California Caress (31 page)

“I realize hurting Charles is inevitable. But is there no way to avoid hurting Angelique?” Sighing, he dragged his palm over the bald top of his head as he raised the other hand in a shaky plea for attention. “Please, Drake, let me explain. I can imagine how much it must have hurt when Angelique married Charles. Since I know firsthand how cold and manipulative the woman can be, I will not defend her on that score—or any other.” The door to the outer office opened a crack. Both men heard the barely perceptible squeak of hinges. Neither acknowledged it. Elbert paused, pursuing his lips and choosing his words with shrewd precision. “However, I would not feel I had fulfilled my duty to my
business associate
if I did not try, in some
smaaall
way, to dissuade you. Do you understand what I am trying to say, Mr. Fredrickson?”

Drake stifled a chuckle, carefully lowering his voice so their eavesdropper couldn’t hear. “Fredrickson.”

Elbert muttered under his breath, “I never worked well under pressure. You know that.”

Drake grinned and pulled the brim of his hat low on his brow. His voice rose enough for every juicy word to be caught by the prying ears. “Very well, Mr. Sneyd. I understand your concern and I will take it into consideration. I do want to assure you, however, that the innocent will remained unharmed.” His grin broadened. “Does that put your mind at rest?”

Elbert pushed up the spectacles and returned the grin. Picking the papers up off his desk, he held them out to Drake. “Yes, sir, it most certainly does. I thank you for your understanding. You have most definitely put my mind at rest.”

Drake took the papers and tucked them under his arm. “Notify the accountant I’ll be in touch with him before the end of the week. Good day, Mr. Sneyd.” From the corner of his eye, Drake saw the door swing shut.
Where the hell is Hope?
He wondered as he turned for the door. And why was she letting Sneyd’s secretary spy on his private conversations? Or was she the one doing the spying? The thought did not sit well.

“Good day, Mr.—“ Elbert’s gaze shifted to the door. Seeing it was shut, his staunchly professional demeanor thawed. “Good day, Drake. It’s good to have you back.”

“Feels good to be back, Elbert.” He stopped, his hand poised over the doorknob as he looked back at his friend. He fingered the papers tucked beneath his arm. “I’ll be in touch.”

“You won’t have to,” Elbert said as he plucked up Drake’s folder. He dug long fingers into his breast pocket in search of the desk key. “Charles and Angelique are throwing a charity ball at the house tonight. I’ve been invited. No doubt, we’ll see each other there.”

“
Charity
ball?
Charles?
You’ve got to be kidding me. The man has no more interest in charity functions than I have in fashion plates. What’s he up to now?”

Elbert shook his head thoughtfully. “I’m not sure, though I’m curious to find out. The benefits are to go to the Bradfield-Stillwell Home. Do the names sound familiar?”

Drake’s expression darkened. “Yeah,” he spat through gritted teeth, “Very familiar.”

“I thought they would. Like I said, I don’t know what he’s up to, but I do know this whole charity ball is suspicious. Of course, I have no proof. However, your brother’s sudden interest in procuring funds for a home for wayward boys seems particularly suspicious since the party’s conception coincides, to the day, with the date his inheritance ran dry. Now, I’m not suggesting he is doing anything illegal, but if you should happen to stumble on any information about this Bradfield-Stillwell Home, I’d be most interested in seeing it.”

He nodded slowly, his lips tight. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Oh, Drake, one more thing,” Elbert stopped his friend, whose hand was poised on the knob. “That matter you wired me about from St. Louis. It’s all been taken care of. The receipt is somewhere in those papers, in case you need it.”

He nodded once more to his old friend, then opened the door and stepped into the outer office.

The question of who had been eavesdropping was abruptly answered. The secretary, a kid who couldn’t possibly be over the age of seventeen, was sitting behind a small desk. Bent forward, he’d rested his elbows on the desktop and cushioned his pointed chin atop entwined fingers. His beady gaze was rigidly trained on the bench running against the wall to Drake’s immediate right—and the woman who slept on it.

With its high, slatted back posts and narrow, curved armrests, the hard wooden bench looked like an uncomfortable bed. Hope shifted. Her cheek was pillowed on her forearms, her knees drawn up almost to her chest as she huddled in the folds of one of Drake’s shirts. The hat she’d been wearing when they’d entered the office had fallen off. It now rested on the dark brown carpet near one of the bench’s spindled legs. The ends of the thick plait of hair curving over her shoulder dragged the floor, scarcely an inch away from the hat. Her deep, rhythmic breaths told Drake she had been asleep for some time.

