Mallory Rush - [Outlawsand Heroes 02]

by Dead or Alive

  "Oh, Lori," he called down the hall.

  "Yes?" she asked expectantly.

  "You still have lipstick on your nose."

  He chuckled as he heard her retreating grumbles, soon followed by the sound of her car squealing out from the driveway. Then, returning his attention to the television, he laughed even harder as he watched the Roadrunner outsmart his nemesis yet again.

  * * *

  "Lori? Lori. Oh Lorreee, anybody in there?"

  "Huh?" She looked up from the chart, and it took a few seconds for reality to register. "Oh, Ryan. Hi."

  "Are you still sick? I was worried about you when I stopped by after work yesterday and you weren't home, even more so when you didn't answer your phone later. But strange as you've been acting this morning, I'm getting concerned as hell. You've been clocked out ever since you clocked in."

  Lori debated, then motioned him into the empty break room. Closing the door, she took a deep breath and said in a hush, "he's alive, Ryan."

  Ryan snickered. "Sure he is, Lori. Sure he is. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be right back with a head doctor."

  "No, Ryan, I mean it. He's really, really alive. His name is Noble Zhivago and he's got the most incredible past. Get this—his father was a cousin to the czar, who gave him ten thousand acres of land and—"

  "Whoa." Ryan held up his hands. "Are you actually telling me that the amazing human Popsicle—"

  "Don't call him that," she snapped. "His name is Noble and he's a wonderful, fascinating man."

  "I don't believe this." Ryan shook his head as if trying to wake up after a wild night out on the town.

  "Believe it. He's already adapting, and too fast to suit me. At the rate he's going, I'll be lucky to have a couple of months before he's on his own. But till then, he's mine."

  Ryan considered her at length. "You're really crazy about this guy, aren't you?"

  "Something like that," she admitted.

  "So, when can I meet him?"

  Lori hesitated. She had to let her friends meet him sometime, and she wasn't worried about Noble holding his own. What did worry her was the possessiveness she felt. Jennifer she trusted, but that didn't hold true for some other gal pals, who'd pose a threat once they wrangled an introduction. Suddenly the Kick and Kaboodle seemed more a place to avoid than not.

  "Tell you what. I'll check it out with Noble and see what he thinks. Maybe you can join us for tea—"

  "Tea!" Ryan hooted.

  "Yes, tea. Feel free to bring along a few cheroots—"

  "Cheroots?"

  "Cigars, whatever. Just don't bring along anyone else."

  "Not even Martha?"

  "Especially not Martha." Gal pal number one she did not trust. "And don't say anything to Jennifer. I want to talk to her about the situation before she meets him."

  "My, but you're sounding territorial." His knowing smile mingled with a look of brotherly concern. "Set up the tea and I'll bring the cigars."

  "If you really want to impress him, throw in a lighter."

  "Sure, Lori. But I can tell you right now, if he doesn't impress me as the kind of man who'll be good to you, then I'll light into him faster than he can flick his Bic."

  * * *

  It was just past noon, and what a full day it had already been. A deeply disturbing one, Noble thought. His trek to the library had been for naught, a scavenger hunt through the archives for some small news of Attu that did not exist.

  He would never know what had become of his beloved friend, and despite what he'd said to Lori, not knowing was immeasurably worse than an eternity of wondering. The only relief he could claim was finding no mention of himself in the sparse assortment of aged newspaper clippings.

  With a troubled sigh, Noble tapped the phone. No relief there for a certainty. He'd made the necessary calls to determine his options and obstacles before plotting his course of action. Limited options; obstacles aplenty.

  How amazing it was to learn so much in so little time. Unbelievable really, how much one could discover from simply pretending to be a writer doing research for a novel. Equally astonishing was that the university professor hadn't laughed at what surely seemed to be a ludicrous idea.

  He'd said he was working on the story of a lawyer who went to sleep for a hundred years and awoke, here, in present-day Juneau. Amid adventure and drama and seeking to win the hand of his lady fair, he determines to restore his credentials. How would he do it?

