Almost a Lady

by Heidi Betts

  A part of her didn't want him to kiss her, didn't want him to touch or even be near her. While another part—the louder, more insistent part, it seemed—wanted nothing more. She fought the voice in her head that urged her to lean forward, closer, and take the initiative. To kiss him, by God, if he was only going to sit there and not kiss her.

  But as she was about to do just that, he moved back, his wicked and cruel tongue disappearing into his equally sinful mouth. Her jaw snapped closed and she sat back, squaring her shoulders against the lingering signs of weakness she feared might be evident on her face.

  "And just what was that, pray tell?” She was relieved when the words didn't waver.

  "Your one and only flaw. The one and only that I've discovered thus far, at least."

  She raised a brow and fixed him with what she hoped was an aggravated glare.

  "When you lie, you lick your lips. It's damn sexy, by the way,” he added in a husky growl, “but telling all the same.” He raised his hand and tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. “When we were in Robert's office, you told him you'd gotten a copy of those files from Charlie's widow. We both know full well that isn't true. Which is when I noticed that you licked your lips both before and after you misled your boss."

  He smiled faintly, showing a thin line of straight white teeth. “You're very good. And in your line of business, I imagine the skill comes in handy."

  She didn't respond. Couldn't decide whether to admit or deny it, and was more than a little annoyed that she had a telling sign, let alone that he'd figured it out.

  If what he said was true and she actually did lick her lips—or make any other move that could be deciphered to her detriment—she would have to be more careful in the future. No one had ever accused her of lying before. In fact, she considered herself rather good at it. She could create new and plausible stories or excuses for just about anything, in the tightest of spots. She'd even caught herself, on more than one occasion, telling falsehoods simply because it was easier or—God help her—more fun than telling the truth.

  "Since we've established that I can indeed tell when you're lying,” Brandt continued, interrupting her thoughts, “I think it's safe to say that there's something about this Virgil Chatham fellow you're not telling me. Something he might have said that leads you to believe he's our killer. Words more incriminating than just him speaking less than kindly about the victims."

  She narrowed her eyes to slits, her fingers tensing in annoyance. As she opened her mouth to reply, her tongue darted to the corner of her lip and his brows rose in obvious mockery.

  Damn him, he'd been right She did lick her lips before she began to lie.

  She tried again, taking a deep breath and swallowing as she formed the words. And then she opened her mouth . . . and her blasted tongue darted right out to wet the opposite corner of her mouth. Bloody hell!

  "Lick your lips and get it over with,” he said with a smirk. “And then try telling me the truth for a change."

  It was an order, not a request, and as much as she loathed telling him what she'd learned and why her gut was urging her to focus on Chatham as a suspect, she feared Brandt would know she lied, even if she cut out her traitorous tongue and scribbled her fabrication on paper.

  With a huff, she all but threw the pile of papers from her lap to his and stalked across the carpeted floor. In the bedroom, she knelt down in front of the ornately carved armoire that housed her clothing and began to root around for her peach slippers. They were at the bottom somewhere, beneath the many new pairs of shoes Mary Xavier had ordered to match her newest gowns. Once she found them, she rose and turned to go back to the sitting room, only to find Brandt standing in the doorway, one shoulder resting against the frame, his feet crossed at the ankles. He'd removed his neckcloth and jacket and unbuttoned his shirt halfway down to bare a good portion of his sun-browned chest

  She sighed, as much at his tenacity as at the sight. Small wonder he was head of Security for the Union Pacific Railroad. He would make an equally successful Pinkerton agent. That same dogged determination was what made her a good investigator herself.

  And even though it galled her to give away the last piece of this investigation that was entirely hers, to trust him with what might turn out to be the most vital key to this entire situation, she admitted that he did deserve to know. He was entitled to all the details so that he could see every angle of the case more clearly.

  "Before he died; Charlie gave me something."

  His mouth thinned as he studied her. “And you didn't see fit to share this with me until now?” he accused.

  "No, I didn't,” she answered firmly, hoping to put an end to his argument before it ever got started. “Charlie gave it to me, and I didn't know what it meant until tonight.” She felt inside each shoe to determine which held the slip of paper and then pried up the lining at the toe to reveal the hidden clue. “In fact, I may be wrong about Virgil Chatham, in which case I still won't know what it means."

  She unfolded the small bloodstained square and handed it to him.

  "Gideon,” he read aloud. “That's it, Gideon? What's that supposed to mean?"

