by Pam Crooks
“Sir?” She peeped into the hall and found him right where she’d left him. “I don’t know your name.”
She held her breath, lest he deny imparting that bit of information to her.
A moment passed. Though it was impossible to identify the true shade of his eyes in the dim hall, she sensed their brooding consideration of her.
Finally, his head inclined, a mocking gesture, as if he taunted her with the information he was about to reveal.
“The name’s Trig, Miss Chandler.” His mouth curved, the barest hint of smile so slight she might have imagined it. “Trig Mathison.”
Chapter 3
Carleigh eased into the luscious depths of the bath water and leaned her head back against the tub. The soothing warm liquid lapped against her shoulders and neck. She closed her eyes and sighed in pleasure.
Flames crackled and spit in the block, the only noise to break the silence in her room. Golden firelight illuminated he shadows left from lamps she hadn’t bothered to light. Even Spencer dozed in the tranquility.
The tension seeped from Carleigh’s bones like steam through a sieve. It’d been a hard three days. From the moment she discovered her mother’s letter, she’d been a coiled bundle of bitter energy. Endless hours in the crowded stagecoach and long, uncomfortable nights in crude relay stations had begun to take its toll on her stamina.
But tonight . . . tonight was heaven. She’d yet to have her evening meal, but that would come later, after she luxuriated in the first bath she’d had since she left San Francisco.
She would never forget Mr. Mathison’s generosity. Her mind formed a vision of him, and her mouth softened. Ah, she would never forget Mr. Mathison. What woman could, when he exuded raw masculinity and was such a splendid specimen of a man?
Trig Mathison. She tested his name silently on her tongue, then again out loud, and she gave in to feminine fantasy. “Why, hello, Trig. Pleasure to see you again, Trig. You’d like to dance with me, Trig? Why, I’d be most pleased to dance with you, Trig.”
Trig Mathison.
Trig. Trig. Trig.
A breathless laugh escaped her from her own foolishness. A hundred other women would no doubt be smitten by him as she had been, women far more adept at wielding their wiles than she. And it would be them he’d notice, she knew. Not some inexperienced daughter of a powerful judge who managed to instill fear into the majority of the male species she came into contact with.
Her eyes opened again. Frowning, she sat up and began lathering a washcloth. She refused to spoil the pleasure of her quiet evening thinking of her father. Once, she idolized him for being the center of her sheltered world. Now that she’d learned he’d deceived her her entire life, she didn’t care if she never thought of him again.
Or saw him. Or spoke to him. Ever.
With the water turning tepid, she made short work of bathing and washing her waist-length hair, no easy task without Luann’s help. But she managed well enough and knew a moment of satisfaction that she did.
She stood and reached for a thick towel. Running away from home had given her her first taste of independence. A modern woman who secured her own passage on a stagecoach, who traveled alone, and now kept her own room in a hotel. Just her, Carleigh Chandler. Without Luann to help her bathe or fix her hair or button her back buttons. Without her father to pave the way by paying the bills or exerting his influence to get whatever any of them wanted.
And Carleigh reveled in it.
A knock sounded on the door, and she hastily reached for her white cambric wrapper.
“Just a moment,” she called. Without time to don a nightgown over her still-damp body, she thrust her arms into the wrapper and buttoned it to her neck. Grabbing a towel and wrapping it turban-style around her head, she reached the door.
“Who is it?” she asked before unlocking it.
A maid on the other side identified herself, and Carleigh opened the portal a fraction. Seeing an aproned young girl in the hall, she opened it wider.
“Your supper, ma’am,” the maid said. “Mr. Mathison sent it up. He thought you might be hungry about now.”
Carleigh’s heart melted for the consideration he showed her. She stepped aside, and the maid brought in a tray laden with a bottle of wine, a pair of glasses, bread, slices of meat, cheese and fruit. Her stomach tightened in anticipation.
The girl set the tray on a table between the bed and fireplace. She took the time to pull down the covers, smoothing them neatly in preparation for Carleigh to climb between them. Carleigh thanked her warmly and locked the door again when she left.
