Missouri Magic

by Charlotte Hubbard

  His scowl relaxed a little when he realized his nemesis was working in there, and he followed her out to the shaded backyard. The fool didn’t seem to notice that the parlor windows were wide open, and Celesta intended to keep him facing toward the river so that he wouldn’t catch on. It was her strategy for when things got nasty.

  And, knowing that the smartest defense was a surprise attack, she struck first. “I suppose you think your lavish gifts entitle you to boss me around this way?”

  Patrick blinked and then pointed an angry finger. “Those gifts signify my intentions, Celesta. And I’ll be damned if I’ll watch Frye—”

  “What about my intentions?” She crossed her arms, returning his glare. “How do you think I feel, knowing you’ve told everyone we’re engaged, yet you’ve neglected to ask me about it?”

  “We’ve discussed this subject—”

  “You’ve discussed it. I’ve had no choice but to listen while you babbled on about letting me remain in my home, and elevating me to a higher station—expecting me to feel so damn grateful—”

  Damon glanced out the window, snickering. Perkins had never once out-sparred Celesta, and it was doubtful he’d ever learn to avoid such situations. That his raven-haired adversary had staged this quarrel outside the parlor had escaped Patrick, too, and if he thought marriage would mellow her contentious nature, he was stupid indeed.

  “. . . but what annoys me most is that it’s Frye you choose to degrade yourself with,” Perkins was saying in a strident voice. ‘‘Over and over I’ve reminded you how he sent his fiancée to her grave, and still you fall for his lies.”

  Celesta sucked in her breath, and before reason could stop her, she blurted, “And how about you, Patrick? Have you ever felt responsible for someone’s untimely passing?”

  Perkins jerked—and Frye himself gaped at Miss Montgomery. How the hell did she expect him to answer such a blatant question? Neither of them had a graceful way out of this confrontation now, unless—

  “Eavesdropping, Mr. Frye? Idleness doesn’t become you—or have you decided to rest on the Sabbath?”

  Justine was behind him, her staid tone as damning as her questions. He’d overextended himself, and even though he hadn’t made any overt advances toward Celesta lately, the spinster had a sixth sense about such things and sounded ready to call in her markers for his previous offenses. He turned to her with a contrite smile, aware that he had no shirt on and that she was studying him very closely.

  “I thought perhaps your niece would need my assistance,” he said suavely, “but she seems to be handling Mr. Perkins quite well.”

  “He has his mother’s ingratiating ways while Celesta inherited Rachel’s rapier tongue. How he thinks he’ll survive marrying her escapes me.”

  Her remark was uttered in a matter-of-fact manner that made him raise an eyebrow and then chuckle. Justine’s face softened, if only slightly, and she stepped into the parlor so that she could look out the window at the squabblers.

  Patrick had sidestepped the issue of Rachel Montgomery’s death by heaping the blame for Miss Bates’s predicament elsewhere, as usual. “This story’s getting tiresome,” Frye commented. “After ten years, you’d think people could let Lucy rest.”

  “Is it true? Did you get her with child and then abandon her?”

  “No.” He looked directly into Justine’s unwavering brown eyes. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever know all of Lucy’s circumstances, but my regrettable reaction came out of anger rather than guilt.”

  The woman’s focus dropped to his bare shoulders, yet rather than preaching about where such a breach of proper attire would lead, she turned her attention to the couple outside the window. “I gather those disgraceful underthings in Celesta’s trunk came from Perkins, then?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Looks more like bribery than betrothal, if you ask me.”

  Somehow he kept a straight face. If she asked him how he knew about the lingerie, he’d be hard-pressed to answer truthfully—and so would she, the snoop! Justine studied him again, her head held high on her slender neck, and then she let out a low, conspiratorial laugh that he couldn’t help joining her in.

  “Well, it suits her, I suppose,” the spinster commented wryly. “Her mother had a similar wild streak. Beauty can be such a bane.”

  Damon knew better than to comment about that, but while the head of the Ransom family was letting her guard down he couldn’t resist asking a few more questions. Outside, Perkins was on the defensive again, the sweat running freely down his face as he gripped Celesta’s arms.

