by Sharon Ihle
"So..." He sucked in a euphoric breath. "So tell me, woman, what's it to be? You're not going to stand there and let me die, are you?"
She laughed again, the sound even throatier than before, and said, "I'll do my best to keep you alive, but I can't guarantee that I won't hurt you a little in the process."
A surge of hot desire tore through Donovan at those words, and he had to steal another kiss before raising his head to reply. "Don't sound so pleased with yourself. The way I feel right now, I'm afraid you're the one who could get hurt a little."
Again came that throaty laughter, and suddenly, Donovan couldn't wait another moment. He glanced around the room, figuring, since the rug had been good enough before, it would be good enough now. Before he could even start nudging Libby down to the floor, his gaze snagged on something, momentarily distracting him.
Narrowing his vision to be sure of exactly what he'd spotted among the shadows by the wall, Donovan stared at the area a moment. When he realized what he must be looking at, the thought of even standing in this room, much less dropping his trousers in it, filled him with icy terror.
He went cold inside, and in the very next second, Donovan couldn't have hurt a fly.
Chapter 16
Libby noticed the change in Donovan immediately. Before she could comment on his sudden "transformation," he grabbed her hand and began dragging her out of the room.
"Hey, wait a minute," she cried, wondering what she could have done to dampen his ardor so thoroughly. "What's wrong? Were are you taking me?"
"I thought we ought to go upstairs. More comfortable, you know."
Donovan's gaze swept the floor as he pulled her toward the foyer. What was he looking for? she wondered, or was he hiding something? Libby scanned the rug behind and in front of her, but couldn't find a thing out of place.
When they reached the landing, Donovan abruptly released her. "You go on up," he insisted, waving toward the second floor. "That'll give you a little privacy to, you know, get ready for bed. I'll join you in a minute."
Libby resolved not to budge until she had some idea what was going on. "What happened out there? One minute you couldn't keep your hands off me, and in the next, you can't get rid of me fast enough. What did I do wrong?"
"Nothing, sweetheart." Donovan laughed—actually, it was more of a nervous chortle, kind of like a giggle. Then he flashed the phoniest grin she'd ever seen. "Get going to your room. Everything's fine."
For a crazy moment, Libby wondered if maybe he didn't have another woman stashed in the living room, but she was too worn out both mentally and physically to give the thought much credence. With a weary sigh, she said, "All right. If that's what you want, goodnight."
"This isn't goodnight," he called after her. "Once I secure the house, I'll be up to join you."
Libby didn't trouble herself by commenting on his odd behavior. She went directly to her room and slammed the door good and loud. But she had no intention of staying there. After grabbing her glasses, which gave Donovan a few seconds in which to embark on his clandestine activities, she quietly opened her door again and crept out into the hallway. She listened intently, but the only sound she could hear from below was the rapid tattoo of Donovan's boots as he took off running down the hallway. Moments later came the clatter of pots and pans, a few muffled curses, then the thunder of his boots as he ran back up the hallway.
Hiding in the shadows, Libby flattened herself against the wall, but the gesture wasn't necessary. Donovan hadn't even looked up as he ran past the landing and ducked back into the living room.
What could be more interesting down there than what she had to offer upstairs? Had she been too forward, too willing? She remembered some schoolgirl chant about free milk and the cow's in the barn, but couldn't recall exactly what point the fable tried to get across. She'd done something wrong, but what?
* * *
Aware of the cold sweat trickling down from his brow, Donovan approached the bay window in the living room carrying the mousetraps he'd baited with bits of Libby's casserole. After positioning each of them behind the curtains, he ran out of the room as if the devil was on his trail. He took the stairs two and three at a time, and by the time he burst into Libby's room and slammed the door behind him, he was puffing like a steam engine chugging over the Rockies.
"There... we... are," he said between gasps. "How come it's so dark in here?"
"Because I'm asleep." Her voice sounded distant and muffled. "Go away."
"Now, Libby," he chided, feeling his way to the foot of the bed. "That's no way to talk. You don't sound like the same lusty woman I held in my arms downstairs."
