Lips That Touch Mine

by Wendy Lindstrom

  "You shouldn't have left the house alone. I'll take you home."

  "Anna knows I'm here." She pressed her hands to his chest to stop him from stepping around her. "I'm not leaving until I experience a night in a saloon."

  He laughed. "Don't be ridiculous."

  Her chin shot up and she glared at him. "Don't insult me. I've made my position on intemperance specific and clear, but you've never shown me one reason to support your view. Show me now." She retrieved the whiskey bottle and held it out to him. "Convince me to stop marching for temperance. "

  Her eyes sparkled with challenge. He'd rather kiss her than drink whiskey, but she was so sincere in her quest that he couldn't turn her away.

  He exchanged the whiskey for a jug of wine. "What do you want to know?" he asked, filling two glasses.

  "What do you do here? What do you talk about? What attracts men to alcohol? Why do you like being here?"

  He handed her a glass. "This could take a while."

  "I've got all night." To his shock, she lifted her glass and drained it. Her face pruned, her eyes squinted, and her body quivered in reaction.

  He burst into laughter. "You were supposed to sip that."

  She clutched her stomach and leaned against the bar. "I wish I would have."

  He laughed again and gestured for her to follow him. "Come on." He took the bottle of wine, rounded the bar, and nodded for her to sit beside him. "Relax. That's what most men come here to do."

  She took off her coat and laid it over the bar, then perched her perfectly rounded bottom on the edge of a barstool.

  "They can do that in their parlors with their families," she said.

  He filled their glasses, then braced his elbow on the bar.

  "When a man sits in his parlor, he thinks of all the unfinished chores he should be doing, or the attention he should be giving his wife and children, or the neighbor he should be helping. When he sits in a saloon, he doesn't have his family or his fields to remind him of his duties and obligations."

  "That's exactly why I'm fighting to close these places," She lowered her half empty glass to the bar. "His family needs him at home, or in the fields, or anyplace that supports them. Your saloon merely tempts him away from his commitments. "

  "That's not true."

  "It is." She finished her drink then reached for the wine bottle.

  He grabbed the neck and stopped her. "If you don't want to be sick, I would suggest you pass."

  "I'm perfectly capable of drinking wine with you."

  "I agree, but not at my pace, and definitely not double my pace."

  "I didn't come here for a lecture. I'm here to learn about this life. I intend to experience all the sin and vice your saloon has to offer."

  "Darling, you couldn't sustain the shock."

  Something dark flickered in her eyes. "You have no idea what I can endure."

  It dawned on him that he wasn't talking to a virgin, but rather an experienced widow, who understood the layers of their conversation. She was daring him to treat her as his equal, to test her intelligence and grit.

  "Are you certain you can handle the education, Claire?"

  "Quite." She tugged on the bottle. "Go ahead and indulge all your bad habits. You can pretend I'm a man for the evening."

  The wine had gone straight to her head. It must have. Even during his worst drunk he couldn't mistake her for a man.

  But she was interesting with her guard down and her dander up. The scruples and secrets she used as a shield had been washed away by her first glass of wine. It would be interesting to see what another few ounces would wash away.

  He took the bottle from her, then filled her glass. "Sip that one," he instructed, then placed the bottle out of her reach. She teetered on her chair, and he frowned. "Sit back and put your feet on that rail." He pointed to a brass rail attached to the bar, eight inches off the floor.

  She slid back on the stool and propped her feet on the rail. "That's a definite improvement. Now, if the rail were heated, I could be quite content to sit here and warm my feet for a spell.

  "Only a woman would think of something like that." He patted his thigh. "Lean back and put your feet up here."

  She glanced at him. "Now you're being ridiculous."

  "I'm just offering to warm your feet. There's no one here to tell you it's improper. Now put them up here—unless you've changed your mind about sin and vice and want me to take you home."

  She hesitated, then lifted her chin and swung her knees toward him. "Fine."