  “What do you suppose he sees in Celesta?” he asked quietly. “I mean, she’s a wonderful young woman, but he’s always chased after wealthy men’s daughters. Perhaps his tastes changed while I was away.”

  Justine grunted softly, still watching out the window. “Where there’s a vein there’s a vampire. My father used to say that, and for all his macabre sense of humor, he was usually right about people.”

  Her answer teased at him until his eyes widened. Why hadn’t he considered that angle? It would be just like Perkins to—

  “And what do you see in her, Mr. Frye? Lord knows you look at her enough.”

  There was no escaping the old woman’s astute comment. Frye thought for a moment, composing a reply he hoped wouldn’t get him banished from Ransom Manor. Only the truth would do, because Justine already knew the answer to her question.

  “Celesta’s a delightful, witty young woman,” he said quietly. “Her talents and intelligence impress me, but I’d be lying if I said I noticed nothing else. Your niece is quite an eyeful, Justine. And she knows how to kiss, too.”

  Her eyebrow arched slightly, and she took a step back. “Well, that was a ... forthright reply, Mr. Frye.”

  “You’re entitled to it.” He gave her a subtle smile, hoping his luck held. “A lady with enticing brown eyes like yours surely understands the magnetism between a man and a woman. I’m betting someone in your past is very sorry he let you get away, and I don’t intend to make that mistake with Celesta.”

  For a moment Justine’s face took on the delicate pink of a sunlit rose. Then she coughed self-consciously and looked out the window again. “I—I think we’ve seen enough of this mindless exhibition,” she muttered, and she marched toward the parlor door.

  Then she paused, her head cocked almost coquettishly. “I appreciate your candor, Damon. I was determined not to approve of you when you came here, but I was wrong.”

  Before he could thank her, the spinster bustled out the back door, her footfalls purposeful beneath clothing as starched as her voice. “Mr. Perkins, I believe you’ll have to leave now. We’re all quite weary of your arguing, and you’re keeping my niece from her afternoon’s activities.”

  Celesta’s mouth dropped open, and Patrick took a full red-faced minute to find his voice. “What activities?” he asked, glancing suspiciously toward the house.

  “Why, she’s helping Mr. Frye with his papering,” Justine replied pertly. “We each do our part in this family, so that no one falls short when the account of our lives is reconciled. Care to join them, Mr. Perkins?”

  Swearing under his breath, Patrick strode into the house to fetch his mother.

  Chapter 15

  The summer parlor, usually the coolest room in the house, felt stifling after the Perkins carriage clattered down the hill behind its matched bays. Frye noted a tightness around Celesta’s eyes, a pout to her sensuous lips that he knew better than to ask about. When she tore a strip of the wallpaper, however, he had to challenge her heated silence.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked in a voice her aunts wouldn’t hear. He rolled up the ruined paper and set it aside, watching her closely. “Surely you don’t blame Justine for sending Perkins home. His story sounded as tedious as a broken record.”

  “At least he had one. Another man I know was content to let him humiliate me until an old lady came to my rescue,” Celesta whispered vehemently. “Where’s Damon Dare when I n
eed him? Is chivalry dead after all?”

  Frye fought a smile and then climbed the ladder with a fresh strip of the floral paper. “I never claimed to be created in your hero’s image, sweetheart,” he replied. “Can’t help liking him, though. Have you heard from him lately?”

  “What do you mean?” His subtle praise left Celesta with a peculiar sense of foreboding as she watched his backside strain against his overalls.

  Damon chuckled. “Dare’s the perfect match for Sally—and that was the best story you’ve ever written. Your editor will think so, too.”

  “My what? You didn’t mail—”

  “Certainly I did. I got the feeling you didn’t want to publish The Pen is Mightier,” so I used its addressed envelope to rush the Dare story to Beadle and Adams,” he said with a casual glance. “Unless I miss my guess, your readers will be clamoring for one sequel after another. You’ll soon be notorious for your steamy stories, Miss Montgomery.”

