"Ms. O'Shea? We need to get Colin to the labs for his tests."
"I can't go with him?"
"Really, it would be best if we take him ourselves. The tests are all routine. They'll take about two hours, so that would give you some time of your own."
Erina spread her heavy, wrinkled skirt with both hands. "I suppose I could do somethin' about my clothes, if you could show me the facilities."
"I can do better than that."
She turned to Mr. Kirby, who'd appeared suddenly in the doorway. She'd hoped to avoid the man for a while longer. She had too much of a tendency to become flustered around him. And whenever he took charge of a situation, as his tone of voice just now had implied, her life became much more complicated.
"I just need a place to freshen up," she said, lifting her head and looking him straight in the eye. She wasn't about to give in to his bossiness, even if he had been very nice this morning.
"You need a shower and a change of clothes."
"That would probably make you feel much better," the nurse added.
And make me smell a wee bit better. "I didn't bring a change with me," she said defensively.
"That's all right. We can remedy that."
"Mr. Kirby, I'll be remindin' you of my situation," she warned.
"Ms. O'Shea, I'm very well aware of your situation," he countered, placing his hands on his hips. Although they'd gently cradled Colin not so long ago, his hands seemed very large and masculine, his fingers framing the front of his pants some arrogant advertisement.
She broke her eyes away from his . . . hands, and looked again at his eyes. He seemed determined yet amused by her unwillingness to give in on this point. Did he expect her to challenge him in front of the nurse, a stranger? But then, Mr. Grant Kirby wasn't much more than a stranger himself, and a demanding one at that.
"I'll go somewhere to launder my dress," she said, trying a compromise.
He watched her a moment longer, his brows drawn together. Then his expression lightened, his posture shifted. "Okay. That's a deal." His attention switched to the nurse. "How long did you say we have?"
"About two hours for the tests, but don't worry. When he gets finished, we'll give him a bottle, if you'd like to prepare one, Ms. O'Shea, and he can take a nap." The nurse glanced at Colin with true affection, mentioning the task of feeding him as though it were a subject suitable for discussion around a man.
Erina felt her cheeks grow warm at his close scrutiny. "I'll be takin' care of that when Mr. Kirby leaves the room," she announced softly, turning back to the crib. Colin kicked and waved his arms, preparing for a full-fledged fuss. "At the moment, I need to feed my son."
"I'll get the car."
She heard his footsteps as he walked toward the door. "Don't be too long, Erina. I don't want to get a ticket."
"A ticket? Would you be goin' to the opera house?"
He laughed. "Very clever. I'll see you downstairs in twenty minutes, okay?"
She had no idea what was so funny, but at the moment, she wanted very much to put Colin to her breast. She ached from the fullness. "Very well, Mr. Kirby. Just go along with you now. I have to care for my son."
She waited until both visitors had left the room before unbuttoning her bodice and picking up her son. Erina wrinkled her nose with distaste as she prepared to nurse Colin. Her chemise stuck to her breasts and smelled faintly sour from the leaked milk. She used a damp cloth from the adjoining facilities to wash up.
"Your mother does need a bath, little one," she crooned to her hungry son as she sat in the chair by the window, "but she doesn't need charity from that particular Kirby."
#
"Give me whatever you have that will fit a woman this size," Grant said, placing Erina's old, gray dress and black boots on the counter of a trendy boutique on The Strand.
The saleslady picked up the dress with two fingers, looking inside the neck for a size, Grant supposed.
"I don't know what size she wears, but she's real petite. About this tall," he said, gesturing to the center of his chest. "And she's small all over, except . . . well, she's just had a child, and . . .
"I think I understand," the woman said after a moment of silence. She gave him a tentative smile, held up the dress, then looked at the bottom of the boots. "Let me see what I can do."
