Silver Dreams (22 page)

"This will have to do," she said, finally choosing a bottle from among all the others. She picked up a handkerchief from the bureau and removed the cap.

"Is this going to hurt?" he asked when she came back to the bed.

She placed her hand firmly on his chest and pushed him back into the pillow. "Of course it will."

She moistened the handkerchief by holding it over the mouth of the upended bottle. Then before he could shy away, she pressed the cloth against his temple. Max sucked in his breath as a stinging sensation shot through him. "Geez, Betsy, what is that stuff?"

He didn't need an answer to know what it consisted of. A good whiff identified the citrus smell.

"Oil of lemon verbena," she said. "With a touch of witch hazel."  She leaned over him and blew on his cut. "I know it stings. Sorry."

All traces of his pain slowly ebbed into insignificance. His eyes were on a level with her chest, and he had a clear view of the anatomy he'd fantasized about for five nights on the train to Denver. The smarting at his temple was nothing compared with the reaction he was experiencing in other areas of his body. Her breath, cool on the evaporating lemon verbena, was a sharp contrast to the heat building inside the rest of him.

"There," she said, standing up again. "Isn't that better already?"

He was left staring at the approximate location of her navel, and he couldn't help feeling deprived. "No, it's not better. Besides trying to kill me, you've left me smelling like a girl."

"Don't be silly," she said, screwing the top back on the bottle. "Lemon scent isn't male or female. It's just...well, lemon."

"Okay, so I smell like a fruit tree."

"No, you don't."  She leaned over him again and sniffed. "Besides, it's almost evaporated."

He didn’t trust himself to breathe. Didn't she know what she was doing to him?  Of course not. This was Betsy Sheridan whose only interest in men seemed to be the self satisfaction she gained by besting them at their own games. Well, if she didn't back off right now, she might find herself a participant in a game she hadn’t planned on.

Suddenly the only scent Max was aware of was Betsy's fragrance, the one he had smelled on the train, the one that had tortured him at night. Her lips were so close to his face, blowing gently on his temple, soothing, tempting. Her breath was warm on his cheek. Her hair swept against his shirt sleeve like a whisper of silk. And her breasts...so near he could lift one finger and touch the swell at the bottom of one glorious...

"I can hardly smell it at all, even from here," she said, looking so deeply into his eyes he thought he might drown. "Why are you so cranky, Max? Does it still hurt?"

She raised her face and shifted around so she could see him better. But that only made matters worse. She was so close...too close. His hands settled on each side of her waist and drew her in until her chest nearly touched his. "I'm not cranky, Betsy."

A tentative smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Her lips, even in jest were seductive.

"If you're not cranky, then what are you feeling?"

"It's kind of hard to describe."

"I know, but I think I feel it too." Her voice lowered to a near whisper that stirred his senses. "What's happening?" she said softly. "This isn't like us."

His hand reached up to cup the back of her head. "Maybe it is like us," he offered, coaxing her mouth closer to his.

“Oh, Max...”

Their lips touched, and Max felt her quick intake of breath in the tips of his fingers. There was the slightest stiffening of her spine. He reached around and pressed his palm against the small of her back. Slowly, reverently, his hand crept up to her shoulders, massaging away her reluctance.

He urged the kiss to deepen with the pressure of his hand against her hair. He shifted his head under hers until the brush of lips that had been feather light before grew in intensity, firing Max's heated blood.

He turned her body and settled her on his lap. With his arm firmly around her, he stroked her back while his tongue played insistently along the line of her mouth, coaxing her to open to him. Her lips parted, and when she moaned softly, he took the sweet sound as an invitation to explore. She didn't return the bold thrusts of his tongue with hers, but she didn’t stop him either. He tasted a hint of whiskey, rich and sensual.

When she sighed, he lifted his head just enough to see into her eyes. He brushed tousled hair away from her face. Placing his hands on her cheeks, he stroked her temples with his thumbs while he trailed kisses under her eyes, to the sides of her small nose, to her throat, her collar bone.

"Oh, Max," she moaned, when his mouth returned to her lips.

The mention of his name brought him back to a reluctant reality. If he wasn't careful, he'd be lost in her and utterly content never to find his way back. Lost in the breathless rasp of her voice, the heady scent of her skin, the rise and fall of her chest against his. “Betsy, what are we doing?”

Images, bold and enticing, swept through her mind. Max, in his doorway, his suspenders hanging at his hips. Max, lying in his bed on the train, his hair soft and touchable. Swaggering confidently down the hillside just hours ago. His hand under her chin, his gaze anxious and caring on her face, the faint recollection of his arms around her as he carried her to the hotel.

