“I told you, they’re being laundered.”
“I said—”
A sound at the door interrupted his response, and Drew looked up to see a slight, middle-aged man carrying a black bag.
Tricia felt her heart sink. She had not intended her first conversation with the man in the bed to escalate into anger, but her reaction had been spontaneous. In hindsight, she realized that he must be bitter at the loss of a cause for which he had been wounded and had doubtless seen friends die. She supposed she couldn’t blame him. She supposed she needed to be more patient.
Tricia looked at the big fellow, who glanced back at her contemptuously, and her anger flared anew.
Patience had never been one of her strengths.
Dr. Wesley walked to his patient’s bedside and said, “My name is Dr. Wesley, and if I don’t miss my guess, your temperature is just about normal this morning.” Turning back to glance at her, he continued, “It looks like you made a real difference last night, Tricia.”
The sick man’s eyes jerked briefly toward her as Dr. Wesley touched his forehead and nodded. He appeared to listen intently as the doctor worked at his bedside. “You know my name,” Dr. Wesley went on, “but I don’t know yours.”
“Drew.” There was a pause. “Drew . . . Collins.”
“Coming home from the war, are you, Drew?”
A nod was the response.
“Well, if I’m to judge by the change in your condition this morning, I’d say you can be on your way in a week or more.”
“A week!” Drew Collins shook his head. “I’m leaving here today.”
Dr. Wesley looked down at him sharply. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
Dr. Wesley hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “Well, I guess you could try.”
The big man’s gaze darkened. “Meaning?”
“Meaning you wouldn’t get far. Whether you realize it or not, that leg is as weak as a kitten’s right now. It wouldn’t support you any farther than the stairs.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Another ‘whether you know it or not’ is that the infection you’ve been ignoring has started to spread, which accounts for your fever. You’re just lucky this young lady decided to make you her patient last night, or you might not be in the shape you’re in this morning. The infection has the upper hand right now. I told Tricia last night that if it didn’t subside, you could lose your leg, and that situation hasn’t changed.”
Drew Collins’s mouth tightened almost imperceptibly as he replied, “Yes, it has.”
“My dear fellow—”
Interrupting the doctor without hesitation, Drew said, “Look, Doc, I appreciate all you did for me, but I can take it from here. And like I said, I’m leaving today.”
“Fine.” The room was uncomfortably silent as Dr. Wesley worked over the wound. Abruptly smiling, the graying doctor said, “Well, I’ve removed the poultice and changed the bandage on your leg, and that’s about all I can do for you right now. I’ll leave some packets of medicine for you to take. Just don’t expect too much from me the next time you collapse, wherever that is.”
Tricia stared at Dr. Wesley openmouthed for long seconds before saying, “You can’t mean that, Doctor.” Ignoring the sick man’s glance, she continued, “You can’t be agreeing to allow this man to leave yet. You know how badly infected his leg is.”
“I don’t see as how I can stop him if that’s what he intends to do. You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink, Tricia. I learned the truth in that adage a long time ago. Some people have to learn the hard way. Like I said, the packets are on the nightstand, and I’m on my way to another patient.” Hesitating at Tricia’s stunned expression, Dr. Wesley said more softly, “You know where to find me if you need me.”
The door had barely closed behind Dr. Wesley when a deep voice from the bed behind her ordered, “Bring me my pants.”
Her name was Tricia.
Drew watched as the beautiful blond woman walked back into his room with her jaw tight. As strange as it seemed, she hadn’t introduced herself to him or even asked his name. In fact, she had said very little to him after Dr. Wesley left. He knew she was angry, but he wasn’t sure of the reason.
Admittedly, his own reaction to her was somewhat confused. She had obviously spent a considerable part of the night tending to his wound, but she had done the same for Yankee soldiers during the war. The image of the consolation she had afforded men who might have taken the lives of his friends infuriated him. Yet the sight of her evoked a yearning inside him that gained strength with every moment.
Drew attempted to ignore the throbbing in his leg as Tricia placed his laundered pants on the bed beside him and stood there without saying a word. He realized that she didn’t intend to move in order to allow him privacy in dressing.
Drew was almost amused at his own foolishness. Of course . . . he should have realized. He was in a bordello, wasn’t he? No matter how angelic-looking this Tricia was, she was not new to the sight of a man in the altogether or in short clothes.
Refusing to admit how much that thought disturbed him, Drew reached for his pants. Whatever the case, he needed to get out of there. Too many Yankees walked the streets of Galveston and perhaps frequented this establishment. Despite the fact that he’d had the presence of mind to lie about his name when asked, he was a wanted man, and he had learned the hard way that Yankees were not fools. They would discover who he was sooner or later.
Aware that Tricia was still staring at him, Drew threw back the coverlet and dropped his legs over the side of the bed. More light-headed than he had expected, he sat there for a few moments, his expression darkening with his mood. Then he stood up to reach for his shirt. He slid his arms into the sleeves with every bone in his body aching, and clumsily fastened the buttons. He stepped into his pants and was perspiring profusely when he finally managed to pull the garment up to his waist. Seeing that Tricia made no attempt to look away, he boldly buttoned his fly as he held her gaze. He noted the flush that colored her face, and he felt a familiar heat unrelated to fever.