She walked across the store to a rack. Grant shifted from on foot to the other, then leaned his hips against the glass counter. Whatever he brought back to the condo, Erina was bound to look better than she had in that antique style dress. If she looked more like a twentieth century woman, maybe she'd quit throwing around lines about being from the past. And maybe if she looked less like a homeless waif, he'd quit feeling so damned protective.
The woman returned with a red leather jacket and miniskirt, then held up a pair of matching knee boots. "This should be her size," she said, smiling.
He eyed the flashy outfit. On any other woman, he'd say definitely. If you could get away with wearing it, you should. But not Erina. She wasn't the red leather type, even if it might make her appear older and more sophisticated.
"I'm sorry. I think she's too modest for that particular outfit."
The saleslady's smile faded.
"It's very nice, but perhaps you could find something a little longer." Lace and flowers came to mind, along with buttery soft wools and cashmere, and silk against her pale skin. "Something soft and feminine. And undergarments."
"Of course." The woman returned to browsing the racks. Grant crossed his legs at the ankle and resumed his pose against the counter.
A few minutes later, the saleslady was back, her arms full. She placed the items on the counter.
"I found two skirts--mid-calf, a blouse, a two piece sweater ensemble with a darling ecru lace collar, and a pair of wool slacks. I think a size four petite should fit her. Also, I took the liberty of suggesting some accessories."
Grant glanced at the selections briefly. All of them looked modest enough for Erina. "Fine. Do you have shoes here, or just boots?"
"Yes, both."
"Throw in a couple of pairs, and maybe some brown or black boots. And purses. I don't think she has a purse. Maybe some stockings and things. Just whatever else she'd need. She . . . lost her luggage."
"Yes, of course." The saleslady seemed a bit baffled by his carte blanc attitude, but hurried off again. When she returned, she said, "We don't carry foundation garments here, but the store next door should have a good selection."
Grant stared at her, his mind a blank.
"Undergarments, sir. If she's nursing, she'll need a special bra."
"Oh, right. I forgot about that."
He wondered if Erina's historical accuracy extended as far as going without a modern bra. Probably not. He decided not to take a chance, though. What size would she wear? He had absolutely no idea, except that her breasts appeared too large for her petite frame.
Grant shook his head, then pulled out his wallet and chose a credit card. Months had passed since he'd bought a gift for a woman. His accountant would no doubt raise his eyebrows at this purchase--and the one next door at the "foundation" shop.
A few minutes later, he walked out of the lingerie store with a total of four shopping bags and two dresses on hangers. One of the bags held Erina's old dress and boots. He probably should have given them to Goodwill, or, better yet, a drama company specializing in period productions, but he didn't know if the old garments meant something special to her. If she'd sewed them herself . . .
What was he thinking? Women didn't sew their own clothes anymore, did they? From what he'd read in economic and business journals, domestic production or even retail fabric couldn't compete with the price of foreign clothing imports. The big discount retailers had the market cornered on low price merchandise. No, Erina O'Shea hadn't sewed that dress herself, unless it was another part of her elaborate story.
He placed the bags in the back of the Jeep, then drove back to his condo. Erina should be getting o
ut of the tub about now . . . and discovering that she had no clothes.
#
"Mr. Kirby?" Erina wrapped the thick bathing robe tightly around her, then clutched the lapels together at her neck. Peering through the barely open door, she tried to locate her host, but all she could see was a short hallway and a wall of mirrors in the living room.
"Mr. Kirby?" She pushed open the door into the silence of his home. Condo, she corrected herself, whatever that might be. To her, it looked like an apartment.
But she was still amazed by the bath tub and the abundance of warm, fresh water that had flowed from the shiny brass faucet. And tooth brushes and paste that made your mouth feel so clean and fresh. He'd showed her shampoo for her hair and fresh towels that were as thick as ten bathing sheets. After telling her to place her dress and boots outside the door so he could have them cleaned, he'd left her alone with the amazing inventions.
This world was truly foreign, even more so than when she'd first come to Galveston from Ireland in 1888.