  Quite good-naturedly, the professor had said there was no school of law in Alaska to attend and brush up on his skills, but there was a state law library. One was conveniently located in Juneau. If the character in question had proof of having graduated from an accredited law school—even if he'd earned his degree a century prior—then he could take the state bar and, once he passed, hang out his shingle again.

  Simple enough. And yet, not simple at all.

  Noble knew he had been blessed with keen mental abilities and tutoring himself would present no problem. As for producing a certificate of graduation, there was a slender chance he could acquire a copy. Yet another phone call to an English operator had netted him the number to his alma mater. Cambridge was still in existence.

  The problem lay in convincing the necessary individuals he was indeed in existence himself. And should he manage to do that, then he would be confronted with the biggest problem of all. Lori had been adamant, urgent, in her warning that his true identity must remain secret. She had told him the consequences would be severe, that he would endure public scrutiny, even perhaps be taken away for study by all manner of curious experts. She had said it would not matter to them that he was a person, entitled to a private life or—

  The phone rang and Noble jumped, automatically reaching for his holster. Gone. Of course, he reminded himself, men did not wear their guns about these days.

  He felt a pang of longing for the time to which he belonged. But no, here he stood, listening to the phone ring and following Lori's instructions to let the answering machine do the speaking. This did not sit well with him, not well at all. Pretending to be invisible while Lori's life marched on.

  "Noble? Noble, are you there? It's me, Lori. If you're there, pick up the phone."

  He did and said, "Yes?"

  "Just checking on you. Is everything all right?"

  No, everything was not all right. "All is well, Lori. How fares your day?" he answered.

  "I miss you," she whispered.

  "Good," he replied crisply. "Once I'm done with the laundry, I'll begin dinner. Have you a request?"

  "Something low in calories and high on taste. Say, conversation for dinner and kisses served up with hugs for dessert?" She laughed softly.

  Noble eyed the table and suppressed a groan. He could drink forever and beyond of their conversations, which never ran dry. And Lori's kisses, they were so sweet and delicious, they left him starving for more. But he couldn't have more, not until he found a way to provide for her. It was a matter of honor, of pride.

  "Since man does not live by bread alone," he said, lifting a towel to check the dough he had rising on the countertop, "you may have kisses for dessert."

  "Can't wait. Which pretty much sums up how a friend of mine feels about meeting you. I told him if it was okay with you, he could join us for tea on my next day off."

  Him? "Certainly. Has he a name?"

  "His name is Ryan. We work together."

  "I see." Indeed he did. While he played housekeeper Lori went off to work and spent her days with Ryan.

  "You'll like him, I promise. Ryan's a really great guy. He was with me when I found you. We're climbing partners," she went on to explain. "I told him I was hanging up the ropes for a little while. Ryan said he understood, even though he was jealous since I'd rather spend my time with my new roomie instead of with him and his coffee."

  She laughed as if it were an incredibly funny joke—but Noble found no humor in it. A roomie, was he? And as for this "really great guy" who did more than w
ork with Lori...

  Noble jabbed a finger into the dough, pretending it was Ryan's throat.

  "Then tea it is. Make the arrangements and I'll see to its execution." Executed. Though he wasn't dangling from a rope, a hanging might be a pleasant respite compared with this. This twisting in his gut. This terrible jealousy he'd never experienced before. This pleasant exchange of good-byes when he wanted to pour out his frustration and misery as if he were a child, not a man.

  Noble sank the rising dough with a crushing blow of his fist. He did not like the bread bought from stores. Again he slammed down his fist. He did not like being relegated to baking bread while Lori went to work. With Ryan. Pound. Pound. He did not like playing the role of a "roomie" who slept, merely slept, with a woman he longed to take for his own, to share all manner of intimacies with.

  Pound. Pound. Pound.

  When the dough was flattened to the thinness of unleavened bread, he kneaded it with angry, vicious swipes, then, with supreme control, returned it to its former shape, covered it with a kitchen towel, and stalked to the laundry room.

