Leslie LaFoy (20 page)

T
HE BACK OF HIS HEAD POUNDING
, Jackson stood just outside the parlor door, listening to Lindsay paint him as the greatest hero since Hercules. It was almost embarrassing to enter the parlor following all that praise, but he managed it with aplomb and then neatly turned the tables on her, telling the very young Mr. Horatio Wellsbacher of the
New York Herald
of his rescue by the daring and fearless Lindsay MacPhaull. Wellsbacher scribbled notes furiously. Lindsay's cheeks turned the most delicious-looking shade of rosy peach. And it took every bit of restraint Jackson possessed to keep from wrapping his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close, and tasting.

And when the telling of the fire stories was done, Wellsbacher thought to gather some details for the whole thing. He asked what sort of business Jack was in that had
brought him to New York. Lindsay answered beautifully, as though she'd had months to rehearse the lines. Jack picked up his cue and took the conversation from there, laying out the story of Billy's death, his own inheritance of the MacPhaull Company, and his determination to see that the hard work of Billy's youngest daughter hadn't been in vain.

Wellsbacher took notes the whole time, rarely looking up from his notepad, and only occasionally asking a question for clarification or expansion. Lindsay sat with her hands folded demurely in her lap, the perfect picture of a circumspect lady. When she slid Jackson a look, silent laughter in her eyes, he felt an intense desire to see just how much of a proper lady she wasn't.

As he struggled with the impulse, it occurred to him that he did a lot better resisting it when she wasn't around. Whenever she was near, his brain seemed to quit listening to his common sense. Focusing on the business task at hand was exceedingly difficult, but Lindsay—bless her—kept his attention from going too far astray by supplying bits of information and prompting him to add his own contributions.

When Jackson declared that there was nothing further to be said, the young man jumped to his feet, extended his hand, and furiously pumped Jackson's while gushing about the incredible journalistic opportunity he and the lovely, lovely Miss MacPhaull had just given him.

Lindsay offered to have Mrs. Beechum show him to the door, but Horatio Wellsbacher couldn't be delayed by such unnecessary social niceties. Declaring that he remembered where the door was, he managed to keep a dignified pace until he reached the foyer. From there, he ran, his notepad clutched in his hand, his gaze obviously fixed forward and on the wondrous story he dreamed of handing his editor.

Jack grinned in amusement as the front door slammed closed with enough force to rock the pictures on the parlor walls. His amusement was replaced by pleasant surprise when Lindsay touched his arm and, smiling up at him, asked, “Did Dr. Bernard say anything to you about not drinking for a while?”

His reaction was without thought; Lindsay's hand lay
on his forearm and he covered her fingers with his own. Her smile warmed and he felt his heart lurch. “No. Why?”

“I feel the need for a celebratory sherry and my mother always maintained that it is in exceedingly poor taste to drink alone.”

He thought he heard a small voice suggesting that he not allow her so close, but the words were muffled and seemed to come from a great distance. “I wouldn't want you to sin,” he said, leading her out of the parlor and back to the study, where the liquor was kept. And because he was tired of controlling his impulses, he added, “Not without me anyway.”

She laughed softly, genuinely, and he had a hard time swallowing. Speech was momentarily beyond him and so they arrived at the beverage cart without another word. Lindsay slipped her hand from beneath his to pour their drinks and he felt the loss of her touch with a sharp pang of regret. God, he was in trouble. Deep trouble. He had to get a handle on himself before he did something fatally stupid.

“What are we celebrating?” he asked as she handed him a glass of whiskey.

“A masterfully controlled interview,” she replied, lifting her glass of sherry in salute. “You did beautifully, sir.”

Again he reacted without thinking, lifting his hand to touch his hat brim as he smiled and said, “Thank you, ma'am.” Only there wasn't a hat on his head. Where had he left it? He'd been wearing it when they'd left Jeb and Lucy's. With a wince, he remembered when and where and how it had been lost. At Lindsay's questioning look, he asked, “You didn't happen to drag my hat out of the fire with me, did you?”

Her shoulders sagged and then she said softly, “It didn't even occur to me to look for it. I'm sorry.”

