The Marrying Kind (24 page)

"Ah, that'd be about it, all right."

He narrowed his gaze, studying her deeply, the way he studied a new player in a poker game. Something was amiss. She was too cheerful, too understanding, but her expression was impossible to read well enough to figure out what she was up to. If she'd been playing poker, she probably could have bluffed him out of a boxed flush with that expression. It occurred to him then that she might not be bluffing, that she didn't care any more than he did, and his "no strings attached" terms really were just fine with her.

Oddly disappointed by the thought, he snapped, "I might as well get right to the point of why I stopped to talk to you before I went to my own room."

"Please do." Beneath the quilt, she drew her legs up and hugged them to her chest. Then she dropped her chin to her knees and glanced up at him like a mournful little puppy.

Donovan had to look elsewhere before he could go on. He settled his gaze on the little bit of lace at her wrists. "I'm trying to be as delicate as I can about this, without causing you any embarrassment."

"Why should I be embarrassed?"

Oddly disconcerted himself, he shrugged. Libby gave him a tight smile, gesturing for him to go on. Feeling as if he'd just been invited to dig his own grave—with his tongue—he explained himself. "I just wanted to make sure you remembered what I told you last night, and that you're not expecting too much from me today."

Libby laughed, surprising him all over again. "Apparently you think I've given you some sort of gift, but I assure you, I don't look at it that way at all. As far as I'm concerned, I finally got the chance to find out what this lovemaking fuss is all about."

So flip was she in her remarks, Donovan thought she might as well have added, "and you were handy." Suddenly irritated, he snapped, "I'm glad to hear that. I do appreciate your position, but I still feel like I owe you a little something. I thought if I were to have a good long talk with R. T. today about your newspaper, that it might, you know, go a long way toward making things right between us."

So that was it. Libby had been sitting there in a tug-of-war with her heart, trying desperately to listen to Donovan with only her mind so that she might understand exactly what the underlying purpose for his visit might be. Now she knew. He needed to offer something, had to find a way to make things
even
between them—not right. Clearly, he couldn't bear the idea of being beholden to her. Or maybe he felt trapped. As much as she wanted him, all of him, Libby wasn't about to accept anything he offered under either of those terms. Gaining editorial freedom for the
Tribune
was the only thing she was supposed to care about.

Swallowing her pride and a few unshed tears, she toughened her heart and her voice as she said, "Now that you mention it, that does sound like a rather nice compromise. You'll do it, then? You'll talk R. T. into letting me run the
Tribune
my way?"

His gaze flickered with speculation for just a moment, then turned playful. "You got it. In fact, I'll go have that talk with him first thing this morning."

Libby offered her hand, hoping that he wouldn't notice how badly it was trembling. "It's a deal."

He slid his palm across hers in a very provocative manner, then gripped her hand tightly. Taking her by surprise, Donovan pulled Libby out from under the quilt and across his lap. Nuzzling her behind the ear, he whispered, "I can think of a much better way to seal our deal than shaking on it. What do you think?"

Robbing her of the opportunity to think at all, Donovan slid the fingers of his free hand into her hair, then turned her head around until her lips met his. He kissed her deeply, fiercely, stealing her breath, and as she'd feared, a good part of her mind. His lips blistered a trail along the side of her neck, then settled against the hollow at her throat where he began to murmur to her, the sound slightly muffled.

"I've heard it said that the first time isn't usually so good for a woman." He raised up and caught her in his impassioned gaze. "I don't know if that's true, but I figure as long as we're striking a bargain, you might as well get your money's worth. Besides, I can promise you this—slower
is
better."

Unable to prevent an automatic reaction to both his words and his touch, Libby sucked in her breath. She shouldn't be allowing him this. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that melting every time he touched her could only hurt her in the long run. But where was she to find the strength to turn him away now? How could she, while Donovan was doing such marvelously wicked things to her?

He was kissing her everywhere, her throat, her mouth, the lobes of her ears, sliding his erotically charged hands under her nightgown, along her inner thighs, and at last, reaching and caressing the most wanton part of her. She inhaled sharply at the first onslaught of sensation, and his scent flooded her like mulled wine, hot, heady, filling her senses to overflowing.

She knew she should stop him all right, that she ought to demand he at least hear
her
terms before things went any further. But he hadn't played fair. He'd bribed her by offering another little gift, a surprise package she simply couldn't refuse.

Libby had never, in her entire life that she could recall, done
anything
slowly.

* * *

True to his word, three hours later Donovan sat in his father's office, listening to him from across the huge slab of polished burled walnut that served as his desk.

"So you see," R. T. concluded, "there's really nothing I can do to change that policy and help your friend out. Maybe you ought to remind her how lucky she is to have been given the reins of the
Laramie Tribune
at all, and ask her to stop all this nonsense about equal rights. It'll wind up costing her dearly, if she doesn't."

Deeply disappointed, not just for Libby, but with his father somehow, Donovan couldn't quite let it go at that. Hell, what would it hurt the man to give just a little? "Maybe I wasn't clear enough. I'm not asking you to turn your entire publishing empire into a forum for equal rights. Libby runs the
Tribune
in Laramie, not in San Francisco. I don't see how it'd hurt you to compromise a little by letting her write something about the women's vote, say once a month or so."

R. T. folded his hands together and propped them in the middle of his ink pad. Speaking in a deceptively soft voice, he said, "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear earlier. Thomas—you remember him—the brother you attacked the other night? It may interest you to know, by the way, that you did some damage to his front teeth. Considerable damage, I believe."

Donovan shrugged. "The son of a bitch had it coming. If you're thinking I ought to apologize for punching him, you'll have a long wait."

