Hawk's Prize (8 page)

She had been desperate when he turned toward
the door, and she had called out, “You’re making a mistake.”

Her eyes grew moist when it suddenly became startlingly clear in her mind that her warning had had nothing to do with the condition of his infected leg.

She followed his unsteady progress down the stairs toward the front door.

She held her breath when he drew it open.

She gasped when he hesitated, then collapsed heavily on the doorstep.

“I told you the last time you came that I didn’t want you to come here again!”

Seething, Simon pulled Angie inside the door of his mansion. It was late, and his very respectable doorstep was all but invisible from the street at that time of night; there was little possibility that anyone had seen Angie there. Even his servants were asleep—but Angie had known full well how angry her coming would make him. He had lost control and had punished her on the spot the last time, in the most intimate of ways—the only way a woman like Angie was capable of understanding—but that seemed to have made little difference.

It occurred to him that Angie’s arrival at his mansion tonight was her way of evening the score with him. That thought was more dangerous for the dissolute whore than she could possibly realize.

Simon pulled Angie into his study and closed the
door quietly behind them while maintaining control by sheer strength of will. He had had a long, difficult day. The situation with the consortium had taken an unexpected turn. A few of the men were smarter than he had thought. They were holding out against his advice, trying to convince others that steps were needed to ensure Galveston’s future, that Galveston’s natural harbor did not assure its commercial success. He had smiled at Jonathan Grimel when the distinguished
fool
formally asked the consortium to consider that concern. Simon had pretended amusement at the supposedly preposterous thought, while inwardly he had raged.

Angie’s arrival threatened the respectability that was so important to his plans at this time—and she knew it.

Making no attempt to hide his foul mood, he addressed Angie hotly.

“All right, tell me why you’re here. I warn you, it had better be good.”

Testing the limits of his patience, Angie replied with deliberate evasiveness, “I suppose that means you’re not flattered that I came looking for you when I could be sleeping in my fine little room instead.”

“Your fine little room,” Simon sneered. “You mean the room where you’ll take on any and every man who shows up on Chantalle’s doorstep, and where you’re never truly satisfied until I visit you?”

Angie shrugged a sultry shoulder, allowing her neckline to gape in a way that displayed her breasts enticingly. “There’s some truth to that.”

Bitch . . . she was baiting him.

His flushed expression revealing more than he wished, Simon said, “Out with it! Why are you here?”

“You insinuated you’d be interested in knowing more about Chantalle’s daughter and that fella she’s been keeping all to herself at the house. I found out the name he uses.”

Angie halted, waiting for his response. He struggled for control as he said, “Well? What is it?”

“He calls himself Drew Collins.”

“Collins.”

“He’s still sick, according to the perfect Miss Tricia, but I have my doubts about that.”

“Meaning?”

“Something’s wrong there. That big fella was in too much of a rush to get out of that bed when he woke up yesterday. He was lucid—for the first time, to hear Tricia tell it—and he immediately tried to leave the house. It was almost like something or somebody was chasing him.”

“Is that right?”

“Staying alone in that room with Miss Perfect all night didn’t seem to make a difference, and I’m thinking either she wasn’t too good at entertaining him or he was too busy looking over his shoulder to linger any longer.”

“And you know all this because . . . ?”

Angie moved her body in a sinuous way that tugged at Simon’s groin as she said, “Because you pay me well for information . . . but mostly because I like to please you.”

Resenting the effect the worthless whore had on him, Simon gave a scoffing snort. “You like to please me? I
suppose that’s why you came here when I told you I never wanted to see you on my doorstep again. No . . . you don’t fool me.” Simon closed the distance between them so swiftly that Angie did not have time to retreat. Gripping her hair cruelly, he hissed, “Stupid—that’s what you are if you expect me to believe you! I pay you well, and that’s the only reason you do my bidding.”

He drew her closer, his grip tightening painfully. He felt her heart pounding against his chest as he amended hotly, “No, that’s not right. You
want
me in a way you don’t want any other man. You hate yourself for it, but you came here tonight thinking you’d tease me into taking you again. But I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to satisfy you. I’m going to send you home
wanting,
Angie, with only material payment to soothe your carnal needs.”