  He slid his chair back to allow her to stretch out her legs. She put her feet in his lap but eyed him warily while he unlaced her boots and pulled them off. He dropped her boots on the floor then slipped his palms over her cold feet.

  "Mmmm...that's good." Her eyes widened. "I mean, the wine is good."

  He grinned. "Of course."

  "I was trying to make a point." Her brow furrowed as if she were searching for the thread of their conversation.

  He nearly laughed, but bit his lip. "We were talking about why the men come to my saloon."

  "Right." She sloshed the burgundy wine in her glass. "So why do they?"

  "For camaraderie."

  "Oh..."

  Her shivery moan sent blood singing through his veins. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to start nibbling at her slender ankles and kiss all the way up her sleek, long legs until he reached the apex of her thighs. And then...

  "Those men can find companionship at home with their wives," she said, her chin lifted in challenge.

  "What?"

  "Those men should give their wives more credit."

  "Oh. Right." Now he was fighting to keep his mind on subject. "My saloon isn't meant to draw men away from their families or responsibilities, Claire. They also come here to seek information to help with their crops and businesses."

  She frowned. "Do you expect me to believe that?"

  "It's true. Some men want to play a game or two of billiards after sweating in a factory all day." He shrugged. "They come to saloons for all sorts of reasons."

  "Why do they come to your saloon?" She glanced around the room then looked at him. "The bar is beautiful, but I can't believe they come for the decor. What draws them here?" His gut reaction was to swing the conversation to another topic like making love, but he could sense her sincerity, her honest desire to understand what this place meant to him and his patrons. And she was starting to relax. The tension had drained from her shoulders, and the frown lines between her eyebrows had dissolved. She probably didn't even realize she was flexing her feet beneath his fingers or emitting small sighs that were boiling his blood.

  "It's a refuge to most of us." He watched her intently to see if she would scoff.

  "From what?" she asked, her expression openly curious.

  "Responsibility, I guess." He struggled silently for a way to explain. "Men carry a financial burden on their backs all day. In hard times, it's damned heavy. Sometimes a man just needs a place where he can blow off steam before it builds into something ugly."

  "We have a place. Or...we will soon. We've been raising money for a public parlor where men can go instead of...here."

  How ridiculous. What man would want to frequent a place like that? Boyd wouldn't. Perhaps the men who'd signed the temperance pledge would use the room. But why? For what?

  She lowered her lashes as if she knew the idea was ridiculous and that it would never replace the saloons. "We're thinking of providing food and a place to read or play games." She peeked from beneath her golden lashes. "The men could meet women there, too."

  Women? Ah, hell. Any sane, unmarried man would jump at the opportunity to meet women in a social setting like that. If the women got behind this, their public parlor just might work. But not for long. Once the boys met the available girls, and married, they would head right back to his saloon.

  He smiled because she seemed so hopeful, and he didn't have the heart to tell her it wouldn't work. "I'm sure the men will
appreciate having an option."

  "It's not meant to be an option."

  "I see. Well, I guess I'll have to work harder to convince you to stop trying to close my saloon." He gave her toes a light squeeze. He had to get his hands off her before he slid them up her legs and gave her all the sin and vice she could handle. "Let's see if you have the daring to learn how to play billiards."

  She toasted him with her glass then took a healthy swallow. "This is really quite lovely." She slid off the barstool in a rather loose-jointed manner, then swung her glass toward the billiard table. "Lead on."

  "Would you like some help with your boots?"

  She pressed her palm to the front of her dress. Her toes peeped out from beneath the heavy blueberry-colored velvet. "I think I'll leave them off. This seems like the perfect opportunity to let my hair down."

  He grinned. "Claire, darling, I'm really beginning to like you."

  She returned his smile, warm and open. "Our friendship is rather...unexpected, isn't it?"

  They were more than friends, but it was enough for the time being.

  Sailor scrambled from beneath the table and butted his nose against her legs. She knelt and hugged his spotted head to her cheek. "The Ormands have found a house and will be leaving in the morning, so you can come visit me again."

