Love at Any Cost (6 page)

You betcha, and now lodged in my throat . . .
She tried to reclaim her hand, as stunned and lightheaded as when she'd been thrown from Daddy's prize filly for the very first time.

“Your majesty?” Aunt Cait said with a frown, gaze flitting from Cassie's blazing face to the pretty boy's annoying smirk. “You two know each other?”

“Not exactly ‘know,' ” he said.

He had a death grip on her hand and a lock on her eyes. The deepest dimples she ever saw flashed with a half-lidded smile that heated her temper along with her cheeks.

His smile worked its way into a grin. “Ran into her at the train station where I apparently swept her off her feet.”

Cassie sprung up as if bucked by a rodeo bronc, yanking her hand away. “Mowed me down is more like it,” she blurted. Leaning in, her taffeta bodice quivered with every ragged heave. “And the only burr in my saddle today, Mr. MacKenna, was you.”

Eyes bugging wide, Alli jumped up, suddenly all ears. “Wait—
this
is the ‘pretty-boy yahoo' you told me about, the one who ran you down at the train station?”

“Yahoo?” Jamie said, brows bunched in a frown.

Bram grinned. “Cheer up, Mac. After all, she did say you were ‘pretty.' ” He shook his napkin free with a chuckle and placed it in his lap. “Although that's a far cry from free Dr Peppers in a bar.”

Blake leaned in at the other end of the table, his grin as broad as Bram's. “No kidding, MacKenna? You bowled Cassie over?”

“Bulldozed is more like it,” Cassie said with a fold of her arms.

Jamie shrugged and shot Blake a sheepish grin, kneading the back of his neck. “Afraid so, and I'm sorry to say she fell pretty hard.” His gaze settled on Cassie with a dangerous smile that seemed all too familiar. He leaned in with a whisper, his tease sultry and low. “But then they usually do.”

She stabbed a finger at him, shooting a hard gaze at Blake over her shoulder. “
This
is your friend? This . . . this . . . womanizer?”

Bram chuckled. “I thought you said she didn't know you, Mac?”

“Cassie darling,” Aunt Cait said with concern in her eyes, “I don't know what Jamie did to anger you so, but I assure you he is not a womanizer.”

“No?” Cassie spun around, almost grateful for the corset so she couldn't blow. “Explain that to the girlfriend he put on the train before he asked
me
out to lunch.”

“Girlfriend?” Blake's lips inched into a half smile. “You holding out on us, MacKenna?” “Yes, girlfriend,” Cassie snapped, grateful she could expose this Lothario for the scoundrel that he was. “Completely manhandled her in broad daylight before putting her on the train, and the tracks were still warm when he turned his attention to me.”

“It-was-my-cousin,” Jamie enunciated slowly, the smirk on his face fading enough for his irritation to show. “And of course the tracks were still warm—a 450-plus-ton locomotive just rolled by on a hot summer day.”

“Your cousin—ha! Likely story. Kissing cousins, no doubt.”

“Uh, Cass . . .” Alli chewed on the edge of her smile. “It
was
Jamie's cousin—he brought Sara by a number of times.” She shot Jamie a sympathetic smile. “So she's on her way home to Tulsa?”

“Yeah,” Jamie said with a tight smile. His eyes shifted to Cassie, gaze narrowing considerably. “A little ‘manhandled,' maybe, but none the worse for the wear.”

Cassie could have had Texas heatstroke—no difference—her cheeks were on fire and her pride was in flames. She stuttered, her apology wedged in her throat. “I, um . . . well, I'm, uh . . .”

“Sorry?” Jamie offered with a patient lift of brows.

Her lips went flat. “Yeah, that.”

He held out his hand again, a tease hovering on his lips. “So am I—truce?”

“We can always draw up a contract if you don't trust him, Cass,” Uncle Logan said with a grin.

Cassie forced a smile and shook Jamie's hand. “That's okay, Uncle Logan. With four lawyers in the room and a gal who can hog-tie a steer in fifteen seconds, I'll take my chances.”

A slow smile inched across Jamie's face. “I certainly hope so,” he whispered.

“I suppose you expect to be fed despite waltzing in late?” Rosie barreled through the kitchen door with a soup tureen while Hadley followed seconds later with a bowl of green beans. She did a double take, leering at the butler. “I said ‘
greens
,' Mr. Hadley.” The whisper she ground out could've been heard down on the wharf. “Not ‘
beans
.' Those are for the next course.”