  He folded Lori's sweaters and small denim pants. Whoever heard of a woman wearing pants? Though he couldn't deny the way Lori wore them deserved no less than accolades.

  She wore her pants well.

  Too well. He admired her independence almost as much as he resented it, feeling more and more as if he were bound in a corset and skirts.

  Yesterday's adventure had indeed been grand; however, there were a few events that had bothered him.

  Lori had taken him shopping and bought him clothes, seen him to a barber and helped him choose the cut of his hair. But afterward, she had taken him to a jeweler and...

  Noble smiled smugly. He had interceded when she fumbled for an excuse to explain why he would possess a pouch of gold dust. It was not so far from the truth, his story of coming into this peculiar inheritance from a great-grandfather who hadn't trusted banks.

  The gold was exchanged for a bank draft, and he and Lori had been at odds as to its placement. She had wanted to deposit it into her account for safekeeping since he lacked the necessary papers to open an account for himself. To hell with that! After some heated debate she had cashed the bank draft—which he'd had the foresight to request be made out in her name—and once they returned to the car, she'd thrust the bulging envelope at him with a curt, "here."

  He had counted the greenbacks. Not because he didn't trust Lori, but because he had no faith in banks, and yes, two thousand five hundred twenty-two dollars was there.

  Despite her resistance, he had reimbursed her for the clothes and barbershop visit she had paid for. So, too, he insisted on compensating her for his destruction of what he'd learned was called a "big-screen TV." Grudgingly she had named the price of a hundred dollars to call them even.

  He'd laid five times that in her lap. Did she think him so dim-witted that he couldn't read a newspaper advertisement? He would repay the remainder of his damages once he was gainfully employed, he had tersely informed her. And what money he kept would go toward paying his way until then.

  Laundry piled from waist to chin, Noble stomped to her bedroom. Jerking out a deep drawer, he shoved in her things. Then he went to check the pummeled dough. It was not fully risen, but he was impatient with more than the baking of bread. He returned to her room and confronted his nemesis.

  Grabbing the framed wedding picture, he snarled, "damn you, Mick. Damn you for dying as you did. As if I don't have enough to deal with, I have to wonder, constantly wonder, will Lori ever love me enough not to loathe me when she learns of my crimes." He put the frame down with a sharp thud and tried to comfort himself with the knowledge that no one but he could tell her of his lawless acts.

  Little comfort there. Deceiving those deserving of his honesty, his fealty, did not sit well with him.

  Lori deserved his fealty and more.

  He paced her bedroom, filling himself with her presence as he moved among her things. At the vanity he looked into the mirror encased by carved wood. "You will tell her. You must. But first you will win her heart so completely, she shan't be able take it back, no matter how direly she might long to," he said to his scowling image.

  Not wanting to look at himself any longer, at the distress he didn't want to see, could not let Lori see, Noble picked up a silver-handled brush.

  He touched the soft bristles, the softer strands of her hair. Pulling one out, he rubbed it between his fingers and knew a fierce want to tangle his hands in her hair, press his palms against her temples as if he could squeeze out those memories of his deceased rival.

  Yes, his rival still. Perhaps Lori had begun to let Mick go, but he was not yet able. Mick had claimed her for his wife. Mick had made love to her. And Mick had provided for her in a way he himself could not.

  Not unless he took the bar exam. Not unless he subjected them both to the same horrendous public scrutiny he had witnessed on the television and in newspapers at the grocery store.

  If only he could reclaim his hidden riches—

  Noble sucked in his breath. Why had he not thought of this before? Any true outlaw would think first and foremost of his stolen wealth, even if he'd slept a hundred years and come back to life. Then again, he wasn't a true outlaw. And Lori did have a way of distracting him.

  Adrenaline surging, he tried to calm himself with the numbing bite of reason. Had Attu escaped an untimely demise, while his partner in crime had not, then he would have claimed the gold that had been marked for purchase of the land they had sworn to share.

  But if, if, the gold still remained, then he might buy back his rightful holdings after all—nearly a century later. To think of it, just to think of having that wonderful, embittered piece of his life returned, to share it with Lori, was to believe the past might yet grant him some justice.

