"There," she said, standing up again. "Isn't that better already?"
He was left staring at the approximate location of her navel, and he couldn't help feeling deprived. "No, it's not better. Besides trying to kill me, you've left me smelling like a girl."
"Don't be silly," she said, screwing the top back on the bottle. "Lemon scent isn't male or female. It's just...well, lemon."
"Okay, so I smell like a fruit tree."
"No, you don't." She leaned over him again and sniffed. "Besides, it's almost evaporated."
He didn’t trust himself to breathe. Didn't she know what she was doing to him? Of course not. This was Betsy Sheridan whose only interest in men seemed to be the self satisfaction she gained by besting them at their own games. Well, if she didn't back off right now, she might find herself a participant in a game she hadn’t planned on.
Suddenly the only scent Max was aware of was Betsy's fragrance, the one he had smelled on the train, the one that had tortured him at night. Her lips were so close to his face, blowing gently on his temple, soothing, tempting. Her breath was warm on his cheek. Her hair swept against his shirt sleeve like a whisper of silk. And her breasts...so near he could lift one finger and touch the swell at the bottom of one glorious...
"I can hardly smell it at all, even from here," she said, looking so deeply into his eyes he thought he might drown. "Why are you so cranky, Max? Does it still hurt?"
She raised her face and shifted around so she could see him better. But that only made matters worse. She was so close...too close. His hands settled on each side of her waist and drew her in until her chest nearly touched his. "I'm not cranky, Betsy."
A tentative smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Her lips, even in jest were seductive.
"If you're not cranky, then what are you feeling?"
"It's kind of hard to describe."
"I know, but I think I feel it too." Her voice lowered to a near whisper that stirred his senses. "What's happening?" she said softly. "This isn't like us."
His hand reached up to cup the back of her head. "Maybe it is like us," he offered, coaxing her mouth closer to his.
“Oh, Max...”
Their lips touched, and Max felt her quick intake of breath in the tips of his fingers. There was the slightest stiffening of her spine. He reached around and pressed his palm against the small of her back. Slowly, reverently, his hand crept up to her shoulders, massaging away her reluctance.
He urged the kiss to deepen with the pressure of his hand against her hair. He shifted his head under hers until the brush of lips that had been feather light before grew in intensity, firing Max's heated blood.
He turned her body and settled her on his lap. With his arm firmly around her, he stroked her back while his tongue played insistently along the line of her mouth, coaxing her to open to him. Her lips parted, and when she moaned softly, he took the sweet sound as an invitation to explore. She didn't return the bold thrusts of his tongue with hers, but she didn’t stop him either. He tasted a hint of whiskey, rich and sensual.
When she sighed, he lifted his head just enough to see into her eyes. He brushed tousled hair away from her face. Placing his hands on her cheeks, he stroked her temples with his thumbs while he trailed kisses under her eyes, to the sides of her small nose, to her throat, her collar bone.
"Oh, Max," she moaned, when his mouth returned to her lips.
The mention of his name brought him back to a reluctant reality. If he wasn't careful, he'd be lost in her and utterly content never to find his way back. Lost in the breathless rasp of her voice, the heady scent of her skin, the rise and fall of her chest against his. “Betsy, what are we doing?”
Images, bold and enticing, swept through her mind. Max, in his doorway, his suspenders hanging at his hips. Max, lying in his bed on the train, his hair soft and touchable. Swaggering confidently down the hillside just hours ago. His hand under her chin, his gaze anxious and caring on her face, the faint recollection of his arms around her as he carried her to the hotel.
And now, his mouth so close to hers, coaxing, confident, possessive. His hands caressed her skin, bringing a strange, wonderful feeling of warmth to the surface, stirring something inside her she never knew existed. Her breasts tingled as if begging him to touch them.
"Oh, Max,” she said again. “I don’t know.”
He set her on the bed and stood abruptly. “We have to stop.”
His unexpected words bewildered her, left her feeling incomplete. She stared at him, expecting more, demanding without words that he look at her. He didn't. She tugged at her torn dress, trying to cover herself completely and at the same time hide her shame. He didn’t want her. “Yes, of course,” she said. “You’re right.”
Finally he stared at her, a grin trying to form on his face. A grin! “We almost lost ourselves there for a minute, Betsy. I’m sorry.”
He was sorry. She averted her gaze, stared at her hands clasped in her lap.
“You've had too much to drink,” he said. “You were upset over what happened. You're probably not thinking clearly. I took advantage, and I shouldn’t have. There's no excuse for my behavior."
He was making excuses for what happened. And worse, he was apologizing. An apology! Just moments ago she’d been floating somewhere between ecstasy and euphoria and now she felt cheap and used. Well, she wasn't about to let him know it.
"You’ve disappointed me, Max. You're hardly better than the pair of hoodlums in the alley. And poor me, as besotted as a drunken Irishman too, not knowing what I was doing and helpless to fend off your charms."
His eyes darkened with conflicting emotions. "I didn’t mean that, Betsy. I was just thinking about the morning, how mad you would have been if we had...”