An eyelash never flicked on the weathered face of the tall, silver-haired butler who had served the McClares for years. Forever at odds with Mrs. O'Brien—or at least she with him—the English-born manservant possessed a dignity far keener than either his sight or hearing, tipping Cassie's lips into a faint smile. With his usual grace and unruffled air, he calmly offered a slight bow to the crotchety housekeeper, an almost imperceptible curve on wide lips that never uttered a crass word or complaint. “Beg pardon, Mrs. O'Brien,” he said with a crisp English accent, promptly toting the bowl of green beans back to the kitchen.

With a roll of eyes, Rosie doled out chowder while Jamie hooked an arm to her waist, giving her a kiss on the head. “Sorry we're late, but it was Bram's fault,” he whispered loudly in Rosie's ear. “Heaven knows I wouldn't be late for one of your meals, Mrs. O., if my life depended on it. Everybody knows you're the best cook in the Bay area, and good gravy, I'd propose tomorrow
if I thought you'd accept.” He winked. “Or maybe I should say, ‘great chowder.' ”

Flatter-fop.
Cassie gave him a thin smile, annoyed that Rosie's cheeks sported a soft blush as she playfully swatted him away before ladling soup into his bowl. “Oh, go on with you, Jamie MacKenna,” she said with a scowl that was more of smile. “Sure, and you're loaded with more blarney than the sacred stone itself.” She turned to Bram, eyes narrowed in tease. “And you—it'd serve you right to eat in the kitchen for being late.”

“B-but . . . it wasn't my fault, Mrs. O.—”

“No ‘buts,' Abraham Hughes,” she said with a stern look that couldn't hide the twinkle in her eyes, “except in this chair.” She ladled his soup while Hadley returned with a hefty tray of individual salads, which he quickly dispensed.

“You always did like him better than me,” Bram said with a grin, squeezing Rosie's waist.

“That's because I'm a ‘pretty boy,' ” Jamie said with a smirk. “Just ask Cassie.”

“You forgot ‘yahoo.' ” Bram dove into the chowder with gusto.

Jamie reached for the rolls, addressing Cassie with a wounded tone offset by laughter in his eyes. “Surely you didn't mean that, did you, Your Highness?”

“Oh, she meant it, all right,” Alli said, popping a leaf of salad in her mouth. She swallowed and grinned, leaning forward to wink at Jamie at the other end of the table. “And it's up to you to change her mind, Jamie old boy, so good luck with that.”

“Maybe I won't need luck,” he said softly, smiling at Cassie from across the table.

Her cheeks warmed as his eyes fused to hers.

Slowly sipping his chowder, he studied her, his perfectly chiseled jaw shifting with every chew of the clams, then swallowed
and took a sip of his water, eyeing her over the rim. “I have a talent for changing people's minds, you know.”

And I have a talent for falling for skunks, but never again . . .
Cassie stabbed at her salad a little too forcefully, meeting Pretty Boy's eyes in silent challenge. The heat of his gaze could have wilted the lettuce, but she had enough hurt in her heart to ice it right back up again. She assessed the serious intent of his eyes, the quiet confidence in the faint slope of his smile, the relaxed posture of broad shoulders in a man who expected to get his own way. At one time his sculpted good looks and quiet resolve would have melted all resistance, but not anymore. She speared a lettuce leaf and smiled, her manner as cool as her heart. Change her mind?

Not on your life, bucko.

 6 

N
ose in the air, Alli turned a page in a pretend book with great drama, and Jamie's lips tipped in a smile. Alli had just acquired her teaching degree from San Francisco Normal School, but she missed her calling as far as he was concerned.
Look out, Sarah Bernhardt.

“A book, a book!” Maddie shouted, bouncing up and down on Uncle Logan's knee with no little force, thrilled that she was allowed to participate in the grown-ups' game of charades.

Nodding furiously, Alli tapped her nose, then tugged on her ear. With a quick swipe, she leaned to tousle Blake's hair, mussing it till it poked up in several places.

“Hey, no fair using the opposition for your advantage,” he groused, swatting her away.

“Mess up . . . dishevel . . . wrinkle . . .” Liddy fired guesses without mercy, perched on the edge of the sofa like a spring-propelled toy, ready to launch.

“Tousle, muss, rumple . . . ,” Patricia called out, not to be outdone.

Alli jabbed at her nose and pulled on her ear before slapping three fingers on her arm.

“Third syllable!” Maddie announced with glee.

Alli stroked one arm as if touching silk.

Almost gritting her teeth, Liddy clenched her fingers. “Feel . . . touch . . . skin . . .”

“R-rumpelstiltskin!” Meg bounded up from the chair with a squeal.

Alli cheered while moans circled the room from the opposition, and Jamie glanced at his watch, noting that Cassie had slipped out to the powder room a while ago. Amidst all the clamor of gloating and boos, Hadley arrived as if on cue, bearing trays of apple tarts with coffee and tea.

