Holm, Stef Ann (32 page)

"Want
me to stop?"

She
closed her eyes, tightly.
Say yes. Say yes. Say yes.
"No. I don't
want you to stop." The words were throaty; they didn't feel like they
belonged to her.

"Then
open your eyes, honey, so I can watch you."

She
lifted her lashes, grateful the room wasn't all that bright. If it was, she
would have—No, she wouldn't. A sigh escaped her lips and she lifted her hands
into his hair. It was silky and cool and warm at the same time. She wanted him
to kiss her, to—

With
only the near-sheer lawn of her pantalets covering her, he massaged the most
intimate place on her body. Thoughts of kisses fled. She'd never let her
imagination go this far. She hadn't been prepared for how she'd actually feel
when it happened. For how the touch would consume her, make her pulse.

"Alex..."
She held him in her hands pulled his mouth to hers. She put her lips to his.
Soft. Barely touching. She gave him a light kiss, then pulled his head back.

The
way Alex moved his fingers over the barely nothing fabric was maddening. This
was taking a kiss and turning into something she had no experience in. The need
she felt for him to touch her made her senses spin. She'd been brought up a
proper Victorian woman, and these feelings, these things he did to her, they
upset her balance, her reasoning. And yet she had to confront where this was
leading.

"I
can't... that is... I—" His palm rubbed her sensitive flesh and the hot
ache in her intensified. "This is wonderful, but I... can't—"

"I'm
not asking you to do anything." He slowly twirled his thumb over her,
jolting her so that her jaws clenched. "I'm giving this to you. Like I
gave you the hat. Just enjoy it."

He
tortured her slowly at first, then with an artful stimulation that had her
making small, helpless sounds in her throat. She didn't want him to look at her
face and know how glorious she felt, how wanton... or to hear the gasp that she
caught with her teeth... or to see how her eyelids slid closed in utter
ecstacy.

His
voice came to her, low and whiskey smooth. "Do you like when I touch
you?"

Oh
help, that wasn't a question she wanted to answer. The truth was painfully
embarrassing. Why would he want to know? Why did it matter to him anyway? There
was no reason to give him a verbal confirmation of what clearly must be written
over every inch of her body, of her skin.

"Do
you?" he asked once more when she didn't reply.

Eyes
slipping open, legs stretching taut, her pelvis straining against his hand, she
dared look at him. Hoarsely, she whispered, "Yes."

With
that one word, he slipped his hand inside her pantalets and increased the tempo
of his thumb and forefinger. She didn't even think about the sheer intimacy of
it. What he did to her was like nothing she'd ever felt before. That he could
do this, evoke such desire in her without her being undressed, left her feeling
fragmented—not whole until she reached that place he was destined to take her
by the way he stroked and touched.

"Then
don't fight me."

"I'm
not."

"You
are." He kissed the sensitive spot behind her ear, his breath hot in her
ear. "Your teeth are clenched, honey."

Everything
in her was clenched, and if she didn't let it go, she wasn't going to be able
to breathe. An ache in her breasts tugged, drawing her into an exquisite
harmony with the motion of his hand. His expert fingers moved in a tempo that
made her toes curl.

Alex's
voice was tender, almost a murmur, as she melted beneath his touch. "It's
okay, Camille."

She
shattered, releasing the tension wound so tightly within her. And as she rocked
against his splayed fingers, her pulse spun. She was helpless to halt her
breath from coming out in long, surrendering moans. A climax of indescribable
heat surged through her. Fulfillment she couldn't have begun to describe made
her tremble, made her pant, made her reach out to Alex and bring him to her.

He
captured her moist lips with a kiss. "You're beautiful to watch." His
words shook her, just as tangibly as the shudders that centered between her
thighs.

She
could barely trust herself to speak. "Don't say that."

"You
are
beautiful, Camille."

Unbidden,
her eyes filled with tears. How many times had she been told that? But right
now, what did she want him to tell her?
Camille, you are the smartest woman
I've ever brought to fulfillment
So she took his words, embraced them, and
believed—truly—that he meant every part of her was beautiful to him.

He
traced her upper lip. "You don't need Rose Delish to pinken your mouth.
You need only me."

Too
many emotions collided inside her at the very thought that she needed him. She
didn't want to. How could she? She had to prove herself to her father first—
and
prove to herself she could make the team better because of her
know-how—before she could fall in love. Why, then, didn't her heart listen to
her? Why, then, did it trip and skitter whenever she was near this man? She
couldn't love Alex. It would ruin everything—her purpose, and his. It would be
horrible.

It
would be heaven.

She
struggled to sit up. As if he understood, he pressed his forehead to hers. She
let the warmth of his skin soak into hers. Then he pulled back. "I know.
You have to go."

Not
wanting to leave and yet wanting to—both clashed within her. He helped her put
her underwaist on as she sat beside him. Tugging her skirts down, she felt her
cheeks grow warm once more. The fan did little to cool her skin. Its breeze
passed over them, intertwining her skirt between his legs, billowing her hair
across his shoulder. Touching, yet without touching.

Alex
got up from the bed, went to the center of the room, and picked up her robe. As
he came back to the bed, she rose. When she stood, her knees nearly gave out.
He steadied her, brushing her lips with a gentle kiss. Then he put her robe on
for her, tying the sash in a neat bow.

Tucking
a curl behind her ear, he offered, "I'll walk you to your room."

He
kept the door to his room ajar while taking her down the hall. Once at her
door, she turned and pressed her back to the panel. He raised his arm above
her, resting his wrist on the jamb over her head.

A
smile lazed on his lips. "I'm glad you liked your hat, honey. See you in
the morning."

