by Cynthia Eden
A burst of noise careened out of the tavern. Both Cassandra and Sam shot alert glances toward it, but no one exited the building. As Sam continued to rake the tavern with his gaze, Cassandra could feel the waves of anger and purpose emanating from him, palpable as frost. The gentling of his expression was gone. Nothing gentle in him now.
Sam had been a soldier, a major, the last she’d heard, and still held himself with a soldier’s vigilant, capable presence. He wore civilian clothes, yet carried, she saw at that moment, an officer’s sword and wore tall military boots. The war in the Crimea ended two years ago. What had become of him since then?
“This makes no sense,” she said. “I was told….” Her words dried as he swung his gaze back to her. Even in the weak light from the tavern’s windows, she saw his eyes were the same palest blue, edged in indigo, only now his eyes did not dance with humor or mischief. They were…haunted.
“I was told,” she began again, “that you were dead.”
He stared at her with those anguished, cold eyes. And said, “I am.”
And don’t miss
THE STRANGER’S SECRETS by Beth Williamson,
available now from Brava…
The dining room was nearly bursting at the seams. There was only one unoccupied table by the time Sarah and Whitman arrived to eat. Unfortunately, it was in a corner and made for two.
“Told you to hurry,” Whitman grumbled under his breath.
Sarah couldn’t stop a very unladylike snort, again. “Next time I’ll run up the stairs and you stand at the bottom then.”
He didn’t respond, but she saw the corner of his mouth twitch, as if he was holding in a laugh. Perhaps the serious Yankee did have a sense of humor after all.
When they sat down, Sarah realized it was the first time they were face-to-face. On the train and even walking to the hotel, they’d been beside each other. Facing Whitman was an entirely different experience.
He wasn’t classically handsome, but damn, he was exactly the kind of man Sarah was attracted to. His face was angular, the late-day whiskers only added to his appeal, his nose was slightly crooked, and a few scars were scattered here and there as if he’d been wounded by small pieces of something.
But it was his eyes that captured her attention. Deep, green, and framed by those long eyelashes, Whitman had the sexiest gaze she’d ever seen. Fortunately or unfortunately, she felt a tug of sensual awareness just looking at the tousled chocolate locks above those eyes.
Hell and crackers.
He frowned. “Why are you scowling at me?”
“I’m not scowling.” She fiddled with the fork and knife on the table while hoping the missing waitress would appear to save her from the awkward situation.
Damn Mavis Ledbetter. The woman was over by the window with that same gentleman, completely ignoring the fact she’d been paid to take care of Sarah. Whit had been right—she was going to fire Mavis and leave her in whatever town this was.
“She looks to be a spinster.” Whit followed Sarah’s gaze. “Looks as if she hasn’t given up the quest for a husband, though.”
“She spent so much time declaring she was a spinster, she kept most men away from her.” Sarah frowned at Mavis. “Nobody in town wanted anything to do with her because of her reputation.”
“You’re from the same town then?”
His question was one anyone in polite company would ask, but Sarah found herself unwilling to answer any personal questions. So she decided to insult him to keep him disliking her. “You’re nosy.”
“You’re rude.”
“You’re pushy.”
He barked a laugh. “And you’re refreshingly honest.”
Sarah found herself holding back a chuckle. What was it about this annoying Yankee that set her on her head? Aside from being handsome, there wasn’t anything else remarkable about him. She needed to figure out his appeal so she could combat it and keep her distance, at least as much as she could, considering they were going to be stuck in a train compartment together for fifteen hundred miles.
“Then you won’t mind if I continue being honest.”
He nodded. “I wouldn’t expect any less.”
Why in the hell did that make Sarah’s heart thump like a bass drum? Back home, when she ate a meal, it was with her friends, a group where everyone chatted and relaxed. Sitting with Whit made her feel jumpy and awkward—a condition Sarah was definitely not used to.
“You make me uncomfortable,” she blurted.
His eyebrows went up. “I do?”
Now that she’d gone down that path, she had to finish her thought. “I’m sure you’ve heard the song before, Mr. Kendrick, but Yankees aren’t high on my list of favorite folks, much less one I have to rely on. It’s going to take some time for me to ah, adjust, so if you can, be patient with me.”
Whit nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
She didn’t want to demand anything from the man. After all, there was no reason for him to help her. His actions told her more than anything that he was a gentleman. “When life kicks you once, you get back up and move on. When life kicks you a dozen times, you’re less willing to forgive and trust.” That was as far as she planned on going with that train of thought. He seemed like a sharp guy and could likely understand why she felt uncomfortable.
“Don’t worry. I won’t give you any cause to kick me back. I promise.” The sincerity in his gaze made her want to believe him.
