Colorado Captive

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Donahue’s catlike green eyes bored into him, and he snarled, “You some sort of inspector, Mr.—”

  “McClanahan.” He shrugged and took another drink, wondering if Clancy Donahue always answered questions with such defensive ones of his own. “I overheard the barkeep at the Imperial saying—”

  “Well, Frankie’s mouth always was bigger than his brain.” The Irishman leaned closer, looking McClanahan in the eye with a confidential smile. “The girls’re pretty shook up—stuff like this usually happens at lower-class houses. If you expect your lady to be at her best, you’ll keep quiet about it. If you know what I mean.”

  “Certainly. Didn’t pay that kind of price to watch a woman cry.” Matt drained his glass, and then picked up his token and his bottle. “Now where do I go for that bath?”

  Emily stopped outside the bathing suite to smooth the crisp, white apron she wore over her black uniform. When she opened the door, she nearly dropped her armload of towels: the customers were usually dressed when she checked the supply of bath oils and linens, but this man was totally nude. Thank God he was facing the mirror, shaving, so he didn’t see her staring at his body. His broad shoulders rippled as he scraped the razor over his face.

  “Come on in, sweetheart. Shut the door.” The customer flashed her a half-lathered grin. “You can’t tell me you’ve never seen a man with his clothes off.”

  Emily flushed furiously and looked away. “Most of our guests are mine owners, or—modest, or—”

  “A little softer around the edges, are they?” His drawl was teasing yet friendly as he splashed his face over the basin.

  “I—I’m only seeing if you need anything before—”

  “Got a bottle, got a girl. What else could I want?”

  He turned, wiping his face with a towel, and Emily bit back a yelp. That perfectly proportioned body and those playful blue eyes belonged to Matt McClanahan! She set the towels on the vanity across the room and looked frantically around for something else to talk about. “Uh, that sure is a nice hat,” she said, pointing to the chair where he’d folded his clothes.

  “New Stetson. Got it in Denver this summer,” Matt replied proudly.

  She nodded, avoiding his gaze as she ran hot water into the tub and reached for the decanter of bath oil. “So what brings you to Cripple Creek?”

  A bronzed hand covered her own, gripping the bottle. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not smell so pretty. That’s your job, little lady”

  McClanahan turned her in his arms, holding her lithe body firmly against his own. Then he smiled down at her. She was shaking like a rabbit ready to bolt…a vaguely familiar-looking rabbit…and he stroked the soft, stray hairs that had escaped her braid. “Came to town for the gold, like everybody else,” he said gently. “Never expected to find it here, though. You’ve got the prettiest hair I’ve ever seen, honey. Go tell Donahue I’ve changed my mind about that brunette—and be back soon, or I’ll come looking for you.”

  It was the escape she’d been hoping for, and Emily rushed from his arms and out through the Rose’s back exit. Never mind that he was the only man she’d ever seen in all his natural glory! He killed Papa!

  Emily leaned against the house’s cool foundation, trying to harness her racing thoughts in the darkness. This was her chance to quiz McClanahan—to find out why he was here, and see if he remembered her from the night he shot Papa and Viry—while he was relatively defenseless. It would take all the gumption she could muster to pretend she didn’t know the awful truth about this man, but if she could keep him talking, whichever lady Clancy was sending him would eventually come to her rescue.

  Emily took a deep breath, confident she could get McClanahan convicted with whatever facts she learned tonight. When she stepped back into the bathing suite, he was already in the tub, sipping his whiskey. Perfect, except he’d turned off the lamps and lit the candles the ladies used to create a more romantic atmosphere. And without any bubbles on the water, his rugged, masculine body was in clear view.

  “Come here, sweetheart. Let me see your pretty face while I talk to you,” Matt said with a patient chuckle. “This is a mighty fancy setup and I intend to enjoy every minute I’m here.”

  Emily stood like a statue beside the porcelain tub, not wanting to look into those probing eyes, yet not knowing where else to focus. Matt McClanahan had long, dark lashes, yet she doubted that any man dared call him effeminate.