Drew attempted to deny his stomach’s churning when he finished pulling on his boots. He ignored the flash of vertigo as he buckled on his gunbelt. He was hot and sweaty, his fingers refusing to cooperate as he tied his neckerchief and then reached for his hat.
Speaking for the first time when he turned toward the door, Tricia said, “You’re making a mistake.”
He wanted to tell her he knew that was true, but not for the reason she thought. He wanted to say that he didn’t want to leave—not yet. He wanted to admit to her that despite her sympathy for the men who were his enemies, despite whatever reason she had for coming South and putting a price on her beauty, he would have spent his last penny to have her—because he wanted her more than any other woman he’d ever known.
But reality intruded.
Aware that his physical condition was growing more desperate by the moment, Drew limped toward the door.
He did not turn back as she repeated, “You’re making a mistake.”
Somehow he wished she had said more.
Her throat tight, Tricia watched while Drew attempted to minimize his limp as he walked out into the hallway. The moments just past had shaken her. She had not felt even a touch of embarrassment as she had watched him dress . . . as he had slid his powerful arms into his shirt and buttoned it across his chest with fumbling fingers . . . as he had thrust his long, muscular legs into the Confederate gray of his pants while concealing his pain. She remembered that he had looked intently into her eyes as he had boldly buttoned the closure on his trousers. She recalled the feelings that had sprung to life inside her, unnamed feelings that had raised a flush to her cheeks—feelings that had left her somehow empty and incomplete when he had turned to grasp his gunbelt and secure it around his hips.
She had been desperate when he turned toward the door, and she had called out, “You’re making a mistake.”
Her eyes grew moist when it suddenly became startlingly clear in her mind that her warning had had nothing to do with the condition of his infected leg.
She followed his unsteady progress down the stairs toward the front door.
She held her breath when he drew it open.
She gasped when he hesitated, then collapsed heavily on the doorstep.
Chapter Four
“I told you the last time you came that I didn’t want you to come here again!”
Seething, Simon pulled Angie inside the door of his mansion. It was late, and his very respectable doorstep was all but invisible from the street at that time of night; there was little possibility that anyone had seen Angie there. Even his servants were asleep—but Angie had known full well how angry her coming would make him. He had lost control and had punished her on the spot the last time, in the most intimate of ways—the only way a woman like Angie was capable of understanding—but that seemed to have made little difference.
It occurred to him that Angie’s arrival at his mansion tonight was her way of evening the score with him. That thought was more dangerous for the dissolute whore than she could possibly realize.
Simon pulled Angie into his study and closed the door quietly behind them while maintaining control by sheer strength of will. He had had a long, difficult day. The situation with the consortium had taken an unexpected turn. A few of the men were smarter than he had thought. They were holding out against his advice, trying to convince others that steps were needed to ensure Galveston’s future, that Galveston’s natural harbor did not assure its commercial success. He had smiled at Jonathan Grimel when the distinguished fool formally asked the consortium to consider that concern. Simon had pretended amusement at the supposedly preposterous thought, while inwardly he had raged.
Angie’s arrival threatened the respectability that was so important to his plans at this time—and she knew it.
Making no attempt to hide his foul mood, he addressed Angie hotly.
“All right, tell me why you’re here. I warn you, it had better be good.”
Testing the limits of his patience, Angie replied with deliberate evasiveness, “I suppose that means you’re not flattered that I came looking for you when I could be sleeping in my fine little room instead.”
“Your fine little room,” Simon sneered. “You mean the room where you’ll take on any and every man who shows up on Chantalle’s doorstep, and where you’re never truly satisfied until I visit you?”
Angie shrugged a sultry shoulder, allowing her neckline to gape in a way that displayed her breasts enticingly. “There’s some truth to that.”
Bitch . . . she was baiting him.
His flushed expression revealing more than he wished, Simon said, “Out with it! Why are you here?”
“You insinuated you’d be interested in knowing more about Chantalle’s daughter and that fella she’s been keeping all to herself at the house. I found out the name he uses.”
Angie halted, waiting for his response. He struggled for control as he said, “Well? What is it?”
“He calls himself Drew Collins.”
“Collins.”
“He’s still sick, according to the perfect Miss Tricia, but I have my doubts about that.”
“Meaning?”
“Something’s wrong there. That big fella was in too much of a rush to get out of that bed when he woke up yesterday. He was lucid—for the first time, to hear Tricia tell it—and he immediately tried to leave the house. It was almost like something or somebody was chasing him.”
“Is that right?”
“Staying alone in that room with Miss Perfect all night didn’t seem to make a difference, and I’m thinking either she wasn’t too good at entertaining him or he was too busy looking over his shoulder to linger any longer.”
“And you know all this because . . . ?”
Angie moved her body in a sinuous way that tugged at Simon’s groin as she said, “Because you pay me well for information . . . but mostly because I like to please you.”
