Heat singed the back of his neck when he realized he was staring, and deeply ingrained manners launched him to his feet, forcing him to rise, along with his hackles. Blue thunder, he hadn’t even known he had hackles until that woman sailed into town. “Where’s Parks?” he said in a gruff tone far too short. At six-foot-three, he’d always been long on height, patience, and personality, but since Liberty O’Shea’s return to Virginia City, he’d been whittled down to size.
“Good evening to you, too, Mr. McShane,” she said with a professional air that got on his last nerve.
“That’s debatable. Where’s Parks?”
“He’s running late and asked that we get started.” She systematically placed her hat, reticule, and portfolio on the table and pulled out a chair, sliding in with the same grace and ease he remembered from school. The gentle scent of lilacs drifted in the air, a taunt that reminded him of the day he’d carried her to Parks’ office. Immediately his blood heated at the memory of her body against his, feather light and womanly soft. His lips went flat. Except for those blasted steel toes and iron knees.
Removing her notepad from what looked to be a brand-new leather portfolio, she positioned it just so in front of her before shimmying to the edge of her chair. She folded her hands on top. “Mr. McShane …” Her eyes actually softened, the color of trees awakening in the spring, a watercolor wash of the purest, lightest green he’d ever seen. “Finn,” she said quietly, her voice just above a whisper as her head dipped the slightest bit, allowing those deadly eyes to peek up beneath a fringe of dark lashes. “Since we’re going to be working together so closely for the next few months, I would very much like to be friends.”
“Friends.” His terse response bore the weight of his skepticism.
Her chin elevated the barest amount, tempered by the faintest of smiles. “Yes, friends, a totally foreign concept to you when it comes to women, I realize, Mr. McShane. But who knows—you might find you like the benefits of intelligent conversation and total honesty.”
“I doubt that,” he muttered, still riled over the scathing article she’d written about him and the V&T. Scrubbing his face with his palms, he huffed out a heavy sigh and finally extended his hand. “All right, why not?” he said with a smile as flat as his mood. “Maybe it’ll earn me better press in the Enterprise.”
She had the grace to blush as she rose to slowly reach for his proffered hand, hesitating inches away as if it were a steel trap about to bite her in two. “Yes, well I apologize for that, Mr. McShane, but I have a job to do, and I can’t allow friendship to get in the way.”
“Apparently.”
The moment his fingers touched the tips of her lacy white gloves, he swore he could feel a spark of something that didn’t bode well for friendship. Allowing the briefest of handshakes, she quickly jerked away as if bitten by a snake, eyes averted while she swiftly took her seat. “Where’s Miss Willoughby?” she asked, fingers shaking when she removed her notes from the portfolio, methodically shuffling them into a perfect, little stack.
“Running late.” The tic in his cheek competed with the twitch of his lips, her nervousness taming some of his anger over the infuriating article she wrote. Good. She needed to be nervous around him because he sure in the devil was nervous around her. His every nerve and emotion was tied up in knots over the upset she stirred. The angst. The frustration. The loss of self-control.
The attraction.
Stomach growling, he sat back down, pretty sure a full stomach was needed to form any viable truce, but he’d do his best to get the job done, then get out of town. “Said she wanted to go over budgets with the mayor before our meeting,” he said in a curt tone, taking a cue from the woman across from him by avoiding her gaze. “Wants us to forge on without her as it could take a while.”
And “forge on” they did, although “fight on” might be more apt, given the roadblocks Finn encountered the first hour the woman almost jabbered nonstop.
“No man is going to take off his hat, gun, or spurs, Miss Bell, so you may as well ask him to come naked.” He kneaded the bridge of his nose, wondering if the men of Virginia City had any idea the grief he was taking on their behalf.
She bent in over the table as if to stress both her points and him. “No woman wants to dance with a man armed with a gun that could go off or spurs that could rip her dress. And everyone knows it’s pure courtesy for a gentleman to remove his hat indoors.”