  Making a rapid translation of the money from the jeweler exchanged for his pouch of gold, Noble put his hidden worth at approximately a million in modern currency.

  With hope, his heart leaped.

  Just as quickly it fell.

  How would he explain to Lori his newfound wealth? Bloody hell. Even if he could borrow her car while she slept and go to the cave tonight, the gold would do him no good. No amount of riches would do him any good if he lost her in the process. Time. Yes, time. He must be patient.

  His mind worked swiftly, forming a workable plan. He would find a way to visit the law library regularly and absorb legal information as quickly as he was able—in case the gold was gone, which quite possibly it was. If such was the case, he would be prepared to take the bar, a worthy risk in exchange for his ability to assume the role of husband and provider. Meanwhile he would continue with his domestic duties and woo Lori with passion and with purpose.

  Passion. Noble groaned, long and deep. Long and deep. It was how he yearned to take her as she slept in his hungry arms. Restraining himself was becoming increasingly difficult. Perhaps they should no longer sleep together. Lori trusted him, but he trusted himself less and less. A battle waged inside him even now as he laid down the brush and hesitated only slightly before opening a shallow vanity drawer. It was an invasion of her privacy, but still, here he was lifting a pair of dainty panties, fingering the lacy band.

  Lori wasn't even in them and he felt a surging response as he stroked the thin silk. Feeling himself grow so hard that he ached, Noble vowed that this was the closest he would get between her thighs until his wedding ring graced her hand.

  Vows were meant to be kept at all costs, not broken. And yet this was one vow he questioned. Clearly, it was outdated, but then again, so was he. Lori, however, was not.

  She was such a modern woman, he could scarce believe she viewed herself as being somewhat out of step with the times. How could she possibly think that? The array of scanty underthings he now sifted through were anything but prudish.

  "Noble! I'm ho-ome!"

  Her distant call of his name had him shoving the panties he still held into her dr
awer and slamming it shut.

  "Noble? Noble, where are you?" Lori called again.

  "Here!" he shouted. With no apparent evidence of his small transgression, he automatically grabbed the first innocuous thing his hand came in contact with.

  "Oh, there you are." She rushed into his arms. "I'm so glad to see you. How'd it go today?"

  "Fine, perfectly fine," he said with a strained smile.

  "Brushing your hair?" She gestured to the brush he held.

  "Actually, no. I was considering how to go about asking you if I might brush yours." Good, very good. Delivered with the convincing innocence of a lawyer who knew in his heart the person he was protecting was guilty as sin.

  "I'd like you to brush my hair," she murmured.

  "Before or after dinner?" he asked, trying very hard not to think about the raging instincts gone amok in the privacy of his pants.

  "Both," she answered in a throaty whisper, swishing her hair over her shoulders.

  Noble laid aside the brush and stroked his fingers through her fair, golden hair. So beautiful, so fine, the feel of her so right, he suddenly knew that no matter his current ability to provide, no matter the human perplexities defining this time, he could not bide this much longer.

  Sniffing, she said, "something sure smells good."

  "It could be me."

  "Could be and is," she assured him. "But I could swear that's fresh bread I'm smelling." She licked her lips. "I know it's too good to be true, but did you actually use that yeast we bought yesterday? As in, stirring it up with some flour and whatever else it takes to bake a loaf of bread?"

  "I did." Much as he deplored this maid duty, Noble took pride in having done some small feat that Lori had yet to accomplish herself.

  "Home-baked bread." She sighed. "Forget the diet margarine. I've got a stick of real butter."

  "Two sticks remaining. I took inventory. And while I was at it I noticed that your two bottles of André bear the denomination of champagne."

  "Cheap stuff, but it's okay." She laughed self-consciously. "There went the mood. Just goes to show how out of practice I am when it comes to romance."

  "Quite the contrary," Noble told her, "I find your candor refreshing." He bit softly at her earlobe, tugged a small gold hoop with his teeth. "I also find it very romantic."