If the maid noticed Spencer sleeping soundly on the hearth, she didn’t mention it, and Carleigh smiled at her good fortune. Another testament to the pleasurable evening, and one she wouldn’t have had without Mr. Mathison’s help. She poured herself a glass of wine and sipped.
He had certainly spared no expense in his selection. She could never claim to be a connoisseur of fine wines, but she’d attended enough extravagant dinners in her lifetime to know this one was one of the best.
The spirits flowed down her throat, warming her clear to her belly. She refilled the glass, and fixing herself a sandwich, she sat cross-legged on the hearth and pulled the towel from her head. Her wet hair fell in a heavy mass around her face and shoulders.
She’d been relieved to have her satchel delivered to the room, thanks to the young clerk downstairs, and she pulled her ivory-handled hairbrush out of it now. Stroke after stroke, the brush swept through her mahogany tresses, unsnarling the tangles, the thick strands slowly dried by the flames in the block.
Lulled by the dancing fire, by the food in her stomach, and the wine in her veins, Carleigh barely heard the key in the lock. She frowned at the sound and twisted. From her position on the floor, she was forced to peer up over the corner of the bed and across the room.
The brass knob turned, and Trig Mathison stepped in.
She looked unexpectedly appealing sitting there, staring at him, her full mouth a soft ‘O’ of surprise.
Trig closed the door behind him and locked it. Steam from the bath water lingered in the air, scented with a hint of lilac.
She scrambled to her feet. “If you’ve come for your things, I’ve set them there by the door.”
She clutched her brush in one hand; the other gripped a fistful of lace wrapper at her breast. Her attempt at modesty amused him when there was no need of it. She already had the thing buttoned from neck to toe.
“I see that.” But he didn’t spare a second glance at his leather bag, sitting right where she said. He tossed his key next to hers on a lamp table. The two metals hit with a loud ‘clank’.
She swallowed, her throat bobbing with the movement. “Why are you here, if—if not to get your bag?”
“This is my room.” He pulled his jacket off and threw it over her coat, draped neatly on a chair.
“Yours? But—but I thought--.”
“I know what you thought.”
“You gave the room to me.”
“You heard the hotel clerk. There’s not a room left in town. I paid for this one. In full. It’s mine.”
“You gave it to me. You know that you did. And so it’s not yours anymore.”
Taking his time, letting her squirm, he untied his string tie, pulled it from his collar, and tossed it on the dresser. His fingers undid his top shirt button. “Yes, it is.”
She huffed a breath in frustration. “This conversation--you’re baiting me like—like—”
“A fish on a hook?”
She clamped her mouth tight.
“Look, Miss Chandler.” He set his hands on his hips, and his lips formed a cool smile. “If you don’t want to stay, then you can leave.”
Her cheeks, once rosy from the fire, drained of color. “You know I can’t leave. I have nowhere to go. You know that.”
“Yes,” he said.
“I can’t stay here with you. I—I mean, you can’t stay here with me.”
&
nbsp; “We’re both staying in this room tonight.”
A sound of dismay escaped her. She angled her head away from him and blinked furiously. In the glow of the firelight, her chin trembled.
He steeled himself against her anguish. He refused to feel her fear. For three long, hard days of tracking her all the way from San Francisco, he vowed to feel nothing for Judge Reginald P. Chandler’s daughter.
From his curled position on the hearth, the Maltese’s head came up. Seeing Trig, he barked excitedly and leapt to his feet. He barked again and again.
“Keep him quiet.” Trig eyed the tiny beast with annoyance. “Unless a night in the livery is more to your liking than a night with me.”
Carleigh snapped her fingers and spoke the dog’s name in a tone firm with command. He silenced immediately, but bounded over to Trig and danced around the toe of his boot.
Carleigh swept him away and distracted him with a piece of rawhide. She glared up at Trig. “If you had no intention all along of giving your room to me, why did you lie and say I could have it?”