Jamie leaned toward Bram, keeping his voice low. “Cover for me, will you? Cassie's been gone awhile, so I'm going to round her up for dessert.”

“Sure you are,” Bram said with grin. “You mean dessert for yourself.”

With a slap of his friend's back, Jamie offered an off-center smile. “As fond as I am of apple tarts, buddy boy, Texas tart sounds pretty good right about now. Wish me luck.”

“You're gonna need it, my friend. Don't say I didn't warn you.”

Laughing, Jamie ducked into the foyer, grateful for the commotion that allowed him to sneak out without notice. He poked his head in the study, kitchen, and conservatory before passing the empty bathroom on his way up the stairs. A smile slid across his lips at a shaft of light peeking beneath the burlwood door of Liam McClare's prized billiard room where Jamie, Bram, and Blake spent much of their free time. He shook his head, his interest piqued now more than ever. Most women had no interest in billiards or spending time in such a masculine room. But then Cassie McClare, he was quickly discovering, was not most women.

Without a sound, he eased the knob and pushed the door ajar, his smile blooming into a grin. Cue skillfully aimed, she bent low
over the table, affording Jamie a generous view
.
The crisp, clean sound of ivory striking ivory rang in the air followed by the softer ricochet of balls spinning into pockets. The lady was clearly no amateur, evident by her near-perfect stance—not too close to the table, left foot forward, right foot behind and body twisted for a clean stroke. The staccato crack of the balls held a magical rhythm—like the girl herself—as if cue, ball, and woman were a single entity, weaving a spell.

Lost in her game, she was oblivious when he quietly entered the room and closed the door, watching as she methodically chalked her stick after every shot before circling the table with all the ease of a pool-hall hustler. His jaw dropped when she executed a three-ball shot he'd only seen one other time in a bar down on the wharf. A low whistle escaped before he could stop it. “Holy cow, remind me not to play you for money.”

Whirling around, she almost lost her balance, knuckles white on the cue and face leeched pale. “Thunderation, what is it with you and not knocking?” she rasped, bodice quivering with every breath.

“And interfere with that mesmerizing display of skill and prowess?” He slipped hands in his pockets and strolled in, his gait as casual as his smile. “The likes of which I've seldom seen in a man, much less a woman?” He perched on the edge of the table. “Not on your life, Miss McClare. Where'd you learn to play like that, anyway?” he asked, his fascination with this unconventional girl growing by the moment.

“Uncle Logan and my father,” she said with a heft of her chin, his compliment dusting her cheeks with a pretty shade of rose that actually accentuated her freckles.

Jamie shook his head with a fold of arms. “Oh, no you didn't, at least not Logan. I've played many a game with him, and I have never seen a shot like that out of him or Blake.”

The blush deepened. “Uncle Logan says I'm a natural,” she said defensively.

He studied her through a squint, in total agreement that she was, indeed, a natural. Heart-shaped face, luminous green eyes a man could drown in, and hair the same soft pale yellow of the angel wing cactus that bloomed in Jess's window. Her creamy skin glowed with just enough freckles to give her that clean, wholesome air of the outdoors. After dinner, Logan had prompted her to sing while Alli played the piano, and never had Jamie been mesmerized by a voice so clear and true. He was certain the woman couldn't be from a cattle ranch in Texas, but from heaven instead. She possessed an almost angelic quality, and his eyes drank her in, following a shimmering stray from the pretty upsweep that framed her head like a halo. The silky curl traced the curve of her bodice, and he had a sudden urge to see her hair down, spilling as free as he suspected Cassie McClare liked to be, untethered by convention or fashion.

He rose and sauntered over to retrieve a cue, then casually twirled it in his hands, his eyes connecting with hers. He smiled that little-boy smile that had gotten him farther than any college degree. “He says the same about me, you know—in billiards, boxing, and the law.”

She folded her arms, her smile as flat as the effect of his, apparently. “And women?”

He grinned, eyes never straying as he chalked his cue. “Sometimes. Up for a game?”

“With you?” She arched a brow. “No, thank you, I don't play games with men like you.”

Ouch.
She was obviously a woman who was honest and forthright, what you see is what you get, and so help him, what he saw, he definitely wanted. But . . . she didn't want him.
Yet.
He
softened his approach. “Come on, Cassie, one game of eight ball isn't going to kill you, and then you'll have the chance to give me the thrashing I so richly deserve.”

She hung her head and huffed out a sigh, finally meeting his gaze with a candid one of her own. “Mr. MacKenna—”

“Jamie—please.”

