Abby shrugged, deciding to ignore his comments since he couldn’t seem to refrain from making them.
“I spent a lot of time at the docks with my father when I was younger. Several old seamen taught me all sorts of useful things.”
Max snorted, but refrained from saying anything this time.
“One night, Mr. Faro asked me to take a particular table where a high stakes game had commenced. The dealer had already been there several hours. At that moment, one young man jumped up, accusing another of cheating. Mr. Faro had to intervene. The younger man left with Mr. Faro and I never got a good look at him.”
She squinted at Max.
“Stand up and turn around.”
He did as she requested. She studied his backside for a moment.
“The man who left could have been your brother, but I’m just not sure. I took the dealer’s seat. The man with the scar raked in the winnings, and I do remember the watch in the middle of a pile of bills.”
Max shook his head.
“I can’t believe my brother would be foolish enough to gamble away his watch. What was there about the man that would make Monty leave the watch as a way of trailing him? Can you tell me any more about the man with the scar?”
“Not very much, I’m afraid. I believe he did cheat, though I can’t say exactly how.
He didn’t stay long after I began dealing. I wouldn’t flirt with him like some of the other girls did. I think it made him mad.”
She turned from the window, clasping her hands in front of her, hoping her explanation would suffice. The intensity of Max’s gaze, even across the width of the room, shocked her. During her debutante days in Boston, no man had disturbed her the way he did. She doubted she would have been so eager to leave home had she met him in Boston. That made her wonder where he called home.
“Where are you from, Mr. Grant?”
He smiled at her, and she knew for a certainty she would have stayed at home if this man had come calling.
“My family is from Boston, although I don’t reside there. I’m surprised you didn’t recognize me, either by my name or my resemblance to family.”
“I never socialized much.”
Except for the recitals her mother gave, she added silently. At those, the gentlemen were rarely in attendance for long, sitting in the back of the room and escaping before the final chord was played.
“You haven’t finished your story,” he reminded her.
“The man with the scar came back the next night, one of the local girls hanging on his arm. This time he drank when he played, and he lost to the point where he wanted to wager the watch. I had to ask Mr. Faro and, upon his approval, the watch became his raise and call.”
“And this Mr. Faro let you keep it when the man lost?”
“He said he didn’t have a need for it and it probably wasn’t worth what he’d allowed the man, so he offered it to me with my tips for the evening.”
Max frowned, pulling his watch from his pocket and turning it over in his hands.
“I suppose the man was right, although it has much sentimental value.”
He seemed to shrug off his dour thoughts. He put the watch away.
“Did you ever see either man again—the one who owned the watch or the scar-faced man?”
“No.”
“So why did you leave Chicago?”
Abby thought back to that night. She’d been naive enough to feel safe staying at a saloon. Mr. Faro had given her a small sleeping room at the end of the hall on the second floor. Sometimes, before the saloon opened for business, she would sneak downstairs and practice her music on the piano. Even when the girls heard her, they didn’t breathe a word to Mr. Faro. One of them said the music helped her sleep and it kept away the nightmares formed by the nature of the work she did. Abby didn’t quite understand what that meant, but was happy to give them something in return for their friendship. She didn’t state any of this aloud, not wanting Max to know about her musical ability. Her secret desires and dreams were hers alone. She wouldn’t have them bandied about as inconsequential like her mother had done. She decided to tell just the end of her story.
“I was attacked in the saloon.”
Just whispering the words caused her stomach to plummet.
“I was downstairs early one morning and a man came in. He tried to kidnap me. Mr. Faro shot him.”
Her voice caught on a sob, and she pushed her fist against her mouth to keep from crying. It was inconceivable that she should be the cause of anyone’s death. Strong arms circled her, pulling her close. She buried her face against Max’s chest, allowing him to comfort her for a few minutes. When she felt she was in control again, she pushed away. It would be too easy to hand her troubles over to this man.
“Mr. Faro found a handbill in the man’s coat with a likeness of me and a reward for my return to Boston. I was too shaken to offer an explanation, so he assumed I must be wanted for a domestic crime of some sort. He decided to give me a fresh start and put me on a train to Topeka.”
Somehow, the weight of her worries seemed lighter now. She wandered over to the sofa and sat, tucking her feet beneath her skirts. She cocked her head. Max returned her gaze, his blue eyes steady but not condemning. She slipped the watch from around her neck and held it out.
“This belongs to your brother. I have no right to keep it.”
He walked the few steps to retrieve the watch.
“You can’t blame yourself for what men do, Abby—not for my brother’s foolishness nor the bounty hunter’s stupidity, or even your Mr. Faro’s need to protect. Those things are simply part of man’s nature.”
He turned the watch over in his hands, rubbed it with his thumb, then bent to place it once again around her neck.
“I feel deep inside that my brother is safe, at least for now. So why don’t you keep this for him?”
He tapped her nose with the tip of his finger.
“I’ll be back in a minute.”
* * *
When Max returned to the observation room, he saw Abby’s eyes drifting shut. She gave a wide yawn and he glanced at the clock on the side table to find the hour approaching midnight. Where had the night gone? He hadn’t meant to keep her so long, but he found her conversation stimulating.