The thick carpet cushioned her footsteps. In the mirror she saw herself, a dark shadow in the hallway, moving slowly with her hand fisted at her throat.
A frightened shadow, she thought. She didn't want to appear so cowering. She hadn't felt like cringing in a long time, not since Jerrold Kirby had swaggered out of her room in the wee hours of last Christmas morning. As a matter of fact, she did all she could to put on a good show of courage and spunk.
No, she wasn't a frightened shadow, even on the inside when she didn't know what had happened to her host and her clothes. A woman grown, and a mother besides, that's what she was! She smoothed the lapels flat over her upper chest, straightened her spine, and walked into the parlor.
The room was empty.
So was the kitchen, with all those modern, white boxes, and the bedroom near the bathing room that she'd used, and the other bedroom, which contained the largest bed she'd ever seen.
His bed. Did he sleep in it alone? She hadn't even asked if he had a wife.
He didn't act as though he had a wife.
She was still staring at the bed, with its unmade cover and sheets so dark a blue that they matched her Colin's eyes, when she heard the door open.
"Erina?"
She hurried from Mr. Kirby's bedroom, but didn't get out in time. He stood in the hallway beside the kitchen, holding a number of sacks, as she stepped from his room into the parlor.
"Mr. Kirby. I was just lookin' for you."
He smiled in a way that made her nervous.
"You look good in my robe." Walking towards her, he placed the bags on the sofa. She resisted the urge to back up, or to clutch the robe more tightly together. Surely he wouldn't try to . . .
He walked over to a desk and picked up a few sheets of paper that seemed to come out of a machine that looked something like the telephones they had at the hospital. He seemed to focus on the writing on the paper, but his words were definitely for her. "You don't have to look at me like I'm going to molest you. That's not my style."
"I don't know what you mean," she said, straightening her spine again. "And I'm only wearin' your robe because it was the only decent garment you left me!" In truth, she'd washed and donned her chemise, but it was wet and clung to her like a second skin.
"I'm well aware that I took your clothes."
"Well, I'll be askin' for my dress back. You had no right to take my property. And I want to go back to the hospital. Colin will be--"
"He's probably still having tests. And he'll be fine. The nurses all love him, or haven't you noticed? They treat him like their own little china doll."
"He's a bonny boy."
"Yes, he is, but it's his mother I want to discuss."
"What do you mean?"
He reached inside a bag and started pulling out garments. "I wasn't sure of your size, so I took your old dress and boots to the shop. The saleslady was very helpful. I hope these fit."
He pulled out beautiful flowing fabrics, soft knitted garments, blouses with lace. Erina felt her eyes go wide, heard the soft sound of a sigh that came from her.
"What have you done, Mr. Kirby? I cannot pay for these clothes!"
"I don't expect you to." He placed two pairs of shiny slippers on the table beside the sofa. "But I'm tired of seeing you in a dress that would be more suited for a museum. So these are for you. If they don't fit, we can exchange them later. And there are some . . . undergarments in this bag. I wasn't sure of your . . . size."
"But I'll not be acceptin' clothes from you. That would be most . . . improper."
"Erina," he said, placing his hands on his hips again, "don't argue every point with me, okay? Pick you fights carefully. I'm bigger and more persistent than you, and in the end, I'll win."
"I wasn't aware we were havin' a battle, Mr. Kirby."
"And stop calling me 'Mr. Kirby,'" he said, stepping close to her. "That's what people called my father, and he's long gone. I'm Grant. Not 'mister.' Just Grant."
She tried to ignore his nearness. The clothes he'd purchased lay about the sofa, draped like a very decadent offering on his own personal altar. Well, she couldn't be bought for a few handfuls of garments.
"I'll not be familiar with you, Mr. Kirby. I'll not--"
His hands gripped her arms, his head titled to the side, and before she could say another word, his lips sealed over hers.