“You needed a place to stay. And I needed you where I could see you.”
Her eyes widened. “Why would you need to see me?”
Damned if she didn’t have an inkling of who he might be. Did she really think she could run away from her imperious father and not have him send someone after her?
The realization amazed him. Entertained him. Carleigh Chandler was as innocent as a lamb, and Trig was just in the frame of mind to lead her to slaughter.
And what would the high and mighty judge think of that?
Intrigued by the possibility, he moved closer, step by slow step, to where she still stood by the hearth, bathed in the glow of firelight.
He could see the shape of her body through the gossamer linen of her dressing gown. Every inch of her, from her ankles up to the apex of her thighs, to the womanly curve of her hips and the narrowness of her waist. His gaze climbed higher still, to the breasts hidden behind the endless rows of lace on her wrapper.
She wore nothing beneath the gown. Desire flickered deep inside him, taunting him with his vow to feel nothing.
“Mr. Mathison.” Her chin lifted when he stopped, finally, directly in front of her. To her credit, she didn’t back away. “I asked you a question.”
One he had no intention of answering. She wouldn’t like his response anyway. He reached out to finger a mahogany tendril hanging over her shoulder. “Just call me Trig. Makes things less formal between us if we’re going to spend the night together.”
She jerked from his touch. This time, she did back away. She lifted the ivory-handled brush and raked it through her hair.
“Very well, Trig.” She snatched a ribbon from the dresser, and in a few clipped strokes, wrapped the silken mass in a shining knot on the top of her head.
To keep him from touching it again, of course. The thought amused him.
“It’s obvious your intent is to keep me here with you,” she continued stiffly. “I’m asking you one more time. Why?”
“You’re a beautiful woman. Young and alone.” Taking the wine bottle, he re-filled her glass and extended it to her. “And there are a hell of a lot of men out there who might take advantage of that.”
Hand shaking, she took the glass and downed the wine in several quick swallows, then gave the glass back again. He obliged her and poured one for himself.
“And you won’t?” she asked.
“One can only hope.” A corner of his mouth lifted.
She frowned at that. He could imagine her mind working to decipher his response. To determine the believability of it, or if it would be to her advantage.
The wine glass lifted, and she threw back another gulp.
It occurred to him to light a lamp, but he decided against it. He liked her better in the firelight, when he shouldn’t be liking her at all.
Pensive at the thought, he reached out and drew a knuckle along the smooth line of her jaw. For the life of him, he couldn’t keep from touching her, not when she looked so fragile and vulnerable. Like she was afraid he’d eat her alive.
She trembled.
“I am not a whore, Mr. Mathison,” she whispered shakily. “Please do not think that I am.”
His gaze settled on her mouth. It drew him, that mouth. “It would be easier if you were, Miss Chandler.”
She was so damned soft and warm. Her scent filled him, lilacs and wine and woman, each as sweet as the other. He lowered his head. She guessed his intent and turned away, her lashes closing tight. She drew in a jagged breath.
He hesitated. She really was afraid of him, and if he’d been guilty of many worse things in his life, frightening a woman had never been one of them.
It became imperative to convince her of that, to soothe her fears and make her feel all that he was feeling. He cupped her chin and gently urged her to face him again.
“Carleigh,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”
Her lashes fluttered, then opened, and his gaze roamed over her face, discovering for himself the exquisite structure, the flawlessness of her skin, the sheer perfection of her creation. All those things the artist’s brush attempted to define in the portrait hanging in her father’s office, but fell short of doing.
“What man wouldn’t want to have you in his room, to keep you all to himself for the night?” he murmured without conscious thought. “You are . . . breathtaking.”
She met his gaze, and he wondered what she was thinking. Her eyes darkened, no longer the ice blue that he knew from the painting, but a smoldering hue, like a sky shimmering with summer heat.
“Mr. Mathison,” she whispered. She drew a fragile breath inward. “Trig . . ..”