“It’s a blasted barn,” he shouted, “with daylight shining through more cracks in the wall than the doors and windows.” His jaw started to grind. “Hats and guns stay, but I’ll give you the spurs.”
Her eyes narrowed as if that were exactly what she wanted to do—give him a few spurs. “No guns, no spurs,” she said in a sweet voice underlaid with pure iron, “and I’ll concede on the hats with a civil suggestion at the door that they be removed.”
His lips gummed together. Boy, he’d like to “remove” a few things himself right about now, and it sure wasn’t his hat.
The prattle continued until she struck another nerve. “And no tobacco, spittoons, or alcohol will be allowed indoors at the gala,” she stated with a now-familiar flourish of her pen as she recorded all notes.
His jaw swung open, almost unhinged. “For the hundredth time, it’s outside in a bloomin’ barn, Miss Bell, not some high-falutin’ ballroom in Manhattan. Men chew tobacco here,” he articulated loud and clear, “and for the love of sanity, this town was practically built on saloons.”
Her smile was polite, but the steel in her jaw was not. “It’s one dance, Mr. McShane. It won’t kill them to abstain in the name of civility. And no lady wants to dance with a gentleman—and I use the term loosely—who reeks of spirits and tobacco.”
“You’re only going to drive them to drink a whole lot more beforehand,” he said, craving a drink himself right about now, “guaranteeing lots of sloppy drunks on your silly puncheon dance floor.”
“No tobacco, no alcohol,” she emphasized, then babbled on until the next twist of his arm a few moments later.
“I’m telling you flat-out, Liberty, you can’t have a string quartet at a hoedown—it’s a doggone barn dance, not a concert hall.” His patience as thin as the strings in that blasted quartet, he glared across the table. Okay, all right, he was willing to concede on bows of bunting till he was red, white, and blue in the face. He even agreed to her ridiculous request to build a rough-hewn log dance floor for the Poppys’ rickety barn, but blue blazes, enough was enough!
“It’s an anniversary gala, Mr. McShane,” she said carefully, far more patient than he, “and for a city known as the ‘richest city in America,’ we are also one of the most cosmopolitan places in the world. I hardly think a banjo and a washboard have the character to make a favorable impression on the many government officials and dignitaries sure to attend.”
“Horse biscuits!” He launched to his feet and loomed in to go eye-to-eye, knuckles white as he leaned on the table. “News flash, Miss Bell, this is not New York City with its fancy airs and lardy-dardy ways. This is Virginia City, built on the backs of miners who chew, spit, and swear, and I guarantee if we hire strings, they’ll be stringing me up for defamation of their character.”
She shot up faster than one of those Roman candles they always set off on the Fourth of July, with just as many sparks in her eyes. “Oh, now, there’s a valid reason to do things my way. Just because you lack culture, Mr. McShane, is no reason to deny others the chance to move forward.”
“You want to move forward?” He slammed his fist on the table in lieu of wringing her pretty neck. “Then stop butting me at every turn so we can get something done.”
She matched him with a thump on the table and raised him a brow. “You want something done? Then go back to your barn and take a nap in the hay, while somebody with a little vision leads the way.”
That was the last straw—the one that obviously came from the barn where he napped. He rose to his full height w
ith a tic in his jaw. “Fiddles and banjos,” he said through clenched teeth, “no violins.”
“One fiddle, one banjo, a cello, two violins, and a harp.” Her gaze challenged him, along with the blasted press of those enticing pink lips.
He bit out the words like he was biting his tongue. “One violin. One banjo. One fiddle. One harmonica. No cello. No harp.”
“No harp, no harmonica.” She stared him down, defying him to counter.
He gave up the ghost, no energy left to deal with a woman who both intrigued and incited. “Fine,” he said with a press of his temples, wondering what was louder—the growl of his stomach or the headache pounding in his brain. “I’m going home.”
“No!” She darted around the table, palm out to stop his departure. “We have too much to discuss. You can’t possibly leave yet.”