And now, his mouth so close to hers, coaxing, confident, possessive. His hands caressed her skin, bringing a strange, wonderful feeling of warmth to the surface, stirring something inside her she never knew existed. Her breasts tingled as if begging him to touch them.

"Oh, Max,” she said again. “I don’t know.”

He set her on the bed and stood abruptly. “We have to stop.”

His unexpected words bewildered her, left her feeling incomplete. She stared at him, expecting more, demanding without words that he look at her. He didn't. She tugged at her torn dress, trying to cover herself completely and at the same time hide her shame. He didn’t want her. “Yes, of course,” she said. “You’re right.”

Finally he stared at her, a grin trying to form on his face. A grin! “We almost lost ourselves there for a minute, Betsy. I’m sorry.”

He was sorry. She averted her gaze, stared at her hands clasped in her lap.

“You've had too much to drink,” he said. “You were upset over what happened. You're probably not thinking clearly. I took advantage, and I shouldn’t have. There's no excuse for my behavior."

He was making excuses for what happened. And worse, he was apologizing. An apology! Just moments ago she’d been floating somewhere between ecstasy and euphoria and now she felt cheap and used. Well, she wasn't about to let him know it.

"You’ve disappointed me, Max. You're hardly better than the pair of hoodlums in the alley. And poor me, as besotted as a drunken Irishman too, not knowing what I was doing and helpless to fend off your charms."

His eyes darkened with conflicting emotions. "I didn’t mean that, Betsy. I was just thinking about the morning, how mad you would have been if we had...”

“No need to explain,” she said, getting up from the bed. She smoothed what was left of her dress in a pitiful attempt to regain her dignity. "For your information, I was just about to stop you myself. And it's hard to imagine that I'd be any angrier with you in the morning than I am right now."

"What the devil for?" he demanded with the tone of an unjustly accused child. "For whatever reason, we stopped didn't we? No harm done."

"You really don't know, do you, poor Max? Why don't you just go back to your rooming house. Like you told me, tomorrow's a busy day."

“That’s true enough,” he said, straightening his jacket. “I’ll just be one my way.” He had just touched the knob when a knock at the door made him draw his hand back as if it had been scorched.

Forgetting her indignation, Elizabeth crossed the room and grabbed his arm. "Who could that be at this hour? The men from the alley?"

"Couldn't be," he said. "Unless they know where you're staying." He settled his hand comfortingly on her shoulder. "You'd better ask who it is. If it's your brother, I doubt he'll be too crazy about finding me in your room."

She nodded. "Who is it?"

"The bellman, Miss Sheridan. Sorry to disturb you so late, but I've got a message from your brother. Would you please open up?"

Max stepped away so he'd be hidden behind the door and motioned for her to open it. When she did, an arm burst through the crack she'd provided and pushed the door until it crashed into Max. Elizabeth jumped back with a startled scream.

"Francis Hildebrand, Miss Sheridan."  The man flipped open a leather pouch and revealed his identification. "From the Pinkerton Agency."

A quick glance at his badge confirmed what he said. Elizabeth’s thoughts tumbled. Why would a detective be visiting her in the middle of the night? "What do you want?"

"I've been hired by your father to take you back to New York. Get your things together, because that's exactly what I intend to do."

He wasn't a big man, but the detective's take charge attitude was intimidating nevertheless. Elizabeth thought better of refusing his demand right off. "Can't we talk about this, Mr. Hildebrand?"

"Nothing to talk about. I've been paid to do a job, handsomely, I might add, and I'm going to do it. With your cooperation or without it."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I don't have to threaten, Miss Sheridan. I just act."  He pulled a pocket watch from his vest and flipped it open. "There's a train leaving here in four hours. You and I are going to be on it. And between now and then I don’t intend to let you out of my sight."

No, it couldn’t end like this. She hadn’t had her adventure yet. She hadn’t written her story. She hadn’t accomplished any of her goals. She stepped back, looked behind the door, and mouthed the words, "Max, do something."

He stared back at her a moment before releasing a sigh and emerging from his hiding place.

The detective's eyebrows shot up with amusement. He closed the door. "Well, what have we here, Miss Sheridan? Hanky panky. I have a hunch daddy won't like the sound of this."

Hildebrand cupped one hand over his chin and observed the unkempt appearance of the two of them before drawing a reasonable conclusion. "Looks like you two had quite a romp between the sheets...after you ripped each other's clothes to shreds.” He pointed vaguely in the direction of Max's lemon scented wound. "And you, Miss Sheridan, should trim your fingernails before you drown yourself in the throes of passion. You don’t want to kill the poor guy."