Almost a Lady

by Heidi Betts

  The compliment, no matter how coated in pure male egotism, warmed her heart. It felt good to be appreciated—even for only her looks. Even by drunks in a barroom, or arrogant investigative partners.

  "I didn't want Robert to know where we really met because I didn't want him to find out what I'd been doing or where I'd been staying. I was afraid you'd let it slip."

  The papers in his hand forgotten, he focused his undivided attention on Willow. “You mean your supervisor didn't know you were singing in a brothel? Didn't know you kept a room there, as well?"

  "Not exactly,” she answered. “And it wasn't only a brothel. There was a saloon there, too."

  "It was a whorehouse!” he bellowed.

  She cringed at his harsh tone of voice.

  "It's one thing for you to be singing for your supper as part of your disguise, if your supervisor knows. But rooming with a bunch of prostitutes like it's a boarding house is another matter entirely. Especially if your supervisor doesn't have the faintest notion!"

  "What are you getting so upset about?” Willow asked. “It's not like you're responsible for my welfare."

  "You could have gotten hurt,” he ranted. “Or worse, one of the customers could have decided that you were as good as any other whore in the place."

  That rankled. “Beverly made sure everyone knew I wasn't for hire. And there were some rather large bouncers who kept an eye out for me."

  "How convenient,” Brandt snapped. “So why didn't these overly attentive bouncers happen to notice you sneaking in and out of the place dressed like a man?"

  "Because I was dressed like a man!” she yelled back. “And because I was careful."

  "Not careful enough, obviously, or you wouldn't have let me get the drop on you."

  Her pride stung. Her hackles rose. “You may have gotten the drop on me, but you did not best me. Or did you forget that it was my knife that nearly unmanned you?"

  By this time they were on their feet, hands on hips, faces red with anger. Mere inches of empty space separated them.

  "You may have held a knife to my groin, but you didn't have the nerve to do anything about it."

  Willow blanched at his tone of voice. “I'll show you nerve,” she threatened. “Give me a knife and I'll gut and geld you before you have time to blink."

  Brandt seemed at a loss for words after that declaration. His cheeks turned pink. His lips thinned into a chalky white slash across his face.

  "You're a tease,” he said with no real conviction.

  "You're a cad,” she tossed back, not in the least offended by his remark.

  "You're a lying, conniving little harlot."

  Her eyes widened for a moment at that one. “You're an obnoxious, conceited bastard."

  "You're a manipulative little twit."

  "You're an arrogant scoundrel."

  "You're a dim-witted old maid."

  "You're a brainless Neanderthal."

  His jaw locked. His voice became rough. “I want you."

  She swallowed hard, feeling an undeniable heat climb its way up through her stomach. “What are you waiting for?"

  Brandt reached her in one stride. His arms came around her in a vicelike grip, cradling her close to his chest. His lips were like fire, licking, burning her tender skin. Their mouths met in a powerful, passionate kiss, scorching in its intensity.

  Willow moaned as her legs gave out. Without breaking the kiss, Brandt swept her up in his arms and made his way to the bedroom. He whipped back the covers and deposited her in the middle of the bed, following her down. His lips trailed away from her mouth, marking a path of wet, sucking kisses down her throat.

  Her head fell back, granting him greater access. The weight of his torso resting between her legs sent shivers of excitement through her limbs. Her fingers went to the front of his shirt, deftly releasing the buttons and pulling the tails from the waistband of his trousers.

  His hands smoothed down her sides, stopping at the belt of her robe. With a quick tug, the narrow tie came loose. The red satin fell open to reveal the nearly transparent material of her shift. He slipped an arm around Willow's waist and lifted her so that the robe fluttered from her arms to the sheets.

  He eased her back onto the mattress, then moved away. Willow cried out at his sudden absence and then took a sharp breath when she saw that he was only discarding his own constricting clothing. He came back to her, splendorously naked.

  A hand raked beneath the shift, forcing the material up as his hand stroked her hip, belly, the underside of her breast. She lifted her arms and allowed him to slip the annoying article over her head.