R. T. waved him off. "No, I don't expect that from you. Thomas can be a bit of a hothead, but my point is that he runs S and S Enterprises for me, which owns Savage Publishing. As general manager, he's instituted a strict policy against any of those businesses promoting equal rights in any way, shape, or form."

"I understand that, I guess." Donovan leaned forward in his chair, leveling a sharp-eyed gaze on his father. "I also understand that you're the man who approves—or breaks—those policies for each of your vast holdings."

R. T. smiled as if really enjoying himself. "Now, why would you think a thing like that?"

Returning his father's smile, feeling like he'd just walked into a game of showdown, winner take all, Donovan felt his pulse quicken as he said, "Good training, I guess. It started a long time ago when I was just a kid. A kindly stranger taught me a few things about gambling."

His unflappable exterior seemed to ruffle just a bit. R. T.'s voice softened. "A stranger, you say?"

Pleased to see that he had his father's rapt attention, Donovan rattled the coin in his heel for good luck before realizing the significance of what he'd done. His own manner less gruff, he went on to say, "A stranger who drove several damn fine points into my thick skull. The first was a little adage: A fool and his money are soon parted." R. T. glanced across the desk and nodded conspiratorially. Feeling he somehow owed it to the man, Donovan added, "I'm sorry to say, those words were the first things to cross my mind the minute I met Andrew."

Leaning back in his chair, R. T. let out a weary sigh. "I suppose I can understand that. Andrew was, well, he never quite grew up, in many ways." He frowned down at his hands for the longest time, but then brightened considerably and asked, "And the next point... Son?"

Donovan was more than happy to comply. "To always remember that, no matter how many games of chance I learned, or how well I thought I knew them, the knowledge would be useless unless I learned at least as much about the fellas I was playing against. I have, thanks to that kindly stranger, learned a helluva lot more about people over the years, than about the games they play."

R. T. laughed robustly, something Donovan had never heard him do before. "I guess you remember a little something about your father after all."

"Yes, I guess I do. And that's how I can tell who calls the shots around here. Now what do you say? Will you give the lady just a little more freedom with her paper?"

R. T. didn't even pause to consider the request. "We haven't known each other for long, Son, and I really don't want to get into a situation where we could find ourselves exchanging harsh words, so let me say this just one more time. Savage Pub—" then he corrected himself—"or rather, I have a very strict policy against such nonsense, and I am not in the least inclined to let up on it. Now that's enough of this business talk—unless, of course, you want to discuss coming to work for Savage Publishing."

At that moment, Donovan did not want to discuss the position his father had offered him during the party the other night. While he'd been mildly interested at the time, he really hadn't given it much thought since. "I appreciate your making the offer, but frankly, I haven't had much time to think it over."

"Take all the time you need."

There was a rather magnanimous tone in his father's voice, something intangible that irked Donovan. Maybe he was just tired, given the fact that he should have been in bed hours ago, or maybe he was simply worried about how Libby was going to take more bad news. He'd been so sure that he could gain her just a little ground. How was he to tell her nothing had changed?

His thoughts turning darker by the minute, Donovan decided it would be better all around if he were to take his leave while he and R. T. were still on reasonably good terms. Gripping the arms of the plush leather chair, he pushed himself to his feet.

"You're not leaving already are you, Son?"

"I'm afraid I have to." He rubbed his brow. "In my line of work, daylight's for sleeping."

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that." Rising from his chair, R. T. circled the desk and came to within two feet of his son. Speaking now in a softer, more tentative voice, he said, "Before you go, I wonder... you haven't told me much about your mother yet. You look like her, you know."

Donovan nodded. "I'd rather not talk about her right now, if you don't mind."

R. T. glanced down at his manicured nails, then abruptly returned his gaze to his son. "As a matter of fact, I do mind but if that's what you prefer, I can wait a while for news of Lillian. What about your sister? Is she a forbidden subject as well?"

"My sister?" Donovan frowned in confusion, then burst out laughing. "You see what I mean? I must be overly tired to forget that I have a sister these days. Then again, I'm not used to having a family at all. I really haven't had much chance to talk with Susan, but I would like to get to know her better."

The faint lines above R. T.'s brow deepened into furrows. "I'm not talking about Susan. I was asking about your full sister, Lillibeth. What ever became of her?"

Chapter 13

Instead of heading right to the theatre as his impulses urged, Donovan forced himself to take a long walk along the waterfront area so he could collect his thoughts before confronting his mother. He hated to believe the story R. T. had told him, and yet, as he lost himself in the crowd of restaurateurs, poor folk, and buyers seeking bargains from Sicilian fishermen, his gut said that it was all true. Pausing at a wharf-side stall, the stench of rotting fish heads matching his mood somehow, he became aware of something tugging on the hem of his jacket.

Donovan glanced down to see a small boy looking up at him. "Hey, you come with me," said the youngster in broken English. "Come, my mama has fresh salmon. The best."

The boy reminded Donovan of how he used to hawk his own mother's many talents as an entertainer. He slipped a coin into the kid's palm. "Go back home," he said, ruffling the boy's mop of dirty brown curls. "Tell your mama to feed you some of that salmon."

"You come, too. She got more, oysters and shrimp."

"Go on now, get going."

Donovan gave the kid a gentle shove, then walked away from the wharf and started toward the theatre. He searched his memory as he sauntered along the waterfront, trying to pick out what was real and what was fantasy. The sister he'd dreamed up for himself so long ago was still easy to picture, a tiny pink bundle of coppery baby curls and bright blue eyes, but had she been real? And if indeed she had been, why couldn't he remember her as that—a living, breathing baby?