Resenting the effect the worthless whore had on him, Simon gave a scoffing snort. “You like to please me? I suppose that’s why you came here when I told you I never wanted to see you on my doorstep again. No . . . you don’t fool me.” Simon closed the distance between them so swiftly that Angie did not have time to retreat. Gripping her hair cruelly, he hissed, “Stupid—that’s what you are if you expect me to believe you! I pay you well, and that’s the only reason you do my bidding.”
He drew her closer, his grip tightening painfully. He felt her heart pounding against his chest as he amended hotly, “No, that’s not right. You want me in a way you don’t want any other man. You hate yourself for it, but you came here tonight thinking you’d tease me into taking you again. But I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to satisfy you. I’m going to send you home wanting, Angie, with only material payment to soothe your carnal needs.”
Releasing her so abruptly that Angie staggered a few steps backward, Simon was keenly aware that the greedy whore read his weaknesses well. For all his bravado, he felt an overwhelming desire to throw her across the fifteenth-century marble-topped chest he was so proud of, so he could take her just as he had once before. Instead, he moved back to his desk, removed a wad of bills from a drawer, and threw it at Angie. He watched her for a few moments as she stood breathing heavily, then ordered, “Pick them up. That’s all you’re going to get from me tonight.”
Waiting until she scrambled for the bills, Simon added, “But your work for me isn’t done. I have a job for you. Drew Collins carries a ring in his money pouch. It’s damaged, but it has some sort of crest with a sailing ship and a Latin motto partially visible on it. I want you to find out where he got it. I need to know. But don’t come back here with the information. If you do, you’ll receive payment of a far different kind than you’re expecting.”
The money clutched in her hand, Angie stood shaken and trembling when Simon added slowly, “You serve a very important purpose for me, Angie. Don’t spoil it. I’ll keep in touch. If you have something to tell me in the meantime, find another way to contact me.” He paused to add succinctly, “Your life may depend on it.”
Simon led Angie to the rear door of the mansion, aware that she was shaking. Whether it was with fear or unsated desire, he could not be sure, but that was the way he wanted it.
No, she’d never come to his house again.
Simon closed the door quietly behind Angie. He locked it firmly, and then paused in the darkness to further consider what she had told him. So the bastard said his name was Drew Collins. He had the same given name as Harold Hawk’s younger son. Coincidence? He doubted it, but he needed to be sure so he could take care of this particularly vulnerable fellow and be certain that this Hawk would be the last one to return to Galveston.
Angie would get the confirmation he needed. With the younger Hawk son taken care of, he could eliminate the others, one by one.
He looked forward to it.
“I brought you something to eat.”
Drew did not respond as Tricia entered the room with a tray in hand. Neither did he smile. He didn’t like being stuck in bed, helpless because of a debility that he was unable to dismiss any longer. He knew that with every moment he remained in a city overrun by Yankees, the danger of being recognized increased.
But that wasn’t his present problem.
Drew watched as Tricia placed the tray with a bowl of broth on the bed stand beside him. It irritated him that despite the pain in his leg, her fragrance assaulted his senses and her presence alerted him to a part of himself that he had difficulty ignoring.
Morning sunlight streamed into the room as Drew stared at Tricia’s turned back. She wasn’t wearing the blue dressing gown. Instead, she was wearing a plain, tan cotton dress. Her long blond hair was twisted into a conservative bun at the back of her neck, where a few escaping tendrils fell loose to remind him of its glittering glory.
But she was still beautiful.
And he still wanted her.
Drew’s mouth twitched as desire expanded inside him. He wanted to sense her lips softening under his, to feel them part to allow the gentle exploration of his tongue, to taste the sweetness of her mouth. He yearned to draw her down onto the bed beside him so he could indulge the emotions running riot inside him—so he could prove to himself that she wasn’t an angel after all, that she was flesh and blood and—
Drew halted the heated progression of his thoughts with sheer strength of will. Rationally, he told himself that the last trace of fever still haunting him was at fault and that his hunger for this young woman would fade when he was well again—but he knew better. There was only one way to ease what he was feeling.
Drew pulled himself to a seated position in bed. A day had passed since he had attempted to leave the bordello with disastrous results. He had spent another night in the gaudy room with the sound of male footsteps and female giggles echoing in his dreams—and with the angel in blue at his side.
During that time, he had learned through snatches of conversation overheard at the doorway that Tricia Lee Shepherd was not the woman he had thought her to be. She was the madam’s daughter, who had only recently returned from up North and she did not participate in the services of the house. Dr. Wesley, obviously prejudiced in her behalf, had rambled on about her, extolling her virtues as he tended Drew’s leg. Drew had not bothered to reply that his angel had merely returned to her roots.
Tricia turned back toward him, the gold flecks in her clear eyes sending heat shooting through him as she said, “You should eat something so you can maintain your strength.”
He replied gruffly, “I’m strong enough.”
“But you’re hungry.”
He was hungry, all right.
“Mr. Collins . . .”
Revealing seconds passed before Drew realized she was addressing him, and he said abruptly, “My name is Drew.”
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