  “Damn you to—” Yanking the ladder out from under him would cause too much commotion, so Celesta stalked outside instead, squinting in the afternoon glare. Of all the nerve, to send in a story that any respectable man would keep private! Rather than forwarding letters from enthused Sally Sharpe readers, her editor would no doubt send her notice that the Girl Detective met with sudden death before she got to press.

  She lifted the heavy wooden door that led to the underground cave. Celesta descended carefully into the cool dankness, which was ripe with the scents of wet earth and the peaches they’d picked earlier this week. Large blocks of ice, cut from the river during the winter, loomed ahead of her, ghostly white.

  She let the door drop, and the darkness wrapped around her like a velvety quilt. A few steps more took her to the square mountain of ice, and because the blocks were layered with sawdust, she felt its wet roughness as she groped for the nearest basket of fruit. The aunts would come looking for her if she stayed here for long, but she needed time alone to contemplate Damon’s latest betrayal. Everything he did seemed designed to ruin her life or sabotage her writing career!

  The peaches were balls of sweet-smelling suede beneath her hand. Celesta chose one and then brushed it against her skirt. As she took the first juicy bite, she froze. Someone was entering the cave—and of course, it was a pair of tan overall legs descending in the slash of daylight from the door.

  “Leave me alone.”

  Frye glanced at her and then plunged them into total darkness. “Why didn’t you tell Patrick the same thing? You knew he’d badger you about the other night.”

  Celesta chewed a flavorful bite of peach, not wanting to reply yet knowing she’d have to. “I’m trying to see if he’ll let something slip while he’s angry, maybe admit to Mama’s murder.”

  “That’s a dangerous game, young lady.” He fumbled for the candlestick that was kept near the bottom step, and then reached into his pocket for a match. “I can understand your wanting to know the truth, but forcing it from Perkins during a confrontation can only lead to trouble. If he did it.”

  “I can handle him. And I knew you’d come to my rescue—or thought you would—if he got nasty.” His presence in the damp darkness was unsettling. Was he coming toward her, silent as a cat? Or was Damon Frye going to stand there, blocking her exit, until she played out whatever devious fantasy he had in mind when he followed her here? “You . . . don’t think he did it?”

  “I’m not sure he’s smart enough. The Patrick Perkins I know gets too flustered to cover all his tracks when the stakes are that high.” He struck his match, watching the tentative flame lap at the wick. Celesta, peach poised at her lips, was a tantalizing Eve eyeing him as though he were a serpent not to be trusted.

  Frye laughed. “You’re quite a wordsmith, Miss Montgomery. I can’t wait to see what’ll happen to Damon Dare and Sally Sharpe, now that they’re finally alone together.”

  His voice seemed to resonate from all sides of the low-ceilinged cave while his smile looked diabolical in the sputtering candlelight. He was alluding to reality rather than fictional characters. He stepped closer, his dark eyes shining.

  “What do you want?” she mumbled.

  “You.”

  Celesta took another bite of her peach, as though eating it would be her defense against him. But what would protect her from her own impulses? His skin glowed in the flickering flame while the hair on his forearms shone in golden contrast to the dark smudge of beard along his jaw. “Why’d you follow me down here?” she demanded tersely. “Isn’t it enough that you’ve turned my editor against me and made Patrick even angrier. You—”

  “I came after you because I’m intrigued, sweetheart,” he replied, running a finger along her soft cheek. “Lay all the blame you want, but you must see something in me, to write such a provocative tale. I’m fascinated by your wit . . . your tongue-in-cheek sensuality.”

  “You’re conceited, or you’d never presume I was writing about you.” Celesta retorted, though her voice was huskier than she liked.

  His laughter echoed around the dark walls, and his dimly lit face suddenly reminded her of their cellar rendezvous. Was that a weeks-old memory now? Anticipation made her stomach flutter, just thinking about the night he’d first seduced her. Surely he wouldn’t be so brazen as to—not when either aunt might—

  Damon took a bite of the peach suspended between them, knowing Celesta would taste as intoxicatingly tangy when she kissed him. She was an oasis of warmth in the heavy dankness, and her alluring scent set her apart from the lemons, vegetables, and other perishables stored down here. He set the candle on top of the ice. “Touch me, Celesta,” he breathed. “All week I’ve wanted to feel your fingertips stroking my skin.”