  "That will improve his life—and mine—considerably," Boyd said. "Sailor's been irritating the hell out of me."

  "Good for you, Sailor." She giggled and kissed the dog's head. "I need all the help I can get." The dog stretched and gave a huge tongue-curling yawn that made her laugh.

  Boyd watched her play with his dog, enjoying her new, uninhibited side. Sailor wheezed and pushed against her, making her wobble. Boyd caught her elbow and pulled her to her feet.

  "You've ruined my dog," he said.

  "I'm just teaching him how to treat a lady."

  "That was supposed to be my job."

  "Sailor's better for my intervention." Claire finished her wine, then licked her lips and grinned up at him. "After that first swallow it goes down easy. Should I get the bottle?"

  "Absolutely not." He handed her a billiard stick. "You won't be able to play if you drink too much."

  "I feel fine. In fact, better than ever." She spread her arms and winced. "Well, almost fine."

  He nodded toward her shoulder. "Is it causing you much pain?"

  "Surprisingly, no. It is sore, and ugly, but the doctor says it should heal quickly." She set her glass on the edge of the table and pointed her stick at a corner pocket. "Do we just whack the balls into those holes?"

  "Sort of." He moved her glass to the shelf that ran the length of the west wall. "You hit this cue ball into one of those balls to direct it into a pocket. Like this," he said, leaning over the table.

  Years of playing made the move fluid, but he tried to slow it down for Claire's sake. The cue ball sent the nine ball in a forty-five degree angle where it dropped into the pocket with a thunk.

  She studied the table, her eyes wide with wonder. "You weren't even aiming in that direction."

  He showed her how to direct the balls. "We'll play fifteen-ball. The object is to sink the highest numbered balls in any of those six pockets. The first person to reach sixty-one points wins."

  "Can I hit one?"

  "Of course. Take several shots until you get the feel of it."

  On her first shot, her stick lifted out of her fingers.

  "Hold it like this." He took the stick and demonstrated for her, then handed it back.

  She adjusted her grip, but her aim was bad.

  "Stay there." He placed his hand on her back to keep her bent over the table. Two thoughts raced through his mind as he stared at her rounded behind, but he chose the safer course of action and put his arms around her shoulders. "I'm going to show you how to eye this up."

  To his surprise, she didn't tense up or pull away. With a happy yip, Sailor nosed up against them.

  "Not this time, pal. Go lie down." Boyd nudged him away with his knee. Sailor trotted to the stove and flopped down with a huff.

  "Keep the stick loose in your grip," Boyd said, turning back to his lesson with an eagerness that shamed him.

  "Like this?" Claire sawed the stick between her slender fingers, driving him mad, making him cap his hand over hers. Her hands felt cool, but her hip burned hot against his thigh.

  He gulped a breath and focused on the table. "Imagine a straight line from that corner pocket through the center of that green ball." He touched the tip of her stick to the ball. "You want the cue ball to hit this ball right here."

  "All right." She drew the stick back with a quick jerk, but he stopped her hand.

  "The motion should be smooth most of the time." He moved the stick across her fingers in a slow are, cursing his train of thought that circled his roguish mind on one damned track. Her beautiful body. In his bed. "Easy," he said, speaking to both himself and Claire. "Like this."

  She turned her head, putting her face within inches of his. "Like a bow across violin strings." The wine brought a pink flush to her cheeks and made her eyes sparkle.

  "I've never thought about it that way," he said, battling the urge to kiss her. "But it has merit."

  "It's like an art."

  She was art. Graceful, glowing, beautiful. He wanted to smooth his palms over the peaks and valleys of her body, to learn her shape, to feel the grain of muscle and tendon along her bones, the texture of her skin. He wanted to tighten his arms around her and taste the skin where her neck and shoulder met, let her scent fill his nostrils like fresh-cut pine.

  "Can I try it now?" she asked.