Besides, he’d discovered some very important facts that coincided with what Crede had told Tom. Monty was looking for a scar-faced man, although Max couldn’t be positive it was one and the same person. Since Abby could identify the scar-faced man who had won the watch, it became imperative he keep her close to his side. His job with the government gave him access to a group of highly trained contacts and investigators, but for the first time in his career, he was going to need outside help. It went totally against the grain to ask for it, much less from a woman, but Abby had given him good details.
It was too bad she was a female, for she would have made a good investigator. He stifled a chuckle. From what she’d told him about her quest for independence, he doubted she would appreciate his thoughts. But as he watched her sleep, all soft and vulnerable, protectiveness welled up inside. It was something he’d never tried to deny.
He’d learned from an early age to protect both the fairer sex and those unable to protect themselves. That was one reason he’d desperately wanted to fight in the war—to preserve their way of life—but by the time he found a unit to accept him at a young age, the war was over. Still with a fervent desire to serve, he came under consideration by Sam Clancy, who saw in Max some redeeming qualities Max’s father apparently didn’t appreciate. He shook off the memories. It did little good to recall how disappointed his father was that his eldest son never settled nicely into civilized Boston society. Perhaps redemption would come from bringing Monty home safely.
Gently, he lifted Abby and carried her to his bed. She would be far more comfortable there than on the sofa. He slipped off her shoes and covered her with a quilt. She sighed, the sound registering deep in his soul. He bent to brush a stray c
url back from her cheek. He recalled her request that he not judge her for working in a saloon. She was such an innocent, for she had no idea of the atrocities committed by evil men, or men like himself in the name of justice. He wanted to kiss her. Her softness and goodness beckoned to him like a beam of light on the darkest of nights. For just a moment, he envisioned himself married to a woman like Abby—a soft, giving woman who shared his dreams, laughed with him and comforted him in his time of need.
Regardless of the fact he knew he was on the side of law and order, he still felt a bone-deep weariness at times and he began to doubt himself. Sometimes he even understood his father’s attitude toward the life he led. Max steeled himself against the impulse to touch his lips to hers. Abby didn’t need a man like him in her life. She needed a good, loving man, not one with too many rough edges. Especially not one like himself, who on occasion killed, even if it was in the name of justice. He refused to take that kind of advantage of her innocence.
* * *
Abby woke disoriented in the middle of the night. The jerk of the train as it gathered speed panicked her for a moment until she remembered yesterday. Apparently the train had stopped for water and was now on its way again. The motion smoothed and her eyes grew accustomed to the night. She looked around the room. This wasn’t the common berth compartment that was part of her passage. This was a stateroom with luxurious furnishings and a bed that took up over half the space. A Highboy stood against the far wall, and in a niche against the other wall was a dressing table, a large mirror attached above it. She lay back on the bed, determined to regain her sleep, but a hairpin jabbed her scalp and she realized she was still dressed.
Disgruntled, she scooted off the bed. Not seeing her bag, she knew she’d have to venture back to the dining portion of Max’s Pullman car to retrieve her belongings. She frowned. She shouldn’t call him Max, even in her mind. He was still rather much a stranger, and he had abducted her from her seat in the passenger car. She felt her way along the corridor in the dark.
Actually, while she’d like to blame him for her problems, she did so only to alleviate the guilt she felt for being attracted to him in a most elemental way. The fact he disguised himself so effectively spoke of intelligence and a flare for the dramatic, and the artist in her was moved. She recalled times at the piano when her fingers caressed the keys to produce the music she so loved. She’d always imagined herself in exotic places, dancing with dark, beautiful people to the music she created. Max seemed a personification of those dreams. Perhaps that was why she didn’t fear him.
A small lantern hung by the door of the dining section and gave off the weakest of light, for which she was grateful. She easily located her bag along the wall. She was bending to retrieve it when a soft sound came from the other side of the room and she turned to search out the source. A berth hung against the wall farthest from the corridor. Max lay sprawled across its narrow width, softly snoring. Her cheeks warmed at the thought that she must be occupying his bed. A louder snort made her jump, but it didn’t wake its creator. Curiosity got the better of her and she tiptoed silently across the carpet. The edge of the bed was at eye level.
A soft gasp escaped as she stared at Max in repose. His hair was tousled and a curl hung over his forehead. Though she didn’t know his age, he looked young, the deeper lines of worry and concentration softened in sleep. His mouth was opened slightly, and she wondered what it would feel like to kiss him. One arm was flung above his head, the other hand rested on his chest. His bare chest.
“Oh, my.”
The words had barely slipped from her lips when she found herself swung into the air then pinned on the narrow berth between the wall and Max. She gazed into stormy blue eyes, her heart thumping and her breathing fast. He lay half over her, and even through layers of clothes, she felt his heat. Incredible, throbbing heat.
“Don’t ever sneak up on me.”
The low, throaty threat raised goose bumps on her arms.
“I—”
Her words stuck in her throat when she saw the glint of light off his revolver.
She took a shaky breath, her chest pushing against his.