  "Brandt,” she whispered. And the sound was swallowed up by his mouth. His tongue delved deep, tangling with her own, drawing her into a maelstrom of hot, fevered emotions and tiny, mewling cries.

  His hands kneaded her breasts, his thumbs making devastatingly arousing circles over each nipple, drawing them into hard, pebbled peaks.

  "Brandt,” she breathed again as his lips closed over one aching tip. His mouth was so warm on her breast, his hands so strong and sure as they grasped her hips. He positioned himself between her legs, his shaft pulsing at the opening of her desire. His fingers brushed through the downy auburn curls, seeking the hidden nub of pleasure within.

  He found her slick and ready, her need so strong that she arched into his hand. He had never been with a woman who became so hot so fast The urge to drive into her, to let himself be swept away in a tide of pleasure was so great he had to bite down on his lower lip to maintain a thin strand of composure.

  As far as he knew, she was a virgin, he reminded himself. He had to go slow. He had to make it good for her, too.

  She whimpered and twisted beneath him, nearly severing his last tenuous thread of control. “Shh,” he whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “It's all right,” he told her. “I'll be gentle, I promise."

  She answered by tangling her fingers in his own hair and tugging his mouth down to hers. Her breasts pressed flat between them. Her legs wrapped around his hips.

  Brandt slid into her easily, groaning with the exquisite pleasure that simple motion brought. He buried his face in her neck until he thought he could breathe without coming apart. Then he began to move. Slowly at first, giving her body time to adjust to his invasion. Her nails dug into his back, urging him to continue.

  He kissed her ear, nipping the lobe, let his tongue trail across her jaw until he reached her mouth. Her lips opened beneath his and he kissed her, wrapping his tongue around hers, licking the edge of her teeth while one hand toyed with a pert nipple and the other delved between their bodies.

  His fingertips skirted the mat of hair between her legs, drawing a line straight to the source of her enjoyment. While he moved inside her, increasing his rhythm and movements, he touched the bud of sensation and felt Willow tense with pleasure. Her breath caught in her throat and it took a full minute for her to begin breathing again. All the while, his finger flicked and whirled, drawing agonizing cries from her near-frozen lungs.

  He wanted to give her fulfillment. Wanted her to come before he did, but as her cries and undulations increased, his control began to slip. He grit his teeth, hanging on with a silk-thin strand of control. If she didn't reach her climax soon, he would be forced to go before her—and then backtrack to give her her pleasure.

  Willow's nails dug into his shoulders, her head arched into the pillows, and her hips rose to meet his thrusts. “Now,” she whispered raggedly. “Please, now."

  And that was all it took for Brandt to grant her wish. He clutched an arm around her waist, pulling her closer, at the same time locking his mouth to hers. And as her legs wrapped more tightly about his waist and her cries of delight reached a crescendo, he held a thumb to her clitoris and took one last, hard thrust.

  Tremors of satisfaction wracked them both and he rolled to his side to keep from falling off the edge of the bed. Willow went with him easily, her arms around his neck, her face pillowed
in the curve of his neck. He was still inside her, but she didn't seem to mind. She simply pulled her knees up to accommodate their position.

  Which made him wonder. . .

  Had she seemed a touch too passionate for an untried virgin? Had she fallen into bed with him just a little too easily? Had his passage been a bit too smooth?

  He gave his head a mental shake. Of course she'd been a virgin. Willow might possess the smartest mouth he'd ever encountered on a woman, she may even toss around innuendoes like they were confetti, but she had only been in that brothel on a job for the Pinkerton Agency, not as a working girl. She had to be. . .

  Then again, did it matter? It shouldn't. But in the recesses of his mind, he couldn't help thinking that it did.

  He wasn't used to deflowering virgins—avoided them like the plague most times. But then, he wasn't used to smart-mouthed, hot-blooded female Pinkerton agents, either. And he damn well didn't like the idea of Willow being with other men. One or a dozen, it didn't matter. He damn well didn't like it.

