmth of sincerity. His voice was
deeper than John's had been, rich, heady, like the oak of a good
Chardonnay wine. "No, I don't suppose you do get a lot of visitors."

He removed his hat, and she hung it on the oak hook over the mirror
in the foyer. Unlike his father's black hair, his was dark brown, and
without a sliver of gray.

"I'm sorry, I… I didn't introduce myself," she stumbled, still feeling awkward. "I'm Celeste—"

"Celeste Kennedy. Yes, John told me in his letter."

She felt a strange sinking in her heart. She also noticed that he
referred to his father by his first name. It sounded so impersonal and
uncharacteristic of the man that stood before her. "He… he told you…
about me?"

"Not exactly." Fox set down his leather bag and pushed back a thick
lock of hair that fell boyishly over his forehead. "You know John, he
could be vague when he wanted to be."

She smiled hesitantly, and met his gaze. He doesn't know who I am…
or at least what I am. John didn't tell him, the sly old bird… And Fox
hadn't guessed. Otherwise it would have reflected in his dark eyes. It
always did with men and women, though the look was different. With
women it was accusing, bitter, a little envious in some bizarre way.
With men it was lust, pure lust, and lack of respect. The lack of
respect had always bothered Celeste more than the lust.

"I'm sorry. How ungracious of me to keep you standing in the foyer.
I was making myself a cup of tea." She motioned down the hallway,
toward the kitchen. "Would you like one?"

"I would love a cup of tea." He removed his overcoat and hung it on
the hook beside his hat before Celeste could take it for him.

She liked a man who could fend for himself. She walked to the
kitchen, Silver leading the way. Never once in her life had she seen a
man hang his own coat, not even John. "I… I was planting flowers.
Summer's going to come early to Colorado this year."

"Is it? To San Francisco, too. That's where I came from."

"I know." She indicated a white kitchen table where he could sit and retrieved an extra teacup, saucer, and white damask napkin.

Silver circled Fox, watching him with curiosity.

"Lay down, Silver."

The dog obediently slid to the floor and rested his muzzle between his front paws, but kept his gaze fixed on the stranger.

Celeste turned her attention back to Fox. "John… your father, talked
about California often. He used to say he was headed back that way."

Fox chuckled, but his dark-eyed gaze reflected a shadow of pain.

"Always searching for that mother lode, wasn't he?"

She smiled at the memory of John. This was just small talk.
Something she'd gotten good at in the last few years, but Fox was easy
to converse with. He made her comfortable. Maybe it was just because
she liked the idea that he didn't know she was a whore. Of course she
would have to tell him the truth, but the fantasy was so pleasant that
she let it go a little longer. It had been a long time since she'd felt
this kind of freedom with a man—the freedom to just be herself and not
have to worry about saying what he wanted her to say… or doing what he
wanted her to do.

She watched Fox study the bright white and yellow kitchen. Sun
poured in through the west window and cast golden light across his face.

"You've taken excellent care of the house," he said.

She lifted a kettle of hot water off the black, cast-iron stove and
crossed the kitchen to fill the flowered china teapot. "It's a
beautiful house. All the modern amenities. Gaslights and a flush—" She
blushed as she replaced the lid on the teapot and walked back to the
stove. "John loved modern conveniences. He was always reading the
newspapers to me, telling me what's been invented. He used to swear
we'd be riding in horseless carriages in another ten years."

Fox chuckled with her and reached for the teapot. Celeste reached
out at the same instant. Their fingertips brushed. She lifted her gaze
to meet his across the kitchen table, feeling a connection with him
that went beyond John. A strange tingle arced between their fingertips.

Celeste pulled back in amazement.
Must have picked up static electricity on the hall carpet,
she thought. But she knew better. The moment he had touched her, her
reaction had been emotional as well as physical. In her line of work,
emotion was dangerous.

"I'm sorry," Fox apologized. "I thought I would serve you." He studied her warmly. He was such a true gentleman. "May I?"

Celeste couldn't take her eyes off Fox. This felt so strange. She
had cared for John deeply, perhaps even loved him on some level. She
had shared a bed with him many times, but she'd never felt this way
about him. Never felt this immediate attraction that she felt for his
son. A little frightened by the thought, she glanced away. Celeste had
worked hard to isolate herself from men, to protect herself, even from
John. She'd never felt like she was in danger of cracking before…
before now.