  He leaned his head against the back of the tub, smiling lazily. “I could swear I’ve seen you before—”

  Emily’s pulse sped up: he had spotted her that night at the ranch!

  “—but the only places I’ve been are the Imperial Hotel and the Angel Claire gold mine.”

  She let out the breath she’d been holding, certain McClanahan could hear her heart pounding. “You—you saw me this afternoon. I keep the mine’s payroll records for Silas Hughes.”

  “Eliza?” he murmured. McClanahan drained his glass and handed it to her. The girl’s ivory complexion was flawless, now that it was clean, and the difference a dress made intrigued him immensely, but she was so scared she was shaking. “So Silas is your uncle? And he lets you work here?”

  “I work both jobs to earn my keep,” she hedged with a nervous laugh. “Here at the Rose I just do the housekeeping, though. The ladies’d have my hide if they thought I was horning in on their business.”

  He chuckled, gently grasping her arm as she set his glass on the floor. “I knew you weren’t one of the whores, Eliza. You’re too unsophisticated — too natural. That’s why I asked you to stay.”

  Emily wasn’t sure, but she thought he was paying her a compliment. With those eyes gazing at her, she couldn’t be sure of anything right now, except that she couldn’t break free…and that she was foolish to think she could outfox the man who’d murdered her father. But it was too late to stop trying.

  McClanahan let his fingers trail down her sleeve until he was holding her hand, which felt frail and damp. “So what happened to your folks?”

  “Mama’s dead,” she replied quietly. Then she braced herself, hoping her voice didn’t give her lie away. “And Papa…well, he left me with Silas. Went prospecting, and I doubt he’ll ever come back.”

  “He’s missing a lot, not seeing what a beautiful young woman his daughter’s become.”

  Emily felt herself flush. “Thank you. I—”

  “Ever let your hair out of that braid, Eliza?” Matt asked as he sat up straighten “Nothing I’d like better than to run my fingers through—”

  “No! I—” Emily jerked her hand from his, stunned out of the spell he’d been casting with his low, hypnotic voice. “Clancy would know. The ladies would think—”

  “Some other time, then.” McClanahan leaned forward, appreciating her innocence, yet wishing she weren’t so damn jittery. “How about washing my back?” he asked in a low voice. “No harm in helping a man lead a clean life, is there?”

  As Emily picked up the soap, she knew she was losing ground. She had intended to ask the questions, yet McClanahan was getting more information than she was, even if most of her answers were lies.

  And the moment she touched his back, Emily realized she’d be better off letting him do all the talking. How could a man with muscles of steel have skin like velvet? McClanahan was hugging his knees; his eyes were closed and he was smiling sweetly.

  “Scrub harder, honey…that’s the way,” he murmured. Her hands were small yet surprisingly strong as they eased the knots from around the base of his neck. “Lord, you feel good. Left-handed, aren’t you?”

  Emily stared at his frothy back. What else had he observed about her? That her eyes widened when she lied? That her hands were shaking and her breathing was shallow and uneven? Without warning, McClanahan leaned back and submerged himself in the tub. Soapsuds floated above his dark hair, and then trickled through his wet waves when he surfaced again.

  He grinned at her, wiping the water from his face. “Can
’t remember ever having a woman wash my hair. Would you care to be the first?”

  It was silly, but Emily felt as though he was honoring her with his request. And as she massaged shampoo through his thick ebony mane, she was glad she was standing behind him—her face would surely betray her apprehension. Yet after he ducked his head again, and guided her around so she was facing him, his expression was serious and…pleased.

  “Wash the front of me now,” he said in a husky voice.

  She hesitated, knowing damn well she should run out and get Clancy or the marshal before he could pull any tricks. Then McClanahan drew her hand across his taut chest…small satisfaction that his heartbeat was as rapid as hers when she rubbed him with the soap. He was studying the braid draped over her shoulder, and then he caressed her face, giving her a blue-eyed gaze that made her knees go rubbery.

  Matt guided her hand lower, not caring that he soaked the sleeve of her matronly uniform. Her breath was falling lightly on his damp forehead, and she was getting every bit as aroused as he was but she didn’t know what to do about it. He decided it was time golden-haired Eliza found out what made the world go around, and that he was the man to teach her.