Fire licked the edge of the temper he’d forgotten he had. Liberty O’Shea may tell him what instruments would play at the dance and what he or the men were or were not going to do, but she was not going to tell him he couldn’t go home. He grabbed his satchel and started for the door.
She blocked his way, hands stretched wide as if silk-clad arms could possibly deter him. “You are not going home, Griffin McShane, until we discuss every detail on my list, is that clear?”
No, but the twitch in his jaw was more than apparent. “I think you’re perfectly capable of discussing everything on your own because heaven knows I’ve barely gotten a word in edgewise as it is, either with suggestions or decisions.”
She caught her breath, mouth slacking open in shock. “Are you implying that I’ve monopolized this meeting tonight?”
He slacked a hip, his hunger and fatigue siphoning out every bit of manners his mama ever taught him. “No, Miss Bell, I’m not implying that at all. I’m saying it outright. You’re bossy, pushy, and you like the sound of your own voice, so I’m going home where I can get some peace and quiet.”
“Well, I never!”
“No, I don’t suppose you have,” he said, thinking the woman would be even more drop-dead pretty if she didn’t talk so dad-burned much. “Because I’m sure those milksop dandies you’re used to dealing with in New York toe the line. But this is Virginia City, Liberty Bell, and I’m a man who doesn’t take kindly to a pushy woman. Good night.”
“Oh, no you don’t!” She sprinted to the door and slammed it closed, plastering her body in front with arms outstretched and palms to the door. “There are at least ten points left on my list to cover, mister, and I am not leaving until we’re done.”
“Oh, we’re done, Miss O’Shea,” he ground out, the rare usage of her real surname an indication that his usual tease and banter was as empty as his stomach. “Now get out of my way.”
“No.” She responded with that same determined glint in her eyes she’d always had in spelling bees and science fairs, triggering a hair of his humor—but only a hair. She braced her arms in a tight fold, and he swore the low heels of her green satin ankle boots—which matched her expensive dress to a toe—would leave dents in the polished hardwood floor. The almond-shaped eyes snapped with green fire, igniting both his temper and something far more dangerous to them both. She gave him a sassy jut of her chin. “We can finish our meeting here or at the table, Mr. McShane, your choice.”
“Oh, so now I have a choice?” His brows shot high in mockery, mostly to head off a twitch of a smile. They slashed low again as his voice ground to a growl. “No, ma’am, I’m tired of your yammering and I mean to go home. So I’m not going to tell you again, Liberty Bell—move that fancy dress of yours out of my way, or I’m going to move it for you.”
“You wouldn’t!” Those full pink lips parted in shock, and he mentally tasted them in his mind, grazing their softness with his mouth.
“Try me.” He singed her with a glare as hot as the fire she’d lit in his belly.
She studied him in blessed silence for several moments, as if gauging the validity of his threat, probably not even aware she was biting that lush lower lip he ached to lay claim to. And then the bodice of that incredible dress rose and fell as she switched tracks as smoothly as the V&T, appearing to take a different tact. “Finn, please,” she said in a soft voice that would have melted his insides if he trusted her. Which he didn’t. “Just twenty minutes more, and our meeting will be over, I promise.”
He stood his ground, eyes fixed on emerald eyes fringed with thick lashes instead of those deadly pink lips. Liberty O’Shea had an awful lot to learn about him if she thought she could get anywhere with feminine wiles, which galled him even more than a pushy woman. Didn’t work with Jo Beth, and it sure in the devil wasn’t going to work with the woman who’d just dragged him through the mud in the biggest newspaper in town. At least pushy women were honest—right out there with their bossy demands rather than hiding an agenda to control or manipulate. Besides, the day he’d let Liberty O’Shea win an argument was the day he’d pack up and leave town. And he wasn’t going anywhere.
Except home.
“Hate to break it to you, Miss Bell, but our meeting is over. Now.” Tucking his satchel under his arm, he looped both hands around that tiny, little waist and hiked her up in the air so fast, all he heard was the catch of her breath. Without ceremony, he plopped her down behind him, battling a grin when she squealed and wobbled like a newborn calf on mother’s milk with rum. Snatching his hat off the hook, he slapped it on his head and opened the door. “Good night, Miss Bell. See you next week.”