"I'm not. I've simply changed my mind."
"In that case," he said, slipping out of his clothes and hanging them from the one of the four posts. "I guess I'll have to convince you all over again." Concerned more about the uninvited guests in his house than Libby's feeble attempt to convince him she'd had second thoughts, Donovan tore back the covers and jumped into bed beside her. She held him at arm's length.
"Hey, what's this?"
"I told you. I've changed my mind. Why don't you go back downstairs and keep chasing after the shadows in the living room."
"Ah, so that's it. You were listening in on me."
She muttered something unintelligible, then tried to roll away and turn her back to him. Chuckling to himself, Donovan pinned Libby's wrists to the pillow on either side of her head, keeping her immobile. "You might be interested to know that the shadows I was chasing were shaped like mice."
"Mice?"
He nodded, fighting a shudder. Through the years, Donovan had faced guns, knives, drunken gamblers, and hands the size of hams clamped firmly around his throat, but never, ever was he more terrified than when confronted by a member of the rodent family. His fears came from long, long ago, but they ran deep, too deep apparently to fade away as he'd hoped they would have by now.
He tried hard to keep that fear out of his voice as he explained. "That's why I hustled you out of the living room so fast. I didn't want to alarm you by saying that I thought mice or rats had gotten into the house, so I just sent you upstairs while I went to get traps and set them."
"I didn't see any mice in the living room."
"If you need proof, go down and have a look for yourself. I didn't actually see a mouse, but I found where they've eaten away almost an entire strip of wallpaper by the bay window."
"The wall—" For a minute, Donovan thought she was going to apologize for doubting him, but then she burst out laughing.
"You think mice are funny, do you? Fine. You check the traps in the morning and you take the disgusting creatures outside and bury them. I'd just as soon not have to fool with them anyway, thank you."
Still chuckling softly, Libby said, "I'd be happy to check your traps tomorrow." Then, surprising him, she wrapped her arms around his neck and turned serious. "I'm wondering if maybe you won't be setting traps for me next. Aren't you getting a little tired of me being underfoot?"
"What does that have to do with mice?"
"Nothing, except that I can't stay here forever. Even if I could, there's no point in it. Not now that my business with your father is finished. There's a train to Laramie tomorrow afternoon. If I had any sense, I'd be on it."
"You're not going anywhere tomorrow." He didn't know a hell of a lot about emotions, relationships, or exactly what he was feeling for Libby, but Donovan did know one intractable thing: He was not ready to let her go just yet. "I don't know why you had to bring this up at all dammit, but you've said yourself that it won't matter if you stay in San Francisco another few days or weeks. Your brother and his helper are doing just fine without you."
"It isn't just the paper I'm worried about. I have to think of—"
But Donovan didn't want to hear any more of her excuses for leaving. He hushed her with a well-placed finger. "If you don't stay at least through Saturday, you'll be putting me in a very bad situation with the countess of Timbukt
u, or wherever the hell she's from."
"The countess? I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
"She's the society woman giving the Young Gentlemen's Ball Saturday, remember? If you're not here, I'll have to attend the damn thing. There's no telling what all those debutantes will do to try and lasso a fine specimen like myself." He undid the buttons at the throat of her nightgown. "They'll be wanting to put their hands all over me, and kissing me," he showed her exactly what he meant, "and all manner of things just to win me over."
"I see," she murmured, sounding a little breathless. "And that would be so terrible?"
"Oh, yes. Why the next thing you know, one of those society-bound darlings could have me trussed up like a hog at a barbecue. You wouldn't want that kind of life for me, would you?" Moving up to Libby's mouth, he kissed her thoroughly. "What do you say? Stay a few more days and give me life, Liberty, and the pursuit of a little more happiness."