Releasing her so abruptly that Angie staggered a few steps backward, Simon was keenly aware that the greedy whore read his weaknesses well. For all his bravado, he felt an overwhelming desire to throw her across the fifteenth-century marble-topped chest he was so proud of, so he could take her just as he had once before. Instead, he moved back to his desk, removed a wad of bills from a drawer, and threw it at Angie. He watched her for a few moments as she stood breathing heavily, then ordered, “Pick them up. That’s all you’re going to get from me tonight.”

Waiting until she scrambled for the bills, Simon added, “But your work for me isn’t done. I have a job for you. Drew Collins carries a ring in his money pouch. It’s damaged, but it has some sort of crest with
a sailing ship and a Latin motto partially visible on it. I want you to find out where he got it. I need to know. But don’t come back here with the information. If you do, you’ll receive payment of a far different kind than you’re expecting.”

The money clutched in her hand, Angie stood shaken and trembling when Simon added slowly, “You serve a very important purpose for me, Angie. Don’t spoil it. I’ll keep in touch. If you have something to tell me in the meantime, find another way to contact me.” He paused to add succinctly, “Your life may depend on it.”

Simon led Angie to the rear door of the mansion, aware that she was shaking. Whether it was with fear or unsated desire, he could not be sure, but that was the way he wanted it.

No, she’d never come to his house again.

Simon closed the door quietly behind Angie. He locked it firmly, and then paused in the darkness to further consider what she had told him. So the bastard said his name was Drew
Collins.
He had the same given name as Harold Hawk’s younger son. Coincidence? He doubted it, but he needed to be sure so he could take care of this particularly vulnerable fellow and be certain that
this
Hawk would be the
last
one to return to Galveston.

Angie would get the confirmation he needed. With the younger Hawk son taken care of, he could eliminate the others, one by one.

He looked forward to it.

“I brought you something to eat.”

Drew did not respond as Tricia entered the room with a tray in hand. Neither did he smile. He didn’t like being stuck in bed, helpless because of a debility that he was unable to dismiss any longer. He knew that with every moment he remained in a city overrun by Yankees, the danger of being recognized increased.

But that wasn’t his present problem.

Drew watched as Tricia placed the tray with a bowl of broth on the bed stand beside him. It irritated him that despite the pain in his leg, her fragrance assaulted his senses and her presence alerted him to a part of himself that he had difficulty ignoring.

Morning sunlight streamed into the room as Drew stared at Tricia’s turned back. She wasn’t wearing the blue dressing gown. Instead, she was wearing a plain, tan cotton dress. Her long blond hair was twisted into a conservative bun at the back of her neck, where a few escaping tendrils fell loose to remind him of its glittering glory.

Her expression was severe.

But she was still beautiful.

And he still wanted her.

Drew’s mouth twitched as desire expanded inside him. He wanted to sense her lips softening under his, to feel them part to allow the gentle exploration of his tongue, to taste the sweetness of her mouth. He yearned to draw her down onto the bed beside him so he could indulge the emotions running riot inside him—so he could prove to himself that she wasn’t an angel after all, that she was flesh and blood and—

Drew halted the heated progression of his thoughts
with sheer strength of will. Rationally, he told himself that the last trace of fever still haunting him was at fault and that his hunger for this young woman would fade when he was well again—but he knew better. There was only one way to ease what he was feeling.

Drew pulled himself to a seated position in bed. A day had passed since he had attempted to leave the bordello with disastrous results. He had spent another night in the gaudy room with the sound of male footsteps and female giggles echoing in his dreams—and with the angel in blue at his side.

During that time, he had learned through snatches of conversation overheard at the doorway that Tricia Lee Shepherd was not the woman he had thought her to be. She was the madam’s daughter, who had only recently returned from up North and she did not participate in the services of the house. Dr. Wesley, obviously prejudiced in her behalf, had rambled on about her, extolling her virtues as he tended Drew’s leg. Drew had not bothered to reply that his
angel
had merely returned to her roots.

