To Seduce a Rogue (5 page)

He nodded and stood.

She sighed. What was she getting herself into?

* * *

Their rocking chairs swaying in agreement, Charlie and Adam sat in quiet contemplation on her front porch, the repaired fence standing as straight and proud as a palace guard before them. A brilliant red and gold sunset lay beyond the mountains.

Charlie rolled her head to look at him. Adam Chase was
definitely
a surprise. He was considerate, even congenial, when he didn’t monitor every action. When he spoke of things that were of great importance to him, his face softened, and emotion flowed into his eyes. Once or twice, he seemed to recognize this was happening and glanced away.

If not for the rocking of his chair, she would have thought him asleep. She wanted to thank him and better to do it while those dark eyes of his were not lighting a small fire in her stomach. “Thank you for the help today. I’m not sure why you did it...but I appreciate the effort. Sometimes it’s hard to do everything yourself.”

“There are so many sounds here we lose in the city. Sounds I have not heard in years.” His voice was soft, low.

His eyes had not opened so she continued to stare. He had been speaking like this all day. Not about the newspaper or anything they could possibly debate, but normal things like rain and the exquisite color of butterflies, the unconditional love of dogs and horses, and the calming sound of the ocean as it rolls into the shore. He shied away from discussing his childhood; she did as well. All things considered—quite unbelievably—she had enjoyed the day. Enjoyed speaking to someone about subjects independent of the latest Beautification Society meeting or the best way to raise a cash crop.

His eyes fluttered open. He looked drowsy and sated. “I came to help you for a number of reasons. I was curious. Miles puts a lot of stock in you, and I’m coming to respect his judgment. Also, from what I’ve read, you’re a good writer, a little rough around the edges, but that’s where I come in. And, you know this town.” He covered his mouth and yawned. She watched the muscles in his neck elongate. “You would be good for the
Sentinel
. You know that. The experience would be good for you. Plus” —he closed his eyes— “I need your help.”

She gazed across the yard, stunned.

He needed her help.

She wanted to do it. The absence of her father
and
the newspaper had left a vacant gap in her heart, in her life. She longed to hear the peculiar sound of the press, to smell the sharp scent of ink, to discuss the latest news, to decide the length of stories, and to hold the finished product in her hands and know it had come from her hard work. But the
Sentinel
was Stokes’ concern now, wasn’t it?

Or was it Adam Chase’s?

A loud meow pierced the silence. They jumped as if a gun had discharged behind their backs, then turned to each other and laughed.

She leaned in and snapped her fingers. “Faustus is a naughty kitty, not coming home for two days.” The large, orange cat sauntered to the rocking chair and began to run his back against it. Charlie scratched his ears and murmured childlike phrases.

“So, this is the illustrious Faustus. He’s a...big fellow. What do you feed the thing?” Adam grimaced as Faustus strolled to his chair and began to meow.

Charlie grinned. “He likes to be scratched behind his ears or under his chin.”

“No, thank you. I am not, and never will be, a cat man.” He wrinkled his nose in displeasure, but trailed a hesitant finger underneath Faustus’ adequate chin.

“You mean you don’t like animals? How could you not like animals?”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. Faustus meowed when the scratching stopped. “Hold on now, I didn’t say I hated animals. Only, I do not love cats. Actually, horses are my great weakness. In fact, mine should be arriving any day now. An associate from Virginia, on a round-about way to Charleston, is bringing him through.”

A horseman. Charlie could imagine him astride a horse. She was glad he couldn’t see the flush settling on her cheeks.

“Taber’s a beautiful beast. A palomino the color of spun gold with a tail that reminds me of ivory. Pure. And fast. Some say the fastest horse in Richmond.”

“Taber? What an unusual name.”

“It was my brother’s middle name.”
Damn, Chase
. Why mention that? Adam took hold of himself as he felt his composure slip.

“Do you ride often?”

He found himself rubbing the crescent scar on his wrist. He pulled his hands apart. “I like to ride often. Every day if I can. Sometimes it’s my only way to escape.”

“Escape from what?” Her words floated to him.

Like shadows on the surface of a stream, anxiety, grief and fear darkened his mind. He turned his head and looked into the twilight. Fireflies flitted around the porch. Croaking frogs sounded like thunder in the quiet night. He rose from the chair. It rocked silently behind him. “Do you mind?” He gestured to the cheroot he held in his hand.

She shook her head.

He lit a match and brought the flame close to his face, a flicker behind the curve of his hand.

She stopped rocking for a moment and inhaled a breath. “My father smoked. We spent many a night looking at the stars, watching for the first—sometimes the only—snowfall of the winter. And, we talked.”