Libby burst out laughing, then caught Donovan's face between her hands and scattered a few kisses across his lips. "All right, you've convinced me to stay until Sunday. After that—"
Donovan silenced her with a kiss. He didn't want to think about "after that." In fact, didn't want to think about anything except how good Libby felt beneath him, how soft and smooth her skin felt against his palms, and how very, very much he wanted her at that moment. He wallowed in sensations like never before, savoring the sweet taste of Libby's mouth and the sunshine bouquet aroma of her hair, and reveled in the intoxicating sound of her cries as he brought her to climax again, and again. His control hanging by a ragged edge, with every nerve ending in his body crying out for release, at last he let himself go, and spun mindlessly into an intense, but bittersweet finish.
Stunned, Donovan lay still atop Libby for several moments, wondering if perhaps he'd died, but far too exhausted to test himself to see if he were still alive. When she moaned beneath him, pointing out that indeed he'd survived the encounter, he rolled to her side and lay flat on his back.
Something had gone wrong with him. After what they'd just shared—an experience unlike anything he'd ever known—he should have felt hollowed out, empty in both mind and body. But he didn't. Instead, Donovan found himself wanting something more, needing a certain comfort. Remembering the night Libby had come to him and slipped into his bed, and needing to feel that sense of contentment again, he rolled to where she lay, gathered her into his arms, and tucked her head beneath his chin. It wouldn't hurt a thing to stay with her for just a little while. To rest, not sleep, for two hours, tops. It wouldn't hurt a damn thing.
* * *
The next morning, Donovan woke up to the sound of birds singing right outside his window—an oddity, considering he never slept with his window open. He yawned, breathing deeply, and picked up the scent of lilacs mingled with the unmistakably earthy aroma of lovemaking. Then something soft and warm—Libby—stirred in his arms, and he knew in an instant he was still in her bed with his head resting not three feet from her open window.
"Oh, Donovan?" her sweet voice called. "Wake up and take a look around—you spent the night in my room."
He cracked one eyelid, even though he knew exactly where he was. "Oh, hell. I must have been more tired than I thought last night. Hope I didn't keep you awake."
"Not at all. In fact, I kind of liked snuggling with you." The minute the words were out, Libby regretted them. She'd agreed to follow Donovan's rules, no strings, no expectations, and had even gone so far as to proclaim herself as a believer in free love. It didn't matter that she'd discovered—too late—those rules weren't for her, but she sure couldn't explain her feelings to him without making herself out a liar. He would realize in a minute that she was just another woman who had her own plans for "trussing him up like a pig at a barbecue"—even if she didn't have a clear idea how to go about it. And then he'd toss her on the first train to Laramie, without looking back.
Donovan tapped the tip of Libby's nose, snapping her out of her musings. "Hey, you—wake up," he said. "Don't expect this snuggling every night you're here. I think last night I probably didn't wake up because down deep I didn't want to have to run bare-assed naked to my room in the dark. Not while there's still mice roaming around the house."
Reminded of her accident with the wallpaper, Libby stuffed the corner of her pillow into her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Donovan would find out soon enough that he didn't have mice. Surely by daylight, he would see that someone, not something, had ruined his wallpaper. After that, it wouldn't take him long to figure out who'd made such a mess of his lovely home.
"What are you laughing at?" he asked, rising up on one elbow.
Donovan loomed above her, his dark hair mussed and falling over one eye. His grin was so wicked and tempting, Libby couldn't remember why she'd been laughing. "Was I?"
"Yes, and if you think it's funny that I'm a little afraid of mice, don't. Everyone's afraid of mice," he insisted. "Aren't you?"
"Not really," she admitted, fighting off a new attack of the giggles—and losing the battle. "Especially the ones in this house."
"You wouldn't think any of this were funny if some little furry creatures were running up your legs—like this." He dove beneath the covers before she realized what he was up to, and began tickling the bottom of her feet.
Libby shrieked and tried to kick him off the end of the bed at first, but when Donovan slid his hands up her legs, not like a mouse, but like a hungry wolf preparing to devour her, she stilled. He spread hot kisses up her thighs, then feathered them across her belly, his tongue occasionally flicking her navel, turning her moans to something feral and guttural. She was crazy with wanting him, her pulse pounding in her ears, and wondering what he would do next—when Libby realized someone was knocking on the door. Then it abruptly opened.