Warm. That was the only sensation she felt as all other thoughts flew from her mind like leaves in an autumn breeze. She closed her eyes in a purely instinctive gesture; she simply couldn't stare at him as his lips moved against hers. He pulled her closer, until their chests met, until she felt the coolness of his leather jacket and the warmth of his large, hard body. The wet chemise pressed even closer to her heated skin, making her shiver. He smelled like sea and salt wind, and clean, strong man. And she moaned in response.
Suddenly another memory flashed in her mind, of a strong man kissing her, holding her. There had been no one there to stop him, either. She felt panic rise up like bile. With strength she wasn't sure she possessed, she broke away from his grip, panting, clutching the robe closed over her heaving chest. "No," she whispered. "I'll fight you. I'll scream--"
"Erina, no," he whispered, reaching out a hand. "I didn't mean . . . Dammit, I wasn't trying to force you."
"No. I won't let you do this." She backed up until she pressed against the cold glass of the large windows.
He stopped a few feet away. "I'm sorry. I was just angry. And I wanted you to say my name."
"I gave you no rights," she whispered. "I didn't know you thought . . ."
"We're not talking about me now, are we?" he asked softly. He watched her until she hugged her arms around herself, then looked away. Looked into the past.
"No," she finally said. "He came to my room on Christmas Eve. I . . . I didn't know what he wanted. I thought that he . . . but I was a foolish girl."
"And now you're a much wiser woman?" he asked gently.
"Yes," she said, feeling stronger now. "Yes, I am much wiser. And I know what men like him--like you--really want from a girl or a woman who sews and cleans."
"You know nothing about me."
"All I know is that the Holy Mother sent me here, to your home, so Colin could be saved. I appreciate all you've done for him, and for me, but I'll not be payin' you back with my body."
"Did I ask?"
"You . . . what do you mean?"
"I mean I didn't ask you into my bed. All I did was kiss you when I should have taken a deep breath and cussed a blue streak."
"But you--"
"Miss O'Shea, when and if I ever want you in my bed, you can be sure I'll let you know. Directly, succinctly, and without offering a bribe. Now why don't you take those clothes into the guest bedroom and see if any of them fit? Then we can get our butts over to the hospital and see how your son is doing."
He pivoted and stalked across the room, while Erina stood near the cold glass, the beach far below, and wondered wh
at she'd done to make him so angry.
CHAPTER SIX
"You look . . . great," Grant said, wondering how she could appear any younger or more vulnerable than she did right now. He'd thought the modern clothes would make her somehow different, but he hadn't anticipated his gut reaction to the maroon flowered, flowing soft skirt, the sweater that molded to her breasts, the lace collar that framed her sweet face. No, he'd hoped to feel differently about her.
Instead, he wanted to put his arms around her, erase that wide-eyed, uncertain look from her face, and tell her that everything was going to be fine.
He also wanted to kiss her again. This time in passion, not in anger. He wanted to ease his tongue between her lips and--
"Mr. Kirby."
"Grant," he said automatically. His anger had long since vanished, replaced by the damned sense of protectiveness. And tenderness. He recognized the feeling, but didn't welcome such a compelling emotion. He'd only known her for two days--much too soon to develop any real affection. And God, she was so young.
"I cannot be callin' you 'Grant.' That wouldn't be proper."
"Everyone calls me 'Grant.' Just try it. Say, 'Okay, Grant."
"I don't think I can do that."
"If you keep calling me 'Mr. Kirby,' I'm just going to have to remind you that's not my name. Maybe by kissing you again, just so you realize who I am." That should convince her. She wouldn't welcome another kiss, not after she'd pushed him away--after he'd frightened her by reminding her of the past. Damn. There he went again, believing her stories. She had not been raped by his great-grandfather. She was not from the past.
"Look, Erina, why don't you just say it," he asked in a very reasonable, bland tone. "Just call me Grant. That's all I'm asking."
She narrowed her eyes at him and crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm thinkin' that you're takin' advantage of me by wantin' me to be familiar with you."
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