Ridiculous, of course. Why should she trust a stranger? She had to rely on him to be her companion, however that would turn out. Yet expecting him to carry her bags was a far cry from trusting him with her life. Sarah could take care of herself, for the most part anyway, and she regretted the fact she couldn’t do it all the time.
“Good, because I bite when I kick.” She fought back a grin.
“Somehow that doesn’t surprise me in the least.” He smiled at the waitress as she approached the table.
The young blond thing sparkled like a new penny when she caught sight of Whitman. Sarah wanted to trip her with the cane.
“Good evening, sir. Can I fetch you something to drink? Or an order of meatloaf? It’s the best in the county.” The young woman smiled while her face flushed.
Sarah harrumphed at the obvious tactics the girl used. “I’d like some of that meatloaf and hot coffee.”
The girl looked surprised to see Sarah sitting there.
“I’m sure Mr. Kendrick here will have the same thing.” Sarah shot Whitman a challenging look, daring him to contradict her.
“Meatloaf and coffee would be lovely. Thank you, miss.” He graced the girl with another smile, sending her scurrying to the kitchen.
At least the food would arrive quickly considering the girl was already enamored of Whitman.
“Are you always this honest?” Whit picked up the spoon in front of him.
“Yes, I am. Does it bother you?” Sarah was ready to show him just how forceful she could be with her words.
“Not at all.” He breathed on the spoon and stuck it on the end of his nose. Sarah almost choked on her spit as she watched a grown man play at a child’s trick. What the hell was he doing?
When he smiled, the force of it snatched Sarah’s breath. She could do nothing but look at the grin behind the spoon and wonder if she’d stepped into a dream of her own twisted mind. He was beautiful, a Yankee, and charming as all hell.
Sarah was afraid she’d lose more than her spoon to Whitman Kendrick.
Here’s a sneak peek at Donna Kauffman’s
HERE COMES TROUBLE,
out next month from Brava!
The hot, steamy shower felt like heaven on earth as it pounded his back and neck. He should have done this earlier. It was almost better than sleep. Almost. He’d realized after Kirby had left that he’d probably only grabbed a few hours after arriving, and he’d fully expected to be out the instant his head hit the pillow again. But that hadn’t been the case. This time it hadn’t been because he was worr
ied about Dan, or Vanetta, or anyone else back home, or even wondering what in the hell he thought he was doing this far from the desert. In New England, for God’s sake. During the winter. Although it didn’t appear to be much of one out there.
No, that blame lay right on the lovely, slender shoulders of Kirby Farrell, innkeeper, and rescuer of trapped kittens. Granted, after the adrenaline rush of finding her hanging more than twenty feet off the ground by her fingertips, it shouldn’t be surprising that sleep eluded him, but that wasn’t entirely the cause. Maybe he’d simply spent too long around women who were generally over-processed, over-enhanced, and overly made up, so that meeting a regular, everyday ordinary woman seemed to stand out more.
It was a safe theory, anyway.
And yet, after only a few hours under her roof, he’d already become a foster dad to a wild kitten and had spent far more time thinking about said kitten’s savior than he had his own host of problems.
Maybe it was simply easier to think about someone else’s situation. Which would explain why he was wondering about things like whether or not Kirby was making a go of things with her new enterprise here, what with the complete lack of winter weather they were having. And what her story was before opening the inn? Was this place a lifelong dream? For all he knew, she was some New England trust fund baby just playing at running her own place. Except that didn’t jibe with what he’d seen of her so far.
He’d been so lost in his thoughts while enjoying the rejuvenation of the hot shower, that he clearly hadn’t heard his foster child’s entrance into the bathroom. Which was why he almost had a heart attack when he turned around to find the little demon hanging from the outside of the clear shower curtain by it’s tiny, sharp nails, eyes wide in panic.
After his heart resumed a steady pace, he bent down to look at her, eye-to-wild-eye. “You keep climbing things you shouldn’t and one day there will be no one to rescue you.”
He was sure the responding hiss was meant to be ferocious and intimidating, but given the pink-nosed, tiny-whiskered face it came out of, not so much. She hissed again when he just grinned, and started grappling with the curtain when he outright laughed, mangling it in the process.
He swore under his breath. “So, I’m already down one sweater, a shower curtain, and God knows what else you’ve dragged under the bed. I should just let you hang there all tangled up. At least I know where you are.”
However, given that the tiny thing had already had one pretty big fright that day, he sighed, shut off the hot, life-giving spray, and very carefully reached out for a towel. After a quick rubdown, he wrapped the towel around his hips, eased out from the other end of the shower, and grabbed a hand towel. “We’ll probably be adding this to my tab, as well.” He doubted Kirby’s guests would appreciate a bath towel that had doubled as a kitty straightjacket.