She watched as Fox poured the amber tea into her teacup with the
expertise of a parlormaid. "You do that well," she said as he poured
himself a cup.

"Thank you." He smiled. "Thought I might find myself a job in a London teahouse serving crumpets sometime."

He doesn't take himself too seriously,
she thought. That was admirable in such a successful man.

She laughed at his silliness and he laughed with her as he reached
for the cream and sugar on the table. He had large, broad hands, clean
and steady. Celeste had always thought a man's hands told much about
him. She could see that Fox had not worked manually for a living, as
most men who passed through Carrington had. And judging from the
newsprint stains on his fingers, he read a great deal.

"I seem to have upset your dog. I don't think he cares for me." Fox indicated the big yellow mutt with a nod of his chin.

Celeste glanced at Silver. "No, he likes everyone. John used to take
him wherever he went. He used to say Silver had seen every saloon west
of the Mississippi and east of the Nevadas."

"Silver?" Fox raised an eyebrow. "The dog is as yellow as a nugget of Colorado gold."

She chuckled. "Silver was John's; I'm surprised you didn't know
about him. Surprised you never saw him. They'd been together for years.
It seems John won him in a poker game. Originally his name
was
Gold, but John said he wasn't a prime dog, not worthy of the name, so he called him Silver, after the lesser metal."

Fox nodded. "Sounds like something he would do."

They both sipped their tea in a comfortable silence.

"Oh." Celeste glanced up at him. "I'm sorry. I just don't know where
my manners have gone today." She rose from her chair, feeling a little
unsteady on her feet. It had never occurred to her that she might be
physically attracted to John's son. It had been a very long time since
she'd been physically attracted to anyone. Whoring did that to a woman.

"Would you like a slice of cake? Mrs. Tuttle sent it over with her
husband. He's the reverend here in town. Joash keeps an eye on me."

Fox took a sip of his tea and pushed back in his chair, casually
propping one ankle on the other knee. "I'd love a piece of cake."

"It's angel food." Celeste sliced off a piece and placed it on a
china dish she drew from the cupboard overhead. "Light as a cloud in
the heavens, Joash says." She took a fork from a drawer and set it and
the plate in front of Fox before retreating to her chair on the far
side of the table. She felt safer there.

"You're not going to have any?"

She shook her head.

"What? Another woman who doesn't eat?" He cut off a bite-size piece of white cake with his fork and brought it to his mouth.

Celeste watched him part his lips, mesmerized by their full
sensuality. "Uh… no." She laughed, the spell broken. "It's not that I
don't eat, only that I've had three pieces today already."

He laughed with her again, and their voices echoed off the punched-tin ceiling.

Fox took another bite of the cake and Celeste sipped her tea,
watching him over the rim of the teacup, fascinated by how in some ways
he was so like John, and in other ways so different. Many of his
mannerisms were the same as his father's, like the way he slipped the
fork out of his mouth, his lips pressed to the tines. But while John
had often been crude in his table manners, Fox was smooth and obviously
comfortable with the silver plate and the fragile china. She had no
doubt he had been served tea in London. While John had been a simple
man, Fox was obviously a worldly one. He reminded her of the men she
had known in Denver, men who had wooed her. That had been more than
eight years ago. It felt like eight centuries.

Fox finished the cake and wiped his mouth with the linen napkin
before taking a sip of his tea. "Well, Miss Kennedy, this has been very
pleasant, but I suppose we should get on with business."

Celeste set down her teacup with a slight clatter. "Business?"

He made a motion with his hand meaning to get on with it. "Of John."

That sinking feeling came back again. For a half an hour's time she
had been a woman sharing a cup of tea with a handsome man. In a moment
she would just be a whore again. "Your father, you mean," she said
softly. "You haven't called him your father, only John." She didn't
mean to criticize but, to Celeste, it seemed disrespectful.

For a split second Fox looked uncomfortable. "Y… yes, my father.
It's just that I never called him that. Only John. We both preferred it
that way."

"Even when you were a little boy?" She was amazed by his confession.
It seemed so unlike John. And there was the way Fox explained it. He
said he had preferred it that way, but their was something in his voice
that expressed otherwise. "John never told me that."

Fox uncrossed his legs and pressed both hands to his thighs, leaning
forward slightly. "Miss Kennedy, you seem to have known—or think you
knew—my father quite well." There was an edge to his voice now. "Will
you tell me exactly what your relationship was with him?"