Tricia turned back toward him, the gold flecks in her clear eyes sending heat shooting through him as she said, “You should eat something so you can maintain your strength.”

He replied gruffly, “I’m strong enough.”

“But you’re hungry.”

He was hungry, all right.

“Mr. Collins . . .”

Revealing seconds passed before Drew realized she was addressing him, and he said abruptly, “My name is Drew.”

He noted her hesitation as she said, “You know my name is Tricia Shepherd, but I hesitate to allow the intimacy of first names between us since we’re barely acquainted.”

Drew would have laughed if he’d felt the slightest bit merry. Instead, he replied boldly, “You’ve seen me practically naked; you’ve spent two nights alone with me in this room while I’ve been exposed to you as I’ve never been with any other woman—so I’d say you know me more intimately than most women do.”

“That’s different.”

“Different . . .”

“You were sick. You still are. You needed somebody to take care of you.”

Right.

“Besides, you still have the remnants of a fever.”

More than she realized.

“Dr. Wesley said the infection seems to be improving, but it still could go either way.”

Drew’s stomach twisted tight as her breasts heaved before she said, “But you’re right . . . Drew. Formality is a bit absurd at this point.” She compressed her lips. “Now, are you ready to eat something? Your hands are probably unsteady, so I’ll feed you.”

That thought was more than he could bear. “I can feed myself,” Drew responded more sharply than he intended.

“But I—”

“I said, I can feed myself.”

Tricia did not bother to respond. Instead, she pushed the nightstand closer to the bed and said, “Go ahead.”

Stubborn . . . unwilling to back down . . . he was
impossible!

Those thoughts flitted through Tricia’s mind as Drew attempted to spoon the thin broth into his mouth while leaning forward awkwardly over the dish. She did not comment when more of the first spoonful ended up on his shirt than in his mouth. She looked away when he mumbled under his breath and tried again, with the same result. She turned determinedly toward the bandages on the dresser that Dr. Wesley had left for her to roll. Moments later she heard the sound of his spoon striking the tray. “I’m not hungry anymore,” he said flatly.

“Oh, no, you don’t!” Suddenly angry, she strode back to the bed and said, “I’m going to feed you whether you like it or not, and you’re going to finish that broth just like Dr. Wesley instructed—because if you don’t, you’ll never get well.”

Drew Collins’s eyes met hers as she demanded, “Do you understand?”

She was uncertain whether she saw a hint of amusement in those depths as she sat down determinedly at his bedside. Annoyed, she picked up the abandoned spoon and ordered, “Open your mouth.”

Her heart pounded as Drew’s lips parted and she shoved the first spoonful of broth into his mouth. She watched as his lips closed and his throat worked visibly as he swallowed.

She was sitting closer to him than she really wanted to. His light-eyed gaze was almost palpable as it searched her face and gradually settled on her lips. She could almost feel his body heat, and she controlled her
trembling at the thought that the heat she sensed was unrelated to his fever.

Hardly able to breathe, she slid another spoonful into his mouth.

Damn . . . what had she gotten herself into?

Angie shrugged into her dressing gown and pulled it closed around her. She did not bother to fasten the tie, allowing the gown to gape open to reveal flimsy undergarments that exposed a bounty of intimate flesh as she walked down the hallway toward the bordello kitchen. Chantalle frowned on such a casual manner of dress. She took great pains to impress upon all the women that her establishment was not the average bordello, and that she catered to patrons who appreciated an aura of decorum and delicacy in the public rooms, just as much as they sought full sexual gratification once the bedroom doors closed behind them. Angie was only too happy to supply the sexual gratification part, but she continued to fight Chantalle’s restrictions at every turn.

Frowning, Angie flipped back her dark, unbound hair and started toward the stairs. Hesitating, she then turned back toward the office where she knew Chantalle would be working on her books. Memories of her visit to Simon’s house the previous night remained chillingly clear in her mind.