“Damn,” he swore softly. She heard the click of the hammer being safely released, then felt Max lean across her to put the gun somewhere above their heads.
“I…I didn’t mean to wake you,” she whispered against his throat. Now that her surprise at being bodily lifted off the floor and into his bed had passed, she was becoming aware of other sensations. A hint of cologne hung in the air between them. His weight pressed against her. Most prominent, though, was a tingly feeling low in her body that something monumental was about to happen and a panicky desire not to miss it. She wiggled, not sure she liked her body’s reaction. He groaned.
She turned her head to speak and her lips brushed his throat. She felt his pulse jump and innately knew she caused it. Liquid warmth flowed through her when he sucked in a breath.
“Abby,” he breathed her name.
She wasn’t experienced enough to know whether it was an admonishment or a plea.
Then it was too late. Firm lips touched her cheek with a kiss; rough whiskers abraded her skin. His breath was hot and he didn’t stop until he kissed the corner of her mouth. One more feathery touch and his lips captured hers. The intensity with which he took possession of her was frightening, and Abby seriously questioned her foolish curiosity.
What Max did to her emotions quickly quelled her thinking processes and she gave herself up to the feelings his kisses evoked. His warm lips moved over hers with an exquisite tenderness. He shifted so she lay cradled against him and she felt his strength in the hand caressing her back. Her palms itched, and of their own volition, her hands slid up his sides.
Hard muscles trembled beneath her touch; hot skin caused her own temperature to rise. He swore, raising his head to gaze at her. He grabbed one of her hands and moved it away from his side.
“You play a dangerous game, Abigail O’Brien, and most probably one for which you do not even know the rules.”
Although he lectured her, he made no move to distance himself.
“Susan Anthony never said anything about a kiss or two breaking the rules.”
“Hell and damnation.” His muttered curse heated the already steaming air between them before he kissed her again.
Chapter Four
Max’s lips roughly possessed her this time. His hot tongue brushed the seam of her lips, and she gasped. Like a knight on a quest, his tongue swept the ridge of her teeth and delved deeper. Abby’s toes curled and her breath caught. Never had anything caused her such pure delight and devilish aggravation at the same time. She didn’t have experience in the art of seduction and thought perhaps anything that felt this good had to be a sin. Still, people kissed all the time. She tentatively touched her tongue to his. He was hot and insistent, strong and enticing. He allowed her to explore, but within seconds she was breathless beyond thinking. She wiggled closer, but then the berth moved beneath her and the pressure of Max’s chest disappeared.
It took some time for her gaze to focus and find him standing by the window in the dark. When she did, she wished she hadn’t. Her stomach pitched at his fierce expression. She scooted upright, swinging her stocking-clad feet over the side of the bed. Her movement seemed to agitate him more. With a growl, he turned and braced his hands on the window frame, leaning his forehead against the glass. He was right—she didn’t know the rules. She had never allowed a suitor more than a brief peck on the cheek, but then no one had ever made her sizzle before.
His soulful gaze, his teasing playfulness and even his not-so-subtle protectiveness had quickly laid siege to her senses. She’d been brought up trusting and had good instincts when it came to people. Yet this time it was her heart and not her mind that said she could trust him. She walked to where he stood, not wanting the night to end like this. She placed her hand on his bare shoulder, and he trembled beneath her touch.
“Go to bed, Abby
.”
He didn’t turn, didn’t further acknowledge her. He just gave her a command and expected her to obey. She walked down the corridor to the stateroom, tears prickling her eyes. She reminded herself that she was an independent woman and made a pledge that she would not let Maxwell Grant affect her.
* * *
What the hell was I thinking? Max chastised himself, hearing Abby’s soft sigh, but not daring to turn around. One look and he knew damned well he would haul her into bed and not let her go until they reached Denver. And maybe not even then. He cursed again then stomped to the sideboard and poured himself a stiff brandy.
The smoothness of the liquor did nothing to dispel the fire raging inside him. Never had a woman affected him like this. He thought he’d become hardened to his emotions— because of his job, because of his father—yet Abby had managed to breach his defenses in short order. Without even trying, she’d created a tender spot for herself in his heart. He recalled her dainty feet when she swung her legs over the bed, revealing only the slightest bit of ankle, but enough to send his senses soaring. He knew it wasn’t an act. She hadn’t deliberately tried to seduce him. She was too young, her kisses too innocent. While Max knew he didn’t deserve her, he still wanted to be her knight in shining armor.
Her Mr. Faro had killed for her, and Max had no doubt he would do the same. He would protect her with his life, not only because she was female, but because when she’d touched his shoulder, she had branded him as hers. He felt it deep in his soul in the most elemental way possible. At the same time, he knew he would never act on that knowledge. She deserved so much more than what he could give, and he had no right to even kiss her.
He swallowed the last of the brandy, wondering how in hell he would manage to keep an eye on her and not touch her. Her softness was made for a man’s hand, her lips were meant to kiss. He groaned, driving himself to distraction just thinking about her. Setting down his empty snifter, he stepped through the door to the open platform between train cars. The fresh night air hit him full in the face and he breathed deeply, trying to clear her scent from his skin.
Love in Disguise Page 6