  Emily was skimming the flat hardness of his stomach with the soap when McClanahan squeezed the bar from her hand, moaning as he curled her fingers around his rigid manhood. Her gasp was stifled by a kiss as he draped a wet arm around her, clutching until she had no strength to struggle. Then Matt stroked her cheek, and claimed her mouth again with a firm tenderness that made her want more, despite her best intentions. When he released her, she staggered backward to keep from falling into the tub.

  “That the first time you’ve ever been kissed, Eliza?” he asked with a grin.

  “Of course not!” Emily took a ragged breath, feeling foolish and terribly vulnerable. But again McClanahan’s finesse made her wonder how he could possibly be a hardened killer.

  “I’ve had all the clean living I can stand, sweetheart,” he said with a soft chuckle. “Help me up now. And fetch those towels.”

  She went immediately to the dresser, to avoid being so close to his overpowering body—or worse yet, being pulled into the tub with him. When she turned, he was standing, watching her, looking taller than she remembered and majestically male even though he was dripping wet. As Emily handed him the towels, his expression told her exactly what he would ask for next.

  But instead of saying anything, McClanahan rubbed his hair dry. Then he tugged the towel diagonally across his back as he continued to look at her with a casual grin. Damn, she was ready! Her topaz eyes glimmered with the first light of womanly fire, yet her face was flushed with innocent confusion. He sensed she wanted to explore his male contours, to discover what made his body so different, yet so like her own when it came to desire, so he left her no choice but to dry the front of him.

  Against her better judgment, Emily grasped the towel he pressed into her hands. When she touched it to his rugged face, he stood stock-still, closing his eyes. He was at her mercy—she could strangle him, or hit him over the head with the bath oil decanter. But those foolish thoughts disappeared when he let his own towel fall to hold her hands: she could no more overpower McClanahan than she could control her galloping heartbeat.

  Matt guided the girl’s towel lower, across the plains of his chest and around his hips. He smiled warmly at her, then chuckled as he again closed her hesitant hand around his manhood. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

  Her eyes widened. “N-no”

  “Good.” McClanahan raised her hands to his lips and then stepped out of the tub. She was looking like a scared rabbit again, so he lifted her effortlessly, catching her under the bottom so she was straddling him.

  How had she gotten into this hopeless situation? Even fully dressed, Emily could feel his damp warmth and arousal as he carried her to a chair beside the bed. He sat down, holding her on his lap as though she were a small child. His hands began to caress her back and follow the fullness of her hips. “Mr. McClanahan, I—”

  “Call me Matt,” he whispered as he felt all sense of control slipping away. “Touch me, honey…kiss me. I know you want to.”

  He nuzzled her ear, running his tongue along its sensitive shell, and Emily felt all sense of reason slipping

  away. She rested her head tentatively against his damp, tousled hair, trying not to notice the smoothness of his freshly-shaven cheek against her neck. McClanahan pulled her closer, and her protest sounded weak even to her own ears when he kissed her hungrily with his full, urgent lips.

  Matt moaned, nibbling and teasing at her tender mouth as his hands found their way under her petticoats. He desperately wanted to explore the depths of her, and watch her eyes widen at the wonder of the love they’d make, but she was too precious to rush this first time. “Mmm…silk stockings,” he murmured against her fragrant hair. “What other surprises does this prim little uniform hide, honey?”

  Emily laughed, hoping to cover another lie. “The ladies let me have their old underthings sometimes. But what Uncle Silas doesn’t know won’t hurt him. All right?”

  He’d molded his hands to her graceful hips, and he gripped them suddenly. “Damn you, little girl,” he muttered.

  He stood up, still holding her. Was he carrying her to the bed to make love to her? Emily closed her eyes, trying to think coherently. If McClanahan was so desperate for her body, she could use it to snare him, after she notified the marshal that he was Papa’s killer. Losing her innocence would be a small sacrifice, if it brought McClanahan to justice…and now Matt was loosening his grip, dropping her playfully onto the bed.

  But instead of landing on the mattress, Emily splashed into the tub of cold bathwater. She gasped and came up sputtering.