Sweet Jesus, now she'd done it. She'd gone and apologized.

“Oh, dear,” she gasped, her eyes widening as she, too, realized what she'd done and what the consequence would be. Then, just a quickly, she took a deep breath, closed her eyes, said, “All right. Get it over with,” and tilted her face up, presenting him with her lips.

Kissing her was what he wanted to do, what he'd threatened to do. And if he did, it would be a giant first step down the road of regrettable endings. How the hell could he get them both out of this gracefully?

“Have you ever been kissed, Lindsay?” he asked, noting her firmly set lips and thinking that he might be able to plead chivalry. She nodded, her eyes remaining closed. Jackson silently swore as he dropped his gaze to his whiskey glass. The notion came out of the blue and he seized it, not knowing whether it was wise or not, but willing to take the chance. It was better than certain disaster. He dipped his finger into the glass then reached up, gently trailing it over her lower lip.

The firm line softened at his first touch and his heart raced. Then her lips parted and she lightly touched the tip of her tongue to his fingertip. His knees went weak as his breath caught and his blood went hot. Even as he told himself not to, he traced the curve of her lip again. Lindsay's sigh was pure seduction and he pulled his hand back before she could feel the trembling in it.

Her eyes fluttered open and a soft smile touched the corners of her mouth. “I've never been kissed quite like that.”

“I'm not sure that kissing you any other way is a particularly smart idea.”
Not that this was particularly smart, either
, he silently added.

“You were the one who set the penalty,” she reminded him. “Perhaps you'd like to reconsider. I'd certainly be willing to allow a change in the rules.”

Jackson was about to agree when she slowly trailed her tongue over her lower lip. If she knew what she was doing to him, she was an extraordinary seductress. If she didn't, then she had incredible natural instincts for the art. Either way, she had a siren's call.

“I've never tasted whiskey before,” she said, her voice a sultry whisper of discovery. “It's rather nice in a smoky sort of way, isn't it?”

His common sense whimpered once and surrendered. Jack dipped his finger in his whiskey again. “The fellow who kissed you wasn't any good at it, was he?” he asked,
slowly painting her lower lip again. Her eyes remained open this time, her gaze fastened on his.

Lindsay's heart raced. Inviting Jackson Stennett's kisses was beyond foolhardy. But never before had a man's touch stirred her as Jackson's did. It made her feel alive and wildly, wondrously free. The feeling was too heady to deny, too luscious to refuse a deeper taste. Whatever the price of asking for more, she'd pay it and pay it gladly. Let others think whatever they would. “He had the reputation of being a very skillful lover.”

Lover?
“Oh, yeah?” Jack drawled, intrigued by the possibilities and casting aside any notion of propriety. “Did his performance live up to the advance billing?”

She gently licked his fingertip again and an exquisite jolt of pleasure shot through him. As he struggled to find a sliver of good judgment, Lindsay whispered, “A lady doesn't kiss and tell, Jack.”

It was an invitation if he'd ever heard one. “That's good to know,” he said, trailing his fingertip down over her lip, her chin, and then slowly up the line of her jaw. Such very delicate lines, such acceptance in her eyes. She wasn't going to change her mind. God only knew why she was courting his advance, but the temptation was too strong to resist. He slipped his hand to her nape, cradling her head as she lifted her lips to his.

Lindsay closed her eyes and drew a slow breath, her heart racing. It wouldn't go the way it had the last time, she reassured herself; she was much wiser now. And she knew that Jack wasn't going to stay. Besides, being with Jack wasn't at all like it had been when—

Sensation swept away all conscious thought. Feather-light and gentle, his kiss whispered promises of sweet, dark mysteries and slow, wanton revelries. She abandoned herself in the pleasure of the caress and was rewarded by the luxurious deepening of the kiss. His tongue traced the path that his finger had blazed over her lip and she met it with her own, melting into him and sighing in welcome as he drew her closer and tasted her more deeply still.

She was molten and weak, soaring and stronger than she had ever been. Heady sensation and wonderment, the heat
and potent tension of timeless instinct…. Then there was only the lingering shadow of what had been. And she hungered for more of what was gone.