  She swallowed hard, resisting. The ice block was cold against her back, starting to soak through her blouse, yet she felt a fever sweeping over her.

  “Taste me, honey,” came his hoarse command. “If you think that peach is delicious—”

  Celesta gasped, letting the half-eaten fruit fall from her hand. His face was shading hers, his lips hovering, lighting like a butterfly on a tender flower, a gossamer caress that he repeated once . . . twice, until her eyes closed and she reached hungrily for him.

  Her mouth was sweet peach velvet beneath his as he pressed her against the block of ice. Desire hit him like a heat wave. He guided her arms around his waist and chuckled when they slipped beneath the yoke of his overalls. “What’s so fascinating back there?”

  “You, silly,” she replied with a giggle. His firm, rounded halves were bare, yielding delectably to her massage. “I should’ve called you Damon Derrière in the story. It’s your best side, you know.”

  Sheer happiness crested inside him, and he kissed her firmly. It was a thrill to know this dark-haired temptress found him attractive and desirable, and he desperately wanted to make love to her. But something warned him to pull away.

  “We’ll finish this another time, honey,” he whispered as he separated from her. “I’ll love you when it’s safer.”

  When would it ever be safe to love Damon Frye? She nodded, muddled by his hypnotic kiss, and made a cradle in her skirt for the lemons he was passing her.

  “You go first. Just in case.”

  Celesta nodded. And after the bright sunlight stunned her momentarily, she saw that Justine was puttering in the geranium bed. Or pretending to, anyway.

  “I—I thought lemonade would taste good, hot as it is,” she offered weakly.

  Her spinster aunt scrutinized her with hawklike eyes. “And I suppose Mr. Frye’s fetching the ice?”

  “Why, yes—he is!”

  Ducking into the pantry, Celesta prayed he’d follow through. She was frantically reaming lemons when she heard the back door open quietly, and Damon set a pan of ice chunks on the table beside her. He then brushed her backside vigorously, making her glance behind them when his hand cupped her hip.

  “Sawdust,” he whispered with a wink. Her sweet, peachy essence taunted him, but he walked quic
kly out of the kitchen, only moments before Justine entered it from the pantry door.

  When Frye stepped into the main building of the Perkins Lumber Company the following week, the first thing he noticed was the quiet. Like the other lumber barons in Hannibal, Tom Perkins had made his considerable fortune milling the huge logs that floated down the Mississippi from Wisconsin and Minnesota, and then selling the boards he produced. Other mills Damon passed today had been alive with the whine of giant saws, bustling with workmen who drove wagonloads of logs in from the riverfront or carted fresh boards to the lots in back, to be stacked for temporary storage.

  The only person he saw here was a willowy secretary seated in the small office near the rear, reading a book. The rest of the warehouse was stocked with building supplies, and from his spot in the main aisle he noted all the latest equipment on her desk: a shiny black typewriter, an adding machine, and a battery-operated Edison phonograph with which Patrick could dictate correspondence. Either she had no work, or the young lady was doing a fine job of ignoring it.

  Damon checked his watch—twelve-eighteen, which explained Patrick’s absence and fit his plan perfectly. As he strolled slowly along the shelves he recalled how clean and fully stocked they’d looked when he came here as a boy to fetch something for his father. Was his memory enhancing the past, as a man fondly embroidered his first passionate encounter, or had the Perkins store slipped into shabbiness while he was away?

  The secretary turned a page and then gasped when she saw him. “H-how may I help you, sir? I’m sorry—I—I didn’t think anyone was here!”

  He smiled kindly at her. “All I need’s a bag or two of wallpaper paste mix. No hurry.”

  She was studying him as she stood, her fascination apparent on a comely face framed by chestnut curls. “Aren’t you . . . Damon Frye?”

  “Yes, I am.” Her smile was a sudden burst of sunshine which then waxed sly and subtle . . . and vaguely familiar. She would’ve been several classes behind him in school, so he tried to imagine her with shoulder-length ringlets and a starched white pinafore. “Joy?” he asked softly.