Slam! The door banged closed with a stiff breeze, almost taking his nose with it while a wild-eyed firecracker bonded herself to the door. “You are going to listen to me, you mule-brained skunk, if I have to nail this door shut and your shoes to the floor!”
Finn blinked, not sure whether to laugh or cry. He’d always heard redheads had volatile tempers, but he’d honestly had no idea. Although Liberty had never been what you called mild-mannered in school and certainly testier than most girls he knew, she’d never lost control like this before. It was almost like this was her own personal vendetta against the dominance of men in a society that knew little else. A battle of wills she obviously intended to win, but he had some bad news for the little spitfire.
He intended to win too.
In more ways than one.
Sparks and words were flying, but all he could do was glare, the fire in his belly slowly smoldering out of control when his gaze flicked to her lips and held. That perfectly beautiful mouth was just a yapping away, but the only thing he heard was the violent thud of his own pulse and the sound of those lips calling him home ...
“And another thing, Finn McShane,” she said, slapping her hands to her hips, “if you don’t march right back to that table and pull your load, I will not only tell the mayor, but I will tell Miss Willoughby and Mrs. Poppy as well.”
Her words suddenly registered, and he could do nothing but shake his head, shades of the old Liberty tattling to their teachers coming to mind. He grinned while he mauled the back of his neck, pretty sure he’d never meet another woman who could fire up every emotion in his body quite like her. “You know, Liberty, you may have grown up into a woman with a fancy degree, but deep down you’re still that spoiled little brat who just wants to get her own way.” He slacked a hip and folded his arms, shuttered eyes issuing one more warning. “Now we can try this all over again next week if you’re willing to behave, but I’m going home, and I suggest you do the same. Now please move.”
“Or what?” She locked her arms to her chest like him and angled a brow, apparently under the mistaken notion she had the upper hand. “You going to manhandle me again, you big bully? Well, there’s nothing you can do to get me to move except sit back down and act like a civil human being.”
“Ha! As if you would even know what that is.” He blasted out a sigh and dropped his head, hands perched low on his hips. “Okay, lady, I’m going to ask you one more time, real nice and civil-like …” He peered up beneath hooded eyes, a near smile on hi
s face. “Will you please move out of my way?”
“Nope.” She smiled and shook her head, as if quite confident he was on the thaw. She clutched her hands behind her back like a little girl about to misbehave, green eyes issuing a dare. “And you can’t make me.”
He sighed. Poor, misguided, little rich girl. “Yeah?” He pushed the brim of his hat up. “Watch me.” Hurling his satchel to the floor, he heard the catch of her breath when he struck like lightning with an arm to her waist. Jerking her close, he kissed the daylights out of her while her boots dangled in the air. Unfortunately, the moment he tasted those soft lips parted in surprise, he was struck by a little lightning of her own, electrifying every nerve in his body while his blood simmered to a dangerous boil.
When a telltale mew escaped her throat, he was helpless to contain the low moan that rose deep in his belly. Butting her to the door, he cradled her face in his hands, longing pumping through his veins as he claimed the sweetest lips he’d ever known—and he’d known plenty—completely disarmed by the scent of her skin, the soft flesh of her ear. Sure, he’d dreamed of kissing Liberty O’Shea for as long as he could remember, but he never expected this—a kiss that could surely tame his taste for all other women.
The very thought bucked like a thorn-saddled bull, and with a rush of icy mountain water surging through his veins, he dropped her to the floor like he’d been bit by a rattler. She teetered precariously—along with his heart—eyes glazed and mouth still open in shock. Mustering all the calm he owned—which was a mite low at the moment—he yanked his hat down low and reached for the knob. She bolted away like he was a grizzly fresh up from a nap, and Finn had to stifle a chuckle, tossing her a wink as he opened the door. “Told you.”
For Love of Liberty Page 7