“Come on,” he said, doing pretty much the same thing he’d done when the kitten had been attached to the front of Kirby. “I know you’re not happy about it,” he told the now squalling cat. “I’m not all that amped up, either.” He looked at the shredded curtain once he’d de-pronged the demon from the front of it, and shuddered to think of just how much damage it had done to the front of Kirby.
“Question is…what do I do with you now?”
Just then a light tap came on the door. “Mr. Hennessey?”
“Brett,” he called back.
“I…Brett. Right. I called. But there was no answer, so—”
“Oh, shower. Sorry.” He walked over to the door, juggled the kitty bundle and cracked the door open.
Her gaze fixed on his chest, then scooted down to the squirming towel bundle, right back up to his chest, briefly to his face, then away all together. “I’m—sorry. I just, you said…and dinner is—anyway—” She frowned. “You didn’t take the cat, you know, into—” She nodded toward the room behind him. “Did something happen?”
“I was in the shower. Shredder here decided to climb the curtain because apparently she’s not happy unless she’s trying to find new ways to terrify people.”
He glanced from the kitten to Kirby’s face in time to see her almost laugh, then compose herself. “I’m sorry, really. I shouldn’t have let you keep her in the first place. I mean, not that you can’t, but you obviously didn’t come here to rescue a kitten. I should—we should—just leave you alone.” She reached out to take the squirmy bundle from him.
“Does that mean I don’t get dinner?”
“What?” She looked up, got caught somewhere about chest height, then finally looked at his face. “I mean, no, no, not at all. I just—I hope you didn’t have your heart set on pot roast. There were a few…kitchen issues. Minor, really, but—”
“I’m not picky,” he reassured her. What he was, he realized, was starving. And not just for dinner. If she kept looking at him like that…well, it was making him want to feed an entirely different kind of appetite. In fact…He shut that mental path down. His life, such as it was, didn’t have room for further complications. And she’d be one. Hell, she already was. “I shouldn’t have gotten you to cook anyway. You’ve had quite a day, and given what The Claw here did to your—my—shower curtain—I’ll pay for a new one—I can only imagine that you must need more medical attention than I realized.”
“Don’t worry about that, I’m fine. Here,” she said, reaching out for the wriggling towel bundle. “Why don’t I go ahead and take her off your hands. I can put her out on the back porch for a bit, let you get, uh, dressed.”
Really, she had to stop looking at him like that. Like he was a…a pot roast or something. With gravy. And potatoes. Damn he was really hungry. Voraciously so. Did she have any idea how long he’d been on the road? With only himself and the sound of the wind for company? Actually, it had been far longer than that, but he really didn’t need to acknowledge that right about now.
Then she was reaching for him, and he was right at that point where he was going to say the hell with it and drag her into the room and the hell with dinner, too…only she wasn’t reaching for him. She was reaching for the damn kitten. He sort of shoved it into her hands, then shifted so a little more of the door was between them…and a little less of a view of the front of his towel. Which was in a rather revealing situation at the moment.
“Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate it. I’ll go down—be down—in just a few minutes.” He really needed to shut this door. Before he made her nervous. Or worse. I mean, sure, she was looking at him like he was her last supper, but that didn’t mean she was open to being ogled in return by a paying guest. Especially when he was the only paying guest in residence. Even if that did mean they had the house to themselves. And privacy. Lots and lots of privacy. “Five minutes,” he blurted, and all but slammed the door in her face.
Crap, if Dan could see him at the moment, he’d be laughing his damn ass off. As would most of Vegas. Not only did Brett happen to play high stakes poker pretty well, but the supporters and promoters seemed to think he was also a draw because of his looks. And no, he wasn’t blind, he knew he’d been relatively blessed, genetically speaking, for which he was grateful. No one would choose to be ugly. A least he wouldn’t think so.
But while the looks had come naturally, that whole bad boy, cocky attitude vibe that was supposed to go with it had not. Not that he was shy. Exactly.
He was confident in his abilities, what they were, and why they weren’t. But confidence was one thing. Arrogance another. And just because women threw themselves at him, didn’t mean he was comfortable catching them. Mostly due to the fact that he was well aware that women weren’t throwing themselves at him because of who he was. But because of what he was. Some kind of quasi-poker rock star. They were batting eyelashes, thrusting cleavage, and passing phone numbers and room keys because of his fame, his fortune, his ability to score freebies from hotels and sponsors, and, somewhere on that list, probably his looks weren’t hurting him, either.
Nowhere on the list, however, did it appear
that getting to know the guy behind the deck of cards and the stacks of chips was of any remote interest.
And there lay the irony.
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Copyright © 2010 Cindy Roussos
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