He slanted a glance at her, then looked back toward the horizon. It sounded as if she had loved her father very much. She was lucky. When had he thought about his father in loving terms? Had he ever? The last time they’d spoken had been a disaster.

He had tried to avoid a confrontation. God, by that time he had wanted nothing to do with his father. After Eaton’s death, he hadn’t cared to ever see the man again. Adam grimaced and closed his eyes. He could
still
hear his father yelling.

Sometimes he wondered if that last, horrible argument had stained his character. Unable to love after Eaton’s death, Adam knew he was growing more like his father with each passing day. Powerful. Wealthy. Relentless? He hoped not.
He prayed not
. His inherited wealth, combined with the status of his position, was bringing its own destiny. He wanted to control that destiny, but he often felt like a marionette whose father was tugging the strings from above or, as was more likely, below.

A sharp pain brought him out of his trance. He swore and dropped what was left of his cheroot over the railing of the porch.

Charlie jumped from the chair. “What?”

“I burned my damned finger.” He laughed. “My God, what an idiot.”

“Let me see it.” She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the house.

He felt the heat from her touch all the way to the tips of his toes. To hell with the burn on his finger. None of the women he had bedded had ever held his hand as gently as Charlie Whitney was right now.

She put his hand beneath a glass lamp inside the door. “I see where it’s red. I have salve.” She walked to the kitchen and came back with a jar that, when opened, emitted a smell worse than horse dung and rotten eggs mixed together.

He put his uninjured hand to his nose. “Whoa, what’s in that stuff?”

She just shook her head as she applied the salve.

He glanced at the top of her head, the glow from the lamp highlighting steaks of auburn in her hair. Sudden, unexpected tenderness rushed through him. For this petite woman who was so strong in mind and spirit. His mother had been the last woman to touch him like this.

To take care of him.

“For your information, this is salve I’m lucky to get. It’s a miracle medicine. The ingredients are a secret.”

“Well...it smells like one helluva secret.”

She smiled softly, the dim light making her eyes appear the exact color of the ocean where he had spent summers as a child. The lingering distress from his memories vanished like smoke on the horizon.

She finished applying the ointment and closed the jar. He drew a deep breath. He could feel her. Smell her. Roses and smoke, and a peculiar scent that must be her own.

She smelled wonderful.

“There. Now it won’t blister as badly.” She stepped into the kitchen and replaced the jar in the cupboard.

He wiped his hand across his forehead, shocked to see that it shook ever so slightly. “I need to go. The test run with the new press is tomorrow. Poor Gerald has been like a kid at Christmas, waiting to get his hands on the thing.” He pushed off the doorframe. “Charlie?”

Her impenetrable gaze met his.

“Think about coming back to the
Sentinel
.” He couldn’t tell from her expression whether she was considering it or not. She was a stubborn woman—strong and single-minded. If he wasn’t careful, she would have him admiring her.

“I’ll think about it,” was all she said.

He stalled, realizing that he needed to get out of there. Here he was, convincing her to work for him while trying desperately to keep his eyes off her clinging britches. During their work on the fence, her hair had come loose and was floating about her face like a storm cloud. She neither cowered nor flinched under his perusal. Her gaze remained steady, sea blue and challenging. He found her self-assurance both endearing and bothersome.

He could not allow his fascination with this young woman to continue.

Fascination
.

This thought, above all others, acted like a hand and pushed him into motion. He turned and strode through the door, the dark night swallowing him.

“Thanks, Chase,” he heard her call as he crossed the yard.

He hesitated in the lane for one, brief second, thinking to march right back to her and...
what
?

He left without saying goodnight.

Impatience

Eager desire for relief or change; restlessness.

The next day dawned without Adam having gotten much sleep. He growled and kicked a rock from his path, which only served to place a nice, long scratch on the toe of his Hessians.

He crossed the boardwalk, his hands clenching and unclenching by his side, muscles tightening beneath his shirtsleeves. Anyone who knew him would have recognized impatience in the firm set of his jaw, his determined stride. Unfortunately, his impatience was directed at himself.

It was not enough to be an assistant editor.
He
wanted an editorship. Yesterday—not the five years he should have to wait.

And he had to get the
Sentinel
in order before Stokes would grant that request.

It wasn’t that he was cheating...at least, not really. He was an excellent journalist and a fine editor. The main obstacle to receiving an editorship before now was his tendency to go off half-cocked in search of a story.

He would be the first to admit that his way of writing could be...dangerous. He never recommended it to anyone, especially an inexperienced reporter. Often, a journalist defended the accuracy of his story with a pistol.

He wished it were not the case, but the turbulent issues heated his blood.

And his ambition.

There would likely not be a single story to excite him in Edgemont. He would probably be lucky to get aroused the old-fashioned way.