Jackson, his breathing ragged, stepped back from her, back from the brink of too late. She was so damn easy to kiss, so damn delicious. He'd only thought he was a goner before. He hadn't known just how intoxicating her lips were, how sweetly she could surrender. And as she looked up at him now, her lips still dewy from his kiss, her blue eyes softened by yearning …

God help him; all he wanted to do was lean down, begin again, and let her finish seducing him. But wanting and doing what was smart were two different things and he knew it. Neither one of them needed the complications inherent in taking a lover.

She blinked and then looked away, but not before he saw the shadows of doubt and regret pass across her beautiful features. Part of him wanted to assure her that she had done nothing to be ashamed of. Another part of him recognized the advantage of letting her put some distance between them. She'd tell him that she had reacted inappropriately and that she was appalled, that she would never let it happen again. And, if he were any sort of gentleman, he'd apologize for taking advantage of her inexperience and swear to never touch her again.
If he
were a gentleman. She drew a steadying breath and Jack braced himself.

“Jack, I should tell—”

“I think dinner's being served,” he interrupted as the faint notes of a bell sounded from the dining room. Silently blessing Primrose for the timely reprieve, he offered Lindsay his arm, saying brightly, “Shall we?”

She took it and allowed him to guide her from the study. In the foyer, it crossed his mind to forget dinner, to turn and go up the stairs, and give her a choice between her room or his. Good judgment for once prevailed. It chafed, but he endured.

They were seated opposite each other at one end of the huge table when she next spoke. “Jackson?”

“Yes?”

Apparently having thought better of whatever it was
she'd intended to say, she shook her head and with a soft smile said, “Never mind.”

Even in the candlelight, he could see the color flooding her cheeks. “You were going to say that you liked my kiss better, weren't you?” he teased.

She met his gaze, her smile tentative. “Well, yes. Among other things.”

It was those
other things
that he didn't really want to talk about. Facing the matter square on meant having to close the door. It had been a helluva long time since a kiss had singed that hard and deep. For the moment, it was nice having possibilities in front of him—even if he knew deep down inside that in the end he was going to have to turn his back on them. He smiled at her and winked, and then, with all the grace and social elegance of a three-legged plow horse, deliberately changed the direction of their conversation. “When do you think Henry and Agatha will see the paper?” he asked, cutting into his steak.

Lindsay barely kept her shoulders from sagging with relief. Jack clearly didn't want to discuss anything of a personal nature, mercifully sparing her the ordeal of confessing her past sins in order to explain her current ones.

“The evening edition of the paper has probably already been typeset,” she answered, eagerly attacking her own steak. “I doubt that the news of the MacPhaull Company's new ownership will be cause to stop the presses. Given that, I think it's safe to assume they'll see the story in tomorrow morning's edition. They'll charge forth immediately, of course.”

He took a sip of wine. “If you'd prefer to be elsewhere for the confrontation, I'd certainly understand.”

Jackson Stennett was a prince among men. But as tempting as it was to let him take charge, she still wore the yoke of obligation. “I think whether or not I'm there depends on what you intend to say to them.”

“In a nutshell, I'm going to tell them that they're going to grow up and be responsible for themselves and their own finances. They aren't your responsibility anymore.”

“They don't know how to be responsible,” she calmly pointed out.

“Then it's high time they learned.”

“Jack …”

“I've looked at the books, Lindsay,” he countered, cutting himself more meat. “I understand what the numbers are saying. You make money and your brother and sister spend it. They don't contribute anything to the MacPhaull coffers except bills for payment. Agatha's new necklace being a prime example. Their free ride is going to come to an end, Lindsay; an abrupt and permanent end.”

Her appetite gone, Lindsay laid her fork aside. “But how will they survive? Henry has children whose welfare has to be considered.”

He chewed slowly and swallowed before answering, “I'm going to take out of the business just what I need to clear the loans on the land Billy left me. Then I'll equally divide what's left between the three of you so that each has income-producing assets in your own name. What Henry and Agatha decide to do with theirs is their business. It's none of mine. Most importantly, it's none of yours, either.”