A sudden stab of guilt at ever having suspected her of spying on him made Drake pull the door closed with more force than was necessary. He regarded the secretary with a suspicious glare. “How long has she been asleep?”

“About an hour, Mr. Fredrickson,” the secretary answered distractedly as he continued to scrutinize Hope. “How long has she been a
she
?” His eyes widened when he realized the impact of what he had just said. He fidgeted uncomfortably, the beady gaze flickered between the Colt strapped to the rugged man’s thigh and the anger that shimmered in those piercing green eyes. His confidence burst and he stammered, “I... I m-mean... that is—er—you both... I mean, I would have a s-sworn when you came in that you were b-both men.”

“And I know for a fact that when I came in, I didn’t give you my name,” Drake growled angrily.

Drake dropped the papers to the floor and approached the small desk in much the same way a lion would stalk his prey. In one lithe movement, he reached across the desk and grabbed a fistful of the young man’s coat. He included enough skin in his grasp to make his point painfully clear as he dragged the dark-haired fellow halfway across the desk. They were nose to nose, and Drake almost gagged on the rancid odor of the young man’s breath. “Tell me how you learned my name and tell me fast. I’m not known for my patience—and I don’t like snoops.”

“I didn’t snoop,” the man defended, his voice seriously lacking in truthfulness. He licked his fleshy lips, his gaze darting over Drake’s shoulder and resting on the woman asleep on the bench. He nodded in Hope’s direction. “Sh-she told me.”

“Like hell she did,” Drake snarled, pushing the kid back into his chair with a brutal shove. The wooden backrest banged against the wall as he pulled the pistol from his holster. “You should try to remember your lies, pal. Two minutes ago you told me the lady’s been asleep an hour. Good trick. We’ve only been here forty-five minutes. Now,” he eased the hammer back slightly to free the cylinder and rolled it lightly down his arm, giving the kid ample opportunity to see the six live cartridges spinning in the gun’s cylinder, and continued, “my Colt says you’re going to tell me the truth.”

“I did,” the kid whined miserably, his eyes never leaving the deadly pistol.

“Is that a fact?” Drake pulled the hammer fully back, making the gun ready to fire. The unmistakable sound of the cylinder locking into place behind the deadly barrel, the hammer poised to fire, echoed loudly as he glared at the red-faced secretary. “What’s your name, kid?”

“M-Mason,” was the hoarse answer as he huddled farther down in the chair. “D-Daniel Mason.”

“How long have you been working for Mr. Sneyd, Daniel Mason?”

“About s-six months.”

Drake grinned. The expression was not mirrored in his eyes. “Tell me something, Danny boy, have you ever met an Indian?” The kid’s eyes rounded, his cheeks draining of color as he shook his head. “I have,” Drake said. “In fact, I spent an entire winter with the Dakota tribe. Ever heard of ‘em?” Again, the boy shook his head. This time it was a weak, fearful gesture. “They’re a Plains tribe, cousins to the Apache. The Dakotas are known for two things: being very fierce and very strict. They don’t like liars.” His gaze narrowed on the boy whose complexion had gone past white, and was now a deathly shade of gray. Slowly, almost lazily, Drake pivoted the gun barrel until it pointed directly at the now-terrified young man. “How would you like to find out firsthand what the Dakotas do to people who lie to them, Danny boy?”

The boy’s eyes were so wide they appeared to be bulging from their sockets. “I was listening at the door,” he blurted, his cravat rising and falling as he tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “The lady didn’t tell me your name, I overheard you and Mr. Sneyd talking. But I wasn’t snooping. It was an accident. I was—er—polishing the doorknob. Yes, I was polishing the doorknob and the door slipped open. It was an accident. It could have happened to anybody.” He looked down the unwavering barrel of the gun and swallowed hard again.

“An accident that will never be repeated. Just like my name and my presence here today won’t ever be repeated. Am I right?”

“Oh y-yes, sir. Definitely. It won’t happen again.”

Drake nodded curtly. “Smart boy,” he said as he lowered the hammer back into place and slipped the gun into the holster. “Get back to work. Mr. Sneyd doesn’t pay you to sit and stare at his clients.”