  With hot coals of anger suddenly burning a hole in his gut, he shifted to roll Willow away from him and then moved to the other side of the mattress to get out of bed. He didn't bother looking back as he rounded the bed and picked up his discarded clothes, then began to dress with quick, efficient movements.

  He heard a soft rustle and assumed Willow was shrugging into her robe. He was glad. He wasn't sure he could maintain this level of moral outrage if he turned to see her still naked and lovely on that soft, warm mattress.

  He waited until he was fully dressed, until he had his disappointment sufficiently tamped down, until his breathing was slow and even. Then he turned to face her.

  She sat with her back to the ornately carved headboard, that bloody red robe wrapped around her lithe form once again. And in her eyes . . . in her eyes was a flicker of passion that had nothing to do with what they'd just shared in that bed. No, he suspected the passion burning in those amethyst orbs had more to do with anger than lust. Anger and betrayal. He had used her, seduced her, dragged her into bed. Only to roll away and abandon her moments after he'd gained satisfaction.

  He was a heel. Lower than gutter swine, rooting through day-old trash and refuse.

  And even though he was miserably unhappy about her past experience with men and her . . . well, her past in general, he was no better for treating her so abominably.

  He opened his mouth to apologize. And couldn't think of a single thing to say. Was he sorry he'd slept with her, or sorry she hadn't been a virgin? Sorry he'd moved away like that, or sorry they'd tainted their working relationship with passion?

  Truth be told, he wasn't sure he was sorry for any of those things. He certainly couldn't be sorry they'd made love; he'd wanted to do that since he opened the door to her room at the Silver Spur and caught a glimpse of her long, luxurious legs while she removed her stockings.

  And he should be glad she hadn't been a virgin. For God's sake, he'd made a practice of avoiding innocents since soon after he'd been one himself. An experienced woman could give a man untold pleasures in bed. They also knew enough about secret liaisons to not catch a child in their bellies.

  Granted, neither of them had had much time for, nor given much thought to, that sort of thing, but in the future, an experienced woman like Willow would know how to be more cautious so that they could enjoy the company of each others’ bodies without the risk of serious and unwanted consequences.

  He was sorry he'd moved away from her so quickly. His rioting emotions had gotten the better of him and caused him to bolt instead of thinking things through while remaining in the warm comfort of her embrace. And the fact that she apparently thought he'd moved away from her and not simply what—in his mind—she represented, caused a sharp pang of regret.

  It did concern him a bit that their relationship had crossed a line from professional to personal. They hadn't been getting along very well as investigative partners; what had they—he—been thinking to let things get so far out of control? He'd wanted her, true. But he'd wanted other women before and been able to avoid them. How were he and Willow going to work together now that they'd slept together? As though Willow hadn't harbored enough animosity toward him before . . . one look at her hard, stern face told him that her demeanor toward him earlier was nothing compared to what it would be from this moment forward.

  "Willow, I—"

  She cut him off before he got two words out, holding up a hand and swinging her legs over the mattress. “Don't bother,” she clipped out. She tugged the robe more tightly around her body as her feet touched the floor. Her chemise was left behind, crumpled on the mattress where they'd made love.

  "But I want—"

  "I know what you want,” she snapped, her eyes shooting fire. “You wanted me—or so you say. You wanted to fulfill your base, animal desires and I was handy. Fine."

  She plucked her wrinkled chemise from the bed and tossed it away. He felt sure she treated the garment as she wanted to treat what had happened between them; throw it into a corner and forget about it.

  "Now that you've had your satisfaction, I suggest we forget this ghastly mistake ever occurred and go back to investigating Charlie's murder."

  He'd been right, he thought, as his eyes darted to the crinkled-up ball of linen in the corner. But he'd be darned if he was going to let her toss him away as easily as she had her soiled chemise.

  "Willow, listen."

