The Marrying Kind (36 page)

* * *

They were kept waiting a full thirty minutes in R. T.'s expansive study on the first floor of the mansion. A beverage cart containing everything from liqueur to tea, including a cut-glass bowl filled with ice, was at their disposal. Donovan poured himself a stiff brandy, and paced the entire time he waited for his father to appear. Libby donned her glasses, then circled the room like a cat on the prowl, marveling over the excesses, and questioning the morality of one person laying claim to so much. Everywhere she looked, she found fine crystal, gilt-edged furnishings, and beveled mirrors.

Trophies of the animals R. T. had hunted punctuated the redwood walls of the masculine study—a moose head with enormous antlers, the full mount of a bull elk down to its breastbone, a bear of some kind—grizzly she thought—and an animal from the antelope family with long twisted antlers pointed straight up at the ceiling. Glancing quickly around the oval-shaped room, Libby halfway expected to find a few human heads among the trophies, but only a couple of exotic-looking creatures and a fiercely snarling boar stared back at her.

She'd made her way to the elaborately carved walnut and redwood fireplace inset with turquoise tiles, when R. T. finally came into the room. He was limping noticeably, and although he'd yet to face her full on, she could see that his aristocratic nose was swollen and that at least one of his eyes was puffed shut.

"R. T.," said Donovan, crossing the room to greet him. "Damned if you don't look like hell. Are you feeling any better?"

"Than what?" said the man, trying to make light of the situation. "Do I feel better than I did last night? No, but I guess I've come around a little since this morning. I was so stiff when I woke up, I could hardly get out of bed."

The men exchanged a warm handshake, and then suddenly, R. T. whirled, as if finally aware Libby was in the room. She instinctively reached up to remove her spectacles, but then defiantly left them sitting atop her nose.

"Oh... hello, Miss Justice. I'd forgotten that James said Donovan brought a guest with him."

"Hello, Mr. Savage. I'm sorry to hear about your... 'accident.'"

Did R. T. narrow his gaze just a little as she spoke, Libby wondered, or was she merely imagining that he knew she was on to him? The man was so slick she found it impossible to tell which. Whatever he thought he'd heard in her tone didn't stop him from smiling warmly and asking, "Did you two find everything you need? Can I get you something else to drink, or a bite to eat?"

Libby shook her head, her smile twice as sweet and every bit as bogus as R. T.'s. "I'm fine, thank you. So what really happened to you?"

"Damn, Libby," said Donovan, his tone suggesting that she might be overstepping her boundaries. "Let the man sit down and relax."

"That's all right, Son." R. T. chuckled as he sank onto the oversized chair in front of the fireplace. "I suppose this mutilated face of mine is a bit of a curiosity. Poor dear Olivina burst into tears when she saw me, and hasn't come out of her room since." Again he laughed, but the amusement didn't reach his eyes. They were cold, unflinching, and staring at Libby as if measuring her for a coffin.

Staring right back at him, she asked, "Aren't you going to tell your son who beat you up?" Feeling bold, Libby indulged the silly urge to grin. "If you'd rather, I suppose that I could—"

"Why don't you be a good girl," said R. T., cutting her off, "and go pour me a nice glass of scotch. Two pieces of ice."

"I'd be delighted." Under both men's watchful gazes—and this time, Donovan's was the more malignant—Libby strolled away from the fireplace and headed for the beverage cart. As she fixed the man's drink, R. T. groaned and addressed Donovan. "I was under the impression that Francis told you what happened to me."

Donovan took the chair across from his father. "He only mentioned that you'd been robbed and beaten. Have the police found the men who did this to you yet?"

"Robbed?" Libby interrupted, unable to keep the surprise out of her tone. "You told everyone you were beaten and robbed?"

R. T. turned in his chair, the intensity of his gaze leaving no doubt that he'd drawn both dueling pistols and now had them pointed between her eyes. There was no fear of discovery in his expression, or even concern over what she might know of the truth. Just hatred. Pure, unstrained, unadulterated hatred. Oh, how Libby wanted to blurt out the truth, to burn him here and now and send him to hell in flames. But that gift was not hers to give. She fought the impulse a few moments, her own gaze holding steady under the intensity of R. T.'s glare, until she was quite sure she would not break the promise she'd made to Donovan's mother. At least not while he was in the room. Resigned to the idea that she would have to keep her silence about what she knew—at least for now—Libby dropped three ice cubes into the man's drink and carried it to him.

"Thank you, my dear," he said, brushing her fingers with his as he took the drink, singeing them with malice. "Now why don't you have a seat and make yourself comfortable." Libby could almost hear the unspoken words, "and shut up."

Turning away from her, R. T. faced Donovan and spoke as if he were the only other person in the room. "As I was saying, while I was out shopping last evening for a gift for Olivina, I was set upon by young hoodlums, beaten, then robbed of my cash, which I might add, was not an inconsiderable amount."

After flashing a warning glance at Libby, reminding her exactly how he expected her to conduct herself, Donovan said, "Francis told me that much, but not whether the men responsible were caught by the police."

"Not yet, I'm afraid." R. T. looked into his glass just before he took the first sip and frowned upon finding three pieces of ice, not two as he'd ordered. Libby was ready, waiting for him to turn to her with those accusing blue eyes, but he surprised her by taking a long pull of the drink, then going on with his fabricated story. He complained roundly about the wild youths of San Francisco and how decent folks hid in fear from them, going on and on until Libby thought she would scream from sheer frustration.