“Yes, sir,” Danny boy said, his voice brimming with enthusiasm as he delved into the stack of files cluttering his desk. Grabbing the top one, he muttered something about making a delivery, then ran out the door leading outside. His coat remained on the peg near the door, alongside his hat and scarf.

Drake shook his head in disgust as he approached the narrow bench. Hunkering down beside it, he gave Hope’s broad shoulder a gentle shake. “Wake up, sunshine. We have to go.”

Hope murmured something unintelligible in response. Her brow crinkled with annoyance as she batted his hand away.

“Come on, Hope, wake up.” Sighing, he leaned close to her ear and whispered, “If you wake up right now, I promise you can have a real bed to sleep in tonight.”

The dark lashes fluttered up. “A real bed?” she asked suspiciously, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand. “Did I hear you say something about a
real
bed?”

“Thought that would grab your attention,” he said with a warm grin. For a split second, when she smiled at him like that, he could almost believe there was nothing wrong between them. Almost. “And yes, that’s exactly what I said. After a few months of sleeping on the cold, hard ground, a nice soft mattress and pillow sounds pretty good to me, too.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” she asked, all signs of tiredness suddenly gone. Leaning forward, she scooped the hat off the carpet and pushed herself to a sit. Long months on the trail had taught her how to ignore the soreness in her muscles from the cramped position she’d slept in. “You promised me a real bed, gunslinger, and I intend to see you keep your word.”

One golden eyebrow rose high in his forehead. “Is that a fact?”

“Uh-hum.” Her eyes shimmered with a teasing glint as she sent Drake a provocative glance from beneath her lashes. One hand settled the hat on her head; the other lifted the gun from his holster before Drake could even guess what she’d done—until he heard the hammer cock. She lowered the barrel until it was in direct line with his chest. “You ever meet a gold miner?” she mimicked his earlier words with a wicked grin. “Well, I have. In fact, I spent two entire winters in the Mother Lode. Now, how would you like to find out firsthand what we prospectors do to people who don’t keep their promises, gunslinger?”

Drake’s eyes danced with laugher. “You little witch. You weren’t asleep at all, were you?”

“No,” she said with an impish shrug. She lowered the hammer into place, then handed the gun back to Drake, grip first. “I just got sick of that beady little man staring at me.”

Drake took the gun and slipped it back in the holster. “Where did you learn how to do that?” he asked as he dropped a loop of leather attached to the holster over the gun’s hammer.

Hope batted her lashes with feigned innocence. “Fake sleep? Nowhere. I guess it just comes natural.”

“
Hooope?
” Drake’s voice lowered sternly. “You know what I’m talking about, now answer me. Who taught you how to lift a man’s gun like that?”

Hope lowered her gaze and tried her best to look chastised. It didn’t work. The thought of a real bed, soft and fluffy, had put her in an incredibly good mood. Though the mood didn’t seem to be infectious, she couldn’t help the teasing sparkle in her eyes as she asked, “And if I don’t make a full confession? What are you going to do, beat me into submission?”

“Now that sounds like the best idea I’ve heard all day.”

“Careful, Frazier, I just might like that.” As she spoke, Hope ran the tip of her index finger down his jaw. Her finger paused at the slight indentation of his chin before slipping up to trace the line of his lower lip. She raised her gaze to his. It was the first time she’d touched him in almost two months, and the contact rippled up her arm like a path of white-hot fire. “Then where would we be?” she asked, her voice a pitch huskier than normal.

“I don’t know,” he answered, his voice a throaty whisper as he turned his lips into her palm, “but I’d sure as hell like to find out.” Enclosing her hand in his, he slipped her arm around hher neck and stole a slow, tender kiss.

Hope tingled with awareness. She returned the kiss, and at the same time attempted to fight off the insistent sensation that coursed through her blood. It was a losing battle, she realized miserably, thinking it would have been better to never have touched him at all. It was too late, of course, her body was already demanding a release that was long overdue.

“Where did you say that bed was?” she asked against his lips.

“I didn’t.”

Reluctantly, Drake pulled away. It was either that or risk molesting the witch in the office of one of Boston’s finest—and busiest—attorneys. He collected the papers, folded them in half, then stuck them in the pocket of his brown leather vest. “Come on,” he said tightly. Grabbing her hand, he pulled her off the bench. “If we hurry we can be there in less than an hour.”