  Willow watched his lips move, watched his hands fist and unfist in the pockets of the trousers he'd donned so quickly after their little liaison. When would she learn? When would it ever sink into her thick skull that she and men were as volatile a combination as a stick of dynamite and a lit match?

  She refused to meet his eyes as she marched past him toward the sitting room door. “No, thank you,” she said in response to his request. “I've had about as much of you as I can stomach tonight. I'm tired and not in a particularly good mood, so I would really prefer you simply leave."

  Although she refused to look directly at him, in her peripheral vision she saw his lips compress into a thin line, a muscle in his jaw jumping. He began to open his mouth, to again plead with her for . . . what? Sympathy? Understanding? Forgiveness? Sorry, she thought, but I'm just not that good an actress. And she wasn't in the habit of thanking men for making her feel like a paid companion.

  "Go. Now,” she said, before he could utter a word. “Please."

  It was the please that got through to him. His shoulders slumped a fraction, his jaw relaxed, and he pulled his clenched hands from his pockets. She pulled the door wider as he walked past, and even though he turned toward her once he'd reached the other side, she didn't give him a chance to say anything more, but closed the door on his face.

  If tears sprang to her eyes, she refused to acknowledge them. She'd never had time for tears and she'd be damned if an arrogant Union Pacific officer would be the one to bring them forth. No, if anything her sadness stemmed from a deep, gut-wrenching disappointment in herself. Hadn't she learned her lesson the last time she'd let a man into her heart—and her bed?

  Robert was her best friend now, but back then, he'd been her . . . infatuation. Yes, that was the best word to describe how she'd felt about him. She'd been young. He'd been young, but still older and more sophisticated than she. He'd been her supervisor, the dapper son of Allan Pinkerton, whom she'd loved like a father. And she'd fallen in love with him. Or so she'd thought. In truth, it had been merely a girlish fascination. She'd given him her heart, and her virginity, but it had taken Allan Pinkerton's death and the realization that Robert was not the man for her for Willow to come to her senses.

  It had been a hard, painful lesson, but she'd learned it well. And since then, she and Robert had been able to get through the embarrassment and insecurities of their past to not only continue working together but to care for each other like family. She loved him as a brother now and wouldn't change that for anything in the world.

 
She sighed and moved farther into the bedroom, avoiding the bed as she moved toward the luxurious lavatory. She looked at her reflection in the large oval, gut-framed minor hanging above the water basin. Her hair was a wild tangle and her normally pale skin turned an even deeper shade of pink as she thought about what she had done to turn her hair into such a wild mess.

  At least with Brandt, she had the luxury of retaining her heart. He hadn't come remotely close to touching her there. And if she'd made a gargantuan mistake by getting swept up by his passion and letting him into her bed, at least there was no chance of losing her heart as well as her reputation and peace of mind.

  He was a fine male specimen, she'd give him that. His tall, muscular form and broad shoulders had caught her attention the first time she'd seen him in that alley. And soon after, she'd taken notice of his hair, eyes, and strong hands. But she'd seen any number of handsome men in her life. Though they occasionally had the power to turn her head, they never turned more than that.

  With her personal history, not to mention the responsibility of keeping her job in order to provide and care for Erik, she knew better than to let her head fill with any silly notions of love and happily-ever-after. Unless the man who turned her head was willing to accept her brother and support them both for the rest of their days, he had no place in her life.

  Brandt had gotten past her defenses, that's all. A momentary lapse in diligence, brought on by their late night of looking over Charlie's files, too little sleep, losing Sammy in Jefferson City, the fear of losing her job altogether, of living in the Silver Spur for too long . . . All of those things and a dozen more had compounded and worked against her better judgment. She'd suffered a setback, but it was nothing she couldn't work through.

  After a few hours of sleep, she would wake, dress, and confront Brandt in a much more reasonable frame of mind. She would simply tell him that tonight . . . last night . . . had been a mistake. It would not happen again, so it would be best that they both put it behind them and move on. They would work together on Charlie's case if they must but would otherwise have nothing to do with each other.