Then
he left her standing there feeling thoroughly debauched... and, heaven help
her, wanting him to debauch her again.

The
train
broke down in Dorothy, Wisconsin, on the Fourth of July. A piston froze and
quit on the Chicago & Northwestern a day away from Harmony. Since the disk
had been antiquated to begin with, and Dorothy was ancient itself, the small
town's railway yard didn't stock that particular part at this time.

Nor
at any other time.

But
given the fact the No. 1653 had stalled on rail lines smack in the city limits,
the C & N was obligated to put passengers up for the night in a hotel of
the company's choice. Their choice was the Buffalo Bill House, which happened
to be the only hotel in town—in which Buffalo Bill had never stayed. But the
residents of Dorothy were still hoping he'd show up one day, seeing as they'd
named their only hotel after him.

The
Keystones had been sitting on the crippled train for two hours with no news
when the porter had come onboard and told them it wasn't a problem that could
be fixed that day. The part had been ordered by telegraph and would arrive on
the next train, which wasn't due in for twelve hours. Then it would take time
for the engine to be repaired.

Alex
disembarked from the train, stretching his tight muscles. This particular line
of the rail didn't have upper berths like the New York Central, and he'd had to
bend himself into a wicker seat to sleep. Hot as it had been while they were
traveling, they'd kept the windows open. He'd been eating soot and cinders all
night long and half the day.

Once
on the platform, he lit a cigarette from the pack he'd bought for himself. There
was no point in bumming them off of Charlie all the time. He'd all but resumed
the habit. But when he got back to Harmony, he told himself he'd quit again.

As
he waved out the match, he watched as Camille dusted her blue skirt while
stepping down with help from the porter. Her ever-present parasol was missing,
as were her white gloves. She hadn't gotten rid of the hat, though. Although
not huge like the one he'd given her, this one was big enough. It looked like
birds were taking a bath on the low crown. Not exactly his style, but he had to
concede it was a step up from the basket of fruit she'd had on the other day
when they'd played the White Stockings.

She
discreetly yawned, then tried to extend her cramped limbs without being
obvious. They were all dead beat from the road travel, but to Alex, she wore
the fatigue well—kind of sleepy, kind of sensual.

He
remembered how she'd looked on his bed. How her lips had tasted. How her pale
blue eyes had slid closed when he'd brought her to satisfaction. He'd wanted to
be with her. He'd wanted her, wanted to give her the kind of pleasure he was
sure she had never experienced. But he'd known then, just as he'd known the
first day he saw her in his wood shop, she was a lady—a lady who didn't trifle
with men and didn't give herself away.

If
he wanted Camille Kennison, then he had to give himself to her as a husband.
Because anything less wasn't good enough for a woman like her. He could accept
that. Didn't mean he was going to propose. But he was smart enough to know when
he couldn't get his heart involved.

He
could have gone out and found a woman to ease the hardness in his groin after
he'd walked her to her room. But he hadn't. Because no other woman would have
been the one he wanted. The only face he would have seen beneath him would have
been Camille's.

"Sir,
could you direct me to the stationmaster's office?" she asked the porter.
"I've got to send a telegram right away."

The
porter showed her to the office behind Alex. She averted her gaze as she walked
by, just as she had been averting her eyes every time she had seen him since
the night in Boston. They hadn't been alone in eight days, so whatever had been
between them that night no longer existed. He didn't care to rationalize why
that thought disturbed him.

As
he drew on his cigarette, he assumed she was sending her father a message that
they'd be late. He didn't think they'd make it to Harmony in time to play the
Philadelphia Athletics.

The
Keystones had swept the Somersets four straight games, and true to her word,
Camille sent them out for a night of beer drinking. Alex had gone; it felt
right to fall in with the Keystones, to have some rounds of beer, play a few
hands of poker, and talk about the games in which they'd whipped the Somersets
because they'd been good enough those four days.

Early
the next morning, they'd caught the New York Central rail to Chicago. Their
wins against Boston had been miraculous—too miraculous to maintain. They'd lost
all three games to the White Stockings.

When
Camille walked past him from the office, her perfume lightly on the air, Alex
fought the tightening in his belly. He pitched his smoke, then ground the butt
beneath his heel while gazing across the street.

There
wasn't much to the town, just a wide-open plaza without any trees or shrubs and
just dirt road and the wagons that rumbled down the span of dusty earth. From
where he stood, he could see the building labeled city hall with its brass bald
eagle perched on the roof peak. There was no way to miss the patriotism emblazoned
on the exterior. It looked as if the structure had been wallpapered with
American flags.

"Hello,
folks," came a man's deep voice that sounded as if it belonged in the
bottom of a barrel. "I'm Mayor VanHorne."

Alex
turned his attention to the man who wore a coat that was just as colorful as
the building across the square. On its padded shoulders were red and white
stripes and on the lapels were stars; the sleeves were blue. A tophat sat on
his crop of yellow hair.

"All
right, the first question I have to ask is..." —his glance slid across
them with a wishful gleam— "... is anybody by chance Buffalo Bill?"

No
one replied, so the mayor's mouth slipped into a crestfallen frown. "Well
dang. All right then, we're going over to the Buffalo Bill House hotel."
He began to walk, legs bowed, his polished shoe heels stirring up the dust.
"Let me be the first to extend our fair town's hospitality. Lucky for you,
the train broke down on the Fourth of July—you're invited to this afternoon's
activities and evening's fireworks. You missed the parade, but I might be able
to convince the fraternal orders to give it another run-through."

"Well,
I'd rather skip that," Camille said behind Alex, her voice low so as not
to carry. He wondered if she'd spoken the words to him, or to herself.