  He forced himself to step back. "Line it up before you shoot."

  She squinted at the ball, drew her stick back, then pushed it forward with an admirably smooth stroke. The second ball hit the edge of the pocket and rolled back onto the table.

  Her eyebrows lowered in concentration as she lined up another shot. Five minutes or more passed while she pushed the ball around the table, giving Boyd time to tamp down his wayward thoughts. Finally, she sank it in the corner pocket.

  "I did it." Her eyes were filled with such surprised delight, he laughed. Sailor raised his head and gave her a wide grin.

  "Stay," Boyd ordered, knowing the dog was on the brink of lunging to his feet to plaster Claire with affection. He didn't blame the dog. He wanted to plaster her with affection too.

  "Can I shoot another one?" she asked.

  "Of course." He nodded toward the table. "Hit a few more, then we'll play a game."

  He watched while she bent over the table, maneuvering her graceful body to accommodate her sore shoulder, moving the stick to make a shot. She missed often, but wouldn't give up until she'd sunk the ball. What she lacked in skill, she made up for with determination. He could watch her for hours.

  After she'd dropped the last ball, she stood up and braced her hand on the table. "I'm ready." she said, giving him a bright, self-assured smile.

  He bit his lip to stop his grin. Her slight imbalance made it obvious she was feeling the wine, but she was trying to hide it by bracing her hip against the table.

  He was ready too, but not for a game of billiards. To distract himself, he walked to the bar, retrieved the jug of wine, then filled their glasses. "Highest score wins, so aim for the highest-numbered balls."

  She raised her glass in a mock salute. "What are we wagering?"

  He'd like to wager her into his bed, but he doubted she would appreciate his suggestion. He scoured his mind for something that wouldn't chase her across the street to her sad boardinghouse. Nothing but undressing her came to mind. "I can't think of anything."

  She set her glass on the shelf. "If I lose, I'll bake a pie for you. If you lose, you have to show me some of your carvings. "

  He chalked his stick and moved to the table. "That's an awfully tame wager for a lady who wants to indulge in all the sin and vice my saloon has to offer."

  As he'd expected, her chin lifted,
but the move unbalanced her. She gripped the edge of the table and stared up at him. "Name a fitting wager then."

  "A kiss."

  Her gaze dropped to his mouth.

  "Or something less threatening if you don't have the nerve," he teased.

  Her gaze snapped back to his. "All right. But it must be a totally improper kiss."

  Oh, she was amusing. "How improper?"

  "Sinful. The kind of kiss you would give a woman while...in private."

  The stick slipped through his hand and hit the floor.

  "Or something less threatening if you don't have the nerve," she said, the challenge so thick in her voice it made him snicker.

  She reached for her glass, but he caught her hand. She wasn't slurring her words, but she'd lost the crispness of her speech. He didn't want her to be too drunk to remember the kiss. Because he was damned sure going to get one.

  "Save that for after the game." He turned her toward the table, then scooped his stick off the floor. "I'll break, then you can shoot."

  He bent over the table, but stopped in surprise when he realized his hands were shaking. The sight stunned him. Only three events in his life had made him tremble. Carrying his father's coffin had been one of them. Pulling his brother Kyle from a burning building was another.

  The third was the battle he waged each time he worked on the statue.

  Never had he trembled with need for a woman.

  Now his body quaked and he ached to touch Claire, to kiss her and convince her to go upstairs with him. To his bed. To make love.

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  He stepped away from the table and blew out a breath. This was ridiculous. It was...unnerving.

  He forced himself to calm down, to focus on the game, to stop acting like a schoolboy. But his hands still shook, and he did a bad job of breaking the billiard balls.

  "My turn?" she asked, her look so innocent and trusting that he felt the urge to warn her to run, to get the hell away from him before he devoured her.

  She missed her shot, but didn't pout or ask for another chance. In fact, she insisted that they play by the rules.

  "It's grown rather warm in here, don't you think?" She pressed her palms to her flushed face.