  “Sorry to cool you off this way, sweetheart,” McClanahan said. “But if Hughes found out I took liberties with his niece, I’d be out of a job.”

  “Why didn’t you think of that before, you damn—”

  “I did,” he protested. “I only intended to kiss you, but when you felt so good, I couldn’t—”

  “Is that the first time you’ve ever been kissed?” Emily jeered. She struggled to stand up in her heavy, wet clothes, slapping away the hand he offered her. “Don’t touch me, McClanahan. Just get out of my way.”

  He choked on a laugh, noting her flushed indignation—but paying more attention to the way her wet black uniform clung to her curves. “The least I can do is bring you a towel. And when you’re dry, we can talk about seeing each other someplace besides here.”

  But as he went to the vanity, Emily had other plans. She stepped quickly out of the tub, scooping his clothes and Stetson off the chair as she ran toward the door.

  McClanahan turned, scowling. “You’ll catch cold, leaving here all soaking—hey, what’re you doing—”

  Emily threw the door open. “I hope you get pneumonia, McClanahan.”

  He was coming after her, so instead of taking the back exit, Emily raced down the hall toward the main parlor. Her waterlogged braid thumped against her back, and her shoes squeaked with every soggy step as her uniform clung to her body, but she managed to stay just ahead of McClanahan’s grasp.

  “Dammit, Eliza, I tried to apologize!”

  Voices were mingling above a spritely piano tune in the parlor as Emily burst through the crowd beside the bar. Gaudily-garbed ladies and their wealthy, well-dressed customers gasped, then laughed loudly as she hurried out the double doors. Emily was so angry she didn’t feel the least bit embarrassed about the way she looked. She heaved McClanahan’s clothes toward the nearest watering trough and kept right on running.

  “Well…how nice of Eliza to get you all warmed up. I was just on my way in.”

  McClanahan glanced at the owner of the sultry voice—the Indian princess he’d noticed when he came in—and he hastily covered himself with his towel. Clancy Donahue and some of Cripple Creek’s most prominent citizens were watching him, so it was no time to argue that he
’d canceled his request for her company. “If you don’t mind rounding up my clothes, I’ll wait down the hall,” he said quietly.

  “It’ll cost you,” the princess purred.

  “I’m hardly in a position to argue, am I?” With a polite smile, he walked away from the crowd of curious eyes in the parlor. The last thing he’d wanted was to call attention to himself, and now this!

  Once inside the suite, he flung his towel on the floor. Who would’ve guessed that golden-haired innocent would make such an ass of him? Yet he couldn’t stay mad at her. He’d sincerely hoped to get better acquainted with Eliza, but under less questionable circumstances. He wanted her trust—her friendship—before he succumbed to her seductive young body. Damn few women could offer him any of those things these days, and he had a feeling he’d ruined his chances with the most fascinating female he’d met in years.

  Matt knelt before the marble hearth and stoked the fire. The flames licked at the logs with a light that shone like Eliza’s hair—God, he wanted to lose himself in its sweet-smelling warmth! But he’d be lucky if that amber-eyed little vixen even spoke to him again.

  “Your clothes, Mr. McClanahan,” the Indian princess crooned as she shut the door behind her. “But you can’t pay me enough to fetch the hat. It landed under the wrong end of a horse.”

  He groaned and shook his head. “Thanks. Let’s spread these by the fire to dry.”

  Matt took his wallet out of his pants, while the woman draped his shirt over a chair. She was slender and dark; ornate silver and turquoise combs held her blue-black hair away from her mahogany face. Her buckskin gown was fringed and beaded in a colorful design, so snug it covered only the flimsiest of underthings—if indeed she wore any. War paint accented her left cheek, making her smile exotic but extremely jaded.

  “How much was that favor worth, Mr. McClanahan?” she asked pointedly.

  He sighed. “How about sharing my bottle? I’m not really in the mood—”

  “I already live on whiskey. I need cash to keep Clancy in his place.”

  It wasn’t the first time a whore had wheedled him for more money, but it was the most direct line he’d ever heard. “Donahue takes more than his percentage?”