"Excuse me, Miss Justice," said Gerda. "I thought I heard you awake in here. There's a Miss Susan Savage downstairs to see Mr. Donovan, but he did not come home yet."
Her pulse in her throat now instead of her ears, Libby quickly raised her knees, making a tent out of the puffy quilt, and hoped she'd managed to hide the bulk of Donovan's body.
"Oh, ah..." She cleared her throat. "Someone to see Donovan?"
"Ja—vell, actually, I thought you might receive Miss Savage in Mr. Donovan's place. Ja?"
Donovan's head was flat against Libby's belly, his tongue, buried in her navel. She could tell he was trying hard not to move, as she was, too, but oh, the mouthwatering sensations that tongue was rousing in her. Libby squirmed as she caught her breath and said, "Uh, yes. Tell her I'll be down in a few minutes."
Gerda started to back out the door, but stopped. "I baked some special blueberry muffins. Vant me to serve them with some nice, hot tea?"
Donovan suddenly clutched Libby's hips, the only suggestion he gave that he was fighting a catastrophic event, but then sneezed against her belly in spite of the effort. To cover the sound, Libby quickly fell into a coughing fit. At the same time, instinct drove her to clamp her knees shut. When she heard Donovan's response, a low agonized groan, the outrageously embarrassing situation struck her funny bone. She gave into a fit of hysterical laughter.
Gerda, who'd watched Libby's ever-changing expressions with increasing bewilderment, cocked her head and furrowed her brow. "Is everything all right?"
"Sure," she managed to say between gasps. "I think I got a feather up my nose. Oh, and muffins sound like a great idea."
This time, Gerda finally did step out into the hallway, but she didn't close the door until she'd taken one final long look inside the room.
When Libby felt they were safe, she raised the quilt and screamed in a whisper. "Get out from under there. Do you have any idea what you just put me through?"
"What I put you through?" Donovan exploded up from between the sheets. "I damn near suffocated under there. And why'd you try to cut me in half with your knees? I think you broke some of my ribs."
"That was an accident." Li
bby burst out laughing. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I guess it was just an automatic reaction I couldn't control."
"Oh, I see..." Donovan took her hand and pulled it beneath the covers. Uttering a low moan when he had her fingers where he wanted them, he muttered, "So is this."
Libby jerked away from him as if she'd touched fire. Maybe, she had. "What are you suggesting?" she whispered harshly. "Your sister's downstairs, and she's waiting not just for me, but for you, too."
"So what? She can wait a few minutes while we—"
"Don't be ridiculous. I can't... you know, with her waiting downstairs." Libby rolled to the edge of the bed, but Donovan caught her from behind.
Fitting her bottom against the part of him that would not be denied, he took her breast into one hand and lightly massaged the nipple as he whispered thickly, "You can... and you will. And just to make sure we don't keep anyone waiting too long, we'll do it your way—as fast as you want to go." His hand slid lower, parting her legs, and then he began to move, sliding back and forth along the slick curves of her body. By then, Libby couldn't even remember his sister's name.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Libby waltzed into the living room to find Susan sipping a cup of tea. "Sorry to have kept you waiting, but I'm afraid I was overly indulgent with myself today, and slept in."
"Oh, please, don't apologize. I had no idea you were staying here."
"Oh, well, I'm not exactly. Last night it was late, and I was only..."
"Goodness," Susan blushed and looked away. "You don't have to explain yourself to me. I'm just happy you agreed to come down and talk to me."
Embarrassed, but tingling from head to toe as she recalled the frantic, thrilling lovemaking she and Donovan had just shared, Libby settled on the sofa across from where the young woman sat.
Her composure back in place, Susan remarked, "That's really an unusual outfit. Do all the women in Wyoming dress this way?"
Laughing softly, Libby admitted, "No, I'm kind of an oddity at home, too. I generally explain that I wear these buckskins because of all the traveling I do on horseback as a reporter, but between you and me, they're also a heck of a lot more comfortable than any dress I've ever owned."