“No need to explain,” she said, getting up from the bed. She smoothed what was left of her dress in a pitiful attempt to regain her dignity. "For your information, I was just about to stop you myself. And it's hard to imagine that I'd be any angrier with you in the morning than I am right now."
"What the devil for?" he demanded with the tone of an unjustly accused child. "For whatever reason, we stopped didn't we? No harm done."
"You really don't know, do you, poor Max? Why don't you just go back to your rooming house. Like you told me, tomorrow's a busy day."
“That’s true enough,” he said, straightening his jacket. “I’ll just be one my way.” He had just touched the knob when a knock at the door made him draw his hand back as if it had been scorched.
Forgetting her indignation, Elizabeth crossed the room and grabbed his arm. "Who could that be at this hour? The men from the alley?"
"Couldn't be," he said. "Unless they know where you're staying." He settled his hand comfortingly on her shoulder. "You'd better ask who it is. If it's your brother, I doubt he'll be too crazy about finding me in your room."
She nodded. "Who is it?"
"The bellman, Miss Sheridan. Sorry to disturb you so late, but I've got a message from your brother. Would you please open up?"
Max stepped away so he'd be hidden behind the door and motioned for her to open it. When she did, an arm burst through the crack she'd provided and pushed the door until it crashed into Max. Elizabeth jumped back with a startled scream.
"Francis Hildebrand, Miss Sheridan." The man flipped open a leather pouch and revealed his identification. "From the Pinkerton Agency."
A quick glance at his badge confirmed what he said. Elizabeth’s thoughts tumbled. Why would a detective be visiting her in the middle of the night? "What do you want?"
"I've been hired by your father to take you back to New York. Get your things together, because that's exactly what I intend to do."
He wasn't a big man, but the detective's take charge attitude was intimidating nevertheless. Elizabeth thought better of refusing his demand right off. "Can't we talk about this, Mr. Hildebrand?"
"Nothing to talk about. I've been paid to do a job, handsomely, I might add, and I'm going t
o do it. With your cooperation or without it."
"Are you threatening me?"
"I don't have to threaten, Miss Sheridan. I just act." He pulled a pocket watch from his vest and flipped it open. "There's a train leaving here in four hours. You and I are going to be on it. And between now and then I don’t intend to let you out of my sight."
No, it couldn’t end like this. She hadn’t had her adventure yet. She hadn’t written her story. She hadn’t accomplished any of her goals. She stepped back, looked behind the door, and mouthed the words, "Max, do something."
He stared back at her a moment before releasing a sigh and emerging from his hiding place.
The detective's eyebrows shot up with amusement. He closed the door. "Well, what have we here, Miss Sheridan? Hanky panky. I have a hunch daddy won't like the sound of this."
Hildebrand cupped one hand over his chin and observed the unkempt appearance of the two of them before drawing a reasonable conclusion. "Looks like you two had quite a romp between the sheets...after you ripped each other's clothes to shreds.” He pointed vaguely in the direction of Max's lemon scented wound. "And you, Miss Sheridan, should trim your fingernails before you drown yourself in the throes of passion. You don’t want to kill the poor guy."
Elizabeth finally understood the meaning of blood boiling anger. She stepped toward him, her fists clenched. “How dare you?” she shouted. “You disgusting little man! I have no intention of going anywhere with you!"
Max caught her elbows from behind and kept her from attacking. "Calm down, Betsy."
"Did you hear what he said? He openly accused us of...of..."
"And he couldn't be more wrong, could he?" Max said.
Hildebrand faced Elizabeth with a leering grin that made her hands itch. "Tell you what I'll do for you, Miss Sheridan. You come along like a good girl, and I won't mention this to daddy."
She squirmed against Max's hold. "I'll tell you something, Mr. Hildebrand. You leave here right now and I won't tell my father what a lowlife, snake-in-the-grass, unprincipled, slimy piece of bat dropping the Pinkertons sent on this mission!"
Max leaned close to her ear and whispered. "Excellent diplomacy, Bets. You might be laying it on just a little thick. After all, if you'll remember..."
She craned her neck to glare at Max. “Are you siding with that weasel?”
“Of course not. I’m trying to keep you out of jail.”
Reluctantly she let him lead her to a chair and push her into it before he returned to Hildebrand. "Miss Sheridan obviously does not wish to go back to New York with you,” Max said. “And seeing that she's of age, and fully capable of making her own decisions, I don't see that you have any right to coerce her. As a matter of fact, I'm certain that what you're trying to do is illegal."
"Mr. Whoever-you-are," the detective responded in that sniveling, self assured voice, "I don't give a damn about the legality. Especially since Mr. Sheridan told me he'd cover any expenses related to the safe and swift return of his precious daughter, who, to my way of thinking is no better than a common tramp.”
Max balled his hand into a fist and drew back.
“Max, no!” Elizabeth hollered. “I know how you’re feeling, but it won’t do for you to land in jail instead of me.”