“Jamie, then . . . ,” she began slowly, as if attempting to ease the blow of what she was about to say. Sympathy radiated from those remarkable green eyes that reminded him so much of a pure mountain stream—unspoiled, refreshing.
And
icy enough to tingle the skin. Long lashes flickered as if begging him to understand. “Look, no offense, but you just broke my heart.”

He blinked. “Pardon me?”

“Oh, not you exactly,” she said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand, “but a man just like you—you know, handsome, smart, the kind that melts a woman with a smile?”

A ridge popped at the bridge of his nose. “Uh, thank you—I guess?”

She looked up then, head tilted in much the same way a mother might soothe a child, expression kind and tone parental. “Look, I'm sure you're a very nice person, Jamie MacKenna, and we may even forge a friendship before summer is through, but you need to understand something right now if that friendship is ever going to see the light of day.” She took his hand in hers, patting it as if he were five years old, and in all of his twenty-five years, never had a woman given him a more patronizing smile. “You have zero chance . . .” She held up a hand, index finger and thumb circled to create an
O
, then enunciated slowly as if he were one of the livestock back on her ranch. “Zee-ro chance of
ever
turning my head because I have no interest in you or any man right now, especially a pretty boy.” She gave him a patient smile edged with
just enough pity to get on his nerves. “I'm sorry to be so blunt, but I see no point in hemming and hawing around a pesky hornet when I can just stomp on it before it stings.”

His jaw sagged. “Hornet?” He'd been called a lot of things, but somehow, out of the pursed lips of this Texas beauty, this stung his pride more than the blasted hornet. A nerve pulsed in his cheek as he replaced his cue in the rack, his smile cool. “Is that so? And what makes you think I have any interest in turning your head?”

She folded her arms again and hiked one beautiful brow, daring him to deny it.

And, oh, how he wanted to. His jaw began to grind. But he couldn't because it would be a bald-faced lie, and they both knew it. He exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose, finally huffing out a sigh. “Okay, you're right, Miss McClare—I was trying to turn your head. But I'm not stupid—I can see you obviously have no interest in me whatsoever.”

“None,” she confirmed, brows arched high in agreement.

He nodded, head bowed as he kneaded the back of his neck. “Which means, of course, there's no attraction whatsoever . . .”

“Oh, perish the thought.” Her body shivered in apparent revulsion. “Not in a million years . . .”

He cocked his head, a trace of hurt in his tone. “Nothing—not even a glimmer?”

She shook her head, face scrunched as if she tasted something bad. “Good gracious, no.”

He exhaled loudly. “All righty, then,” he said with a stiff smile, his pride effectively trampled. Rubbing his temple, he supposed there was only one thing left to do. He extended his palm with a conciliatory smile. “Well, I'm glad we got that out of the way. So . . . friends?”

She stared at his hand as if it were a rattler about to strike, then
shifted her gaze to his, lids narrowing the slightest bit. Absently scraping her lip, she tentatively placed her hand in his.

His fingers closed around hers and he smiled.
Ah, sweet vindication . . .

In a sharp catch of her breath, he jerked her to him so hard, the cue in her hand literally spiraled across the plush burgundy carpet. Thudding against his chest, she emitted a soft, little grunt, and her outraged protest was lost in his mouth, the sweet taste of her lips shocking him even more than he had shocked her. She tried to squirm away, but he cupped her neck with a firm but gentle hold, deepening the kiss.

A grunt broke from his mouth when her foot nearly broke his ankle. “I'll tell you what, Miss McClare,” he said through clenched teeth as pain seared his leg, “I'll give you feisty . . .”

“You . . . haven't . . .
seen
. . . feisty,” she rasped, flailing in his arms. With another sharp jolt of pain, she cocked a very unladylike knee into his left thigh, stealing his wind while her words hissed in his face. “Oh . . . why . . . didn't . . . I wear . . . my boots . . . ?”

Because it's my lucky day?
Jamie thought with a grimace, determined to prove the lady a liar, at least on the score of attraction. Body and mind steeled to win, he jerked her flush and kissed her hard while she pummeled his shoulders in a flurry of fists. All at once, her scent disarmed him—a hint of lilacs and soap and the barest trace of peppermint, and he stifled a groan while he explored the shape of her mouth, the silk of her skin, the soft flesh of her ear.

Relief flooded when her thrashing slowed and her body listed against his with a weak moan. He gentled his mouth, softly nuzzling before finally pulling away. Satisfaction inched into a smile when she swayed on her feet, eyes closed and open mouth as limp
as her body. “Nope, not in a million years,” he said, his breathing as shallow as hers. He planted a kiss to her nose.