She was saved from the fate moments later as Susan joined them in the study. After that, R. T., magnanimous as ever, bade Donovan and Libby to join him and his daughter for supper. The very idea of breaking bread with the man appalled Libby to no end, but left with no choice in the matter, she consoled herself with Susan's company and allowed herself to at least enjoy the meal, which consisted of a perfect little medallion of beef and huge lobster tails. Miracle of all miracles, she even managed to keep a civil tongue in her head the rest of the evening.

* * *

By the time they arrived back at Donovan's house later that night, Libby had convinced herself that he'd either forgotten the brashness of her tongue earlier in the evening, or forgiven her for being what he'd surely considered insolent to his father. But he'd sent her upstairs alone, while he remained on the first floor. It hadn't occurred to Libby until later that he'd probably been checking his mousetraps. When he finally joined her, long after she'd tucked herself in for the night, the traps had slipped her mind again.

As he'd done the evening before, Donovan disrobed at the foot of the bed, used a post as his closet, then climbed beneath the covers and took her into his arms. It was then she sensed that something intangible had entered the room with him, something heavy with foreboding.

And then he spoke, whispering in the darkness, and in his voice, that ominous visitor finally manifested itself. "I suppose you thought you were being polite to my father this evening, but you didn't do a very good job of hiding your true feelings. Is there nothing I can do to keep you from hating him so? Nothing?"

He hadn't forgotten, and from his tone, Libby knew he hadn't forgiven her rash tongue, either. His question surprised her, but she responded with the same bluntness and honesty. "No, I'm afraid not. I wish I could learn to think of him in a more friendly way, but whenever I look at R. T. Savage, all I can see is evil."

Donovan didn't comment on her answer. He didn't have to. His thoughts were all around her, invading her. She could reach out and touch them, taste the poison. He was disappointed, to be sure, but also accusing, as if convinced she had it within her to change her opinion of his father, but refused to do him the honor. There was no way for her to respond to his unspoken charges without breaking her vow to his mother, or painting his father as the kind of beast children lived in terror of finding under their beds.

So Libby remained silent as Donovan pulled her deeper into his arms and made unhurried love to her. His touch was sure and gentle, more sensual than ever, yet their lovemaking was bittersweet, where before it had been sinfully delicious. His mouth, his hands, all the pleasures he could bestow belonged to Libby for these few minutes. He gave everything to her, holding back only two things—his heart and soul. The words "I love you" ran circles in her mind, but never dared to cross her lips. Instead, she gave herself the freedom to love him with her body—and loved him as she'd never loved him before.

Determined to commit to memory the way his skin, so smooth and slick with perspiration, felt beneath her palms, to forever carry with her the subtle change in his scent as he became more and more aroused, she became the aggressor for a few short moments, and unleashed in him a savage of a different kind. Donovan's lips both bruised and soothed her everywhere they touched, and then he began to moan from deep in his throat, a feral kind of sound akin to a growl.

Libby savored it all, the sounds, his scent, his touch, until at last they reached the highest peak together. It wasn't until they tumbled down the other side of the mountain, miles and miles apart, that she understood nothing had changed.

Everything went quiet then, as if sound didn't exist at all. In that vacuous moment, Libby realized that what they'd shared here tonight had been their last time together. That thought, as the others, went unspoken between them. But even as they lay holding one another in the dim afterglow of their lovemaking, she suspected it was a thought Donovan shared.

* * *

As a child, Libby had frequently dreamed of becoming a horse when she grew up. It hadn't occurred to her at the time, but she supposed the fantasy was her way of escaping in this male dominated society, a way of finding freedom. To gallop, wild and free, across the prairie, the wind rippling through her mane, kicking up her heels and tossing her head, answering to no one. She awoke just this side of dawn, that time of night when the morning sun is finally beginning to shove the midnight sky into the oceans of the west, and realized she'd had that same dream again during the night. An unspoken wish to be free.

Beside her, Donovan stirred and began inching his way toward the edge of the mattress. After he quietly slid out of bed, she heard the rustle of his clothing as he removed it from the bed post, but Libby didn't make a sound or move a muscle. If he wanted her to believe that he'd been in his own room for most of the night, so be it. She would go back to sleep and dream again of being a horse. And of being free.

Chapter 19

The next morning
,
Donovan leaned over the drafting table in his father's office and studied the sketch R. T. had commissioned of the hoodlums who'd attacked him. "There were three of them?" he asked.

"Around that, I think, the little sons of bitches." R. T. wiped a drop of spittle off his chin. "You know, it's just as likely those boys were the sons of millionaires, as beggars. I think we ought to get the police to round up a special detail to go after all these thieving little bastards. The city's overrun with them."

Donovan didn't disagree on the point. San Francisco's growing hoodlum population didn't stop at robbery, as they had with R. T„ but also set buildings on fire, paraded the streets at night singing obscene songs, and most repulsive of all, took grand sport in stoning Chinese men. But Donovan hadn't come to see his father about ridding San Francisco's streets of its bored youth. He wanted to know a little more about the distillery business and how it tied in with government officials. Turning his back to the table, he propped his hips against it, shoved his hands in his pockets and said, "I just found out that
Eldorado
Distilleries is yours. Are you aware that I've been doing my whiskey business with you for years?"

R. T. laughed. "No, it never occurred to me. I suppose it should have, since you're partners in a saloon." There was a slight narrowing of his eyes before he went on. "Why are you asking now, Son? Everything all right at the saloon? My men haven't been cheating you out of your profits or anything, have they?"

"Not that I know of." He smiled at his father, enjoying the easy banter they shared. "Maybe I ought to pay a little closer attention next time they deliver."

"Maybe you should." Again R. T. laughed, but it sounded a little strained. "I thought you pretty much stayed away from the saloon since coming to work for me. Don't tell me you're trying to work both jobs."