His lips met hers, and Carleigh’s breath caught at his boldness. She was not in the practice of kissing men she did not know; indeed, she was quite selective in kissing those she did. But this one held her captivated, and she couldn’t stop the quiver of reaction that coursed through her body. She knew little of him, but she’d already learned he was a man who knew what he wanted, that he took it at will.
And he wanted her. The knowledge tripped the beating of her heart into unsteady rhythm. For the life of her, she couldn’t step away, not when his masculinity snared her in its grip.
His kiss grew bolder, his mouth slanting over hers and tracing its shape with his tongue. A craving to taste him more fully built in her, and her lips moved beneath his in tremulous response. She was helpless to fend off the wicked allure of passion escalating between them. Somehow, the wine glasses found their way to the table, and his arms moved to encircle her, to pull her against him.
Never had she known a man so vibrantly virile, whose skill at wooing a woman with his kisses could diminish any vestige of resistance she might attempt.
And Carleigh had no power to resist.
Her breasts pressed into the hard breadth of his chest; her hands splayed across his shoulders. He grasped her hips, pressing her into his hardening shaft, showing her what he wanted.
His head lifted. “It’s just us tonight, Carleigh. You and me in this room,” he said huskily. Her eyes closed, and she inhaled the rugged scent of him. “You’re far away from your father’s house. Tell me to stop and--.”
At his words, she froze. Abruptly, she stepped away, turning from him. “Do not speak to me of my father.”
Trig’s eye narrowed.
“In my mind, he no longer exists,” she said, not sure why she was telling him so. “The love I’ve always had for him has died. My heart is empty.”
“He really hurt you, didn’t he?” he said, his voice low. Rough.
She swallowed hard. A sudden, irrational yearning to feel Trig’s strong arms around her again surfaced with a pathetic vengeance. “Yes.”
“He’s a bastard.”
Her head came up, and she pivoted back toward him.
“Yes,” she said again.
Memory of Papa’s deceit surged forth, ugly and vivid. Seeds of rebellion spro
uted, germinated with the wine in her veins, and took root.
She didn’t want to be Carleigh Chandler, prim and proper daughter of the Honorable Judge Reginald P. Chandler, anymore. She wanted to be just Carleigh. Woman. Alone in Visalia, California, with the handsome stranger she met only a few hours ago who gave her the shelter of his room, who saved her little dog from the livery and kept them both from a night on the streets.
She wanted Trig.
His shadowed gaze melded with hers. His hand curled around her neck and tugged, bringing her closer. The need for comfort, to forget, arose in her stronger than ever, and she sought his mouth again.
The tables had turned with unexpected speed, Trig realized. Her response stunned him. The blind determination of it. He’d not thought her capable of such wild rebellion when she seemed but a helpless, frightened kitten, inexperienced in the ways of the world.
But this. This tigress who possessed a hidden passion shook him to the core. He sensed she only now discovered it herself, with him. He intruded on territory no other man had ventured before. She gave what she’d given to no other.
In defiance of her father. In her need for solace. And healing. It aroused in Trig a fierceness he couldn’t explain.
He understood. He accepted. He kissed her without tenderness, his tongue relentless in its quest to learn the taste of her. The heat. The wet, sultry depths of her. Her mouth opened wider, seeking him, joining him in the mating game that quickened their breathing into heavy pants.
Twisting, he tumbled with her onto the bed, her body unresisting beneath his. Her hands moved to his shoulders and tugged at his shirt. He jerked the garment off and flung it aside.
Carleigh’s palms slid across the taut cords of muscle banding his chest. His power surrounded her. His kisses, raw and primal. There was nothing in her world but the feel and taste of his skin against hers. He consumed her.
He eased the ache of a lifetime of lies she only just discovered but would never forget. In these frenzied moments, in bed with this man, she could escape into a whirlwind of mind-numbing sensations.
Her need for him built higher and higher, a crescendo of excitement that demanded to be sated. She struggled with the buttons of his pants. Her brazenness came from somewhere deep inside her, long-buried and unrealized and incredibly female, and she reveled in it.