“It would be worth it,” Max said.
“Listen to her,” the detective said. He pushed Max close
to the wall and leaned into his face. “You and I get in a scuffle and you’ll cool your heels behind bars.”
Elizabeth sensed Max was near his breaking point. They both were. She stood and tip-toed to the washstand. Hildebrand couldn’t see her, but Max watched her every move. His eyes narrowed in confusion. Before he could react or warn her about the folly of her action, she picked up the basin ewer and cracked it over Hildebrand’s head.
The detective slumped to the floor. All that remained of the jug was the porcelain handle. Elizabeth dropped it and slapped her hands to rid them of crockery dust. She'd never once inflicted physical pain on another human being. "Oh dear, look what I’ve done. I suppose I should feel worse than I do."
Max lifted his gaze from the prone figure of Francis Hildebrand to Elizabeth's face. "Something tells me we need a change of plans.”
Chapter Twelve
"I sort of wish you hadn’t done that, Betsy,” Max said.
Elizabeth began wringing her hands. Her knees trembled. She couldn’t look at the man on the floor. "I just had to do something. I wasn't going back with him."
"And it didn’t occur to you that the Pinkerton Agency might frown on one of their detectives being conked in the head with a water pitcher?"
"I didn't have time to think. I was afraid. You weren't getting anywhere. Obviously talk doesn't work with a scoundrel like Hildebrand."
"You didn't give me a chance. I wasn't going to let him take you back to New York."
She grabbed Max's wrists. A surge of gratitude had suddenly calmed her. "Oh, Max, really? You can be awfully sweet sometimes."
“Sure, Bets. I’m a sucker for a woman with a dangerous weapon in her hands.” He gave her a half smile. “Now, what are we going to do with Francis here?"
She bent over the detective's still form. "Is he all right, do you think? I mean, he's not..."
"Let's hope not." Max pressed two fingers against a vein in Hildebrand's throat. "No, he's not dead." He felt the back of the detective's head for evidence of serious injury. "No blood, but a goose egg is forming back there. Our little buddy is going to have quite a headache when he wakes up. And a strong hunger for revenge."
Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut against the imagined wrath of Francis Hildebrand. "He’ll have me arrested for sure."
"I doubt it. It's my guess that the desire for a fat paycheck from your father will keep him from alerting the sheriff. But I don't think much will deter him from delivering you to New York as fast as possible."
"So what are we going to do?"
"We?" Max sighed wearily and shook his head. "I can't believe I'm going to help you. And I can just imagine what my boss will say if word of this gets back to him. I'll be lucky to be covering the beat at the dog pound. But what we're going to do is tie Hildebrand up, keep him from making any noise and pray we're out of town long before he hits the street with both guns firing."
"Guns?"
"It's just a figure of speech...I hope. Find something to tie him up with."
"The curtain ties.” She unwound the long velvet cords from their ornate brass hooks.
"We’ll need a gag."
She picked up her lemon-soaked handkerchief from the bedside table. "How about this?"
"Perfect. It must give you quite a feeling of accomplishment knowing you've tortured two men with lemon verbena in one night. Hildebrand can suck on it until his tongue is numb."
Working together, they bound the detective's hands and feet and tied the handkerchief around his mouth. “Where will we put him?” Max asked.
“The wardrobe,” Elizabeth said. She quickly removed her clothing before they stuffed Hildebrand inside.
Max shut the cupboard doors and locked them with the skeleton key. He stood back and admired their work. “He won’t get out of there."
“But Max,” Elizabeth said. “What am I to do for the rest of the night? I can’t stay here.”
“No, I suppose not.”
She pulled a valise from under her bed and began tossing her belongings inside. That done, she looked over at Max who was watching her with blatant amusement. "Quit grinning like that," she said, thrusting a crumpled wad of bills at him. "And please get me another room, as far away from Francis Hildebrand as possible. And for heaven's sake, don't use my name."
His grin only widened. "Clearly a sign of a guilty conscience, Bets."
"No, it isn’t. I've just decided I'm through being bullied by men for the rest of this night!"
He opened the door and stepped into the hall. "I'll get the room for you," he said. "But from the looks of that man i
n the closet, I don't think it was him that did the bullying."
After Max procured a new room for her and left for his boarding house, Elizabeth slept fitfully for the few hours remaining of darkness. All of the Fair Day explorers had agreed to reunite at sunup at the freight station across the street from the Teller House. They had arranged transportation on a wagon headed to Georgetown, the last settlement before the trek up the Devil's Fork and the outfitter’s where they would purchase supplies.
Elizabeth was in front of the hotel early since she couldn't risk a wake-up visit by her brother at her former room. As she waited in the damp, foggy dawn, she worried that Ross's activities the night before might make him less than responsible about showing up on time. What a disaster it would be if they all had to wait on Ross, and the freight wagon left without them. She sighed with relief when she saw Dooley and Ross approach. They weren't alone however. Twirling a rainbow-striped parasol as protection against the first rays of sun, Ramona Redbud walked with them.
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