  "I don't know. Or at least I didn't until I overheard Virgil Chatham's tirade about the deaths of the girls by the wharf.” She turned slightly and tossed the shoes back into the wardrobe, where they fell atop her many other pairs of slippers. “While he was ranting about them deserving to die for their sins, he mentioned the name Gideon. If I recall correctly, Gideon was one of the judges of Israel for forty years."

  Brandt straightened, still studying the piece of paper in his hand. “Yes, but he didn't kill prostitutes. Did he?"

  "Not that I'm aware. I wonder if Mrs. Xavier has a Bible we might borrow."

  "I'm sure she does.” Brandt turned and marched through the sitting room, straight into the second-floor hallway.

  Too curious to remain behind, Willow followed after him, clutching her robe more tightly about her naked form. “Where are you going?” she asked in a harsh whisper, even though she suspected there was no one around to hear them. She didn't think the Xaviers had returned home yet.

  "To the library,” he answered over his shoulder as he trotted down the stairs. She kept pace, her bare feet silent on the carpet and then on the hard foyer floor.

  Sure enough, be found a small Bible—directly beside the much larger family Bible—after one quick perusal of the shelves. Drawing it down, he handed it to Willow and then placed a hand at the small of her back to usher her back upstairs.

  She began flipping through the thick book on the way, wondering how she was ever to find a reference to Gideon among all the names and small black print

  "How do you use one of these things?” she asked in frustration as Brandt closed the chamber door behind them.

  "Your guess would be better than mine.” He shot her a chagrined half-smile. “It's been a while since I've had occasion to read the Good Book."

  "Me, too.” And at the moment, she regretted not keeping up with the lessons her mother had begun when she was a little girl.

  Bending to gather the papers scattered on the settee, she handed the jumbled pile to Brandt and then took a seat on the sofa. “You look for Virgil Chatham's name in those while I try to find Gideon in here."

  "How do you plan to do that?” he asked, leaning over the back of the sofa to peek past her shoulder.

  "Well, I know it has to be in the Old Testament” She flipped through the book until she found the section toward the middle marked New Testament and placed a hand flat against the leather cover, the other flat against what must be the final page of the Old Testament. “That cuts the difficult business in half."

  Tilting her head back to look at him, she gave him a challenging grin. “Care to wager on who finds their quarry first?"

  One russet brow rose with interest. “A betting gal, are you?” he teased. Coming around the long settee, he took a seat in the opposite corner, laying Charlie's file on the tab
le in front of them. “And just what might you be willing to stake?"

  She thought about it a moment but couldn't think of anything that might make a decent ante.

  "Tell you what,” Brandt suggested. “Why don't we leave the bet open-ended. Whoever wins gets to take a prize of his—or her—choosing, or ask a particular favor of the loser. The defeated player must comply, of course. No matter what."

  Willow noted the wicked tilt of his lips, the predatory gleam that glittered in his eyes. If he won, he would ask something terrible of her, she just knew it. Something subservient . . . or worse yet, sexual.

  A spark of pure lust burst in her belly. The fact that she didn't find that prospect as repulsive as she should frightened her more than the idea that he might take one of her possessions or ask her to polish his boots for a week.

  But the bet had been her idea and she couldn't think of anything better to wager. She wasn't even entirely sure she didn't want him to take out his winnings in trade.

  Besides, he wasn't guaranteed to succeed. She could very well find the name she was looking for first. And then he would have to attend to her.

  A small smile curved her lips. Now, that would be a triumph worthy of the battle, even though she had no idea what her request would be if she won. But she was willing to take the risk.

  She held out her hand, waiting for Brandt to shake on their agreement. “You've got yourself a deal,” she said, praying and hoping against hope that she wouldn't be sorry.

  Chapter Twenty

  "I found it. I think."

  Instead of pleasing her, Brandt's words filled Willow with dread. He'd won the bet, and now she would have to do . . . something. Whatever he requested. Taking a deep breath, she leaned toward him, looking at the page where he pointed.

  "It's not a full name, but V.C. could be Virgil Chatham's initials."

  She looked at the initials, and at the name beside them: Outram. “Who's Outram?” she wondered aloud.

  "I have no idea."

  "Keep looking. Maybe Charlie made more notes than that, or wrote the full name for those initials somewhere."

  "Yes, ma'am,” Brandt said, grinning as he aimed a small salute in her direction.

  She went back to searching chapters of the Bible for any mention of Gideon, and after another fifteen minutes or so found what she was looking for.

  "Here it is,” she cried excitedly.

  "Where?” Brandt slid closer, coming to rest with his hip against hers and one arm stretched behind her on the cushions. His warm breath tickled the side of her neck.

  "Ugh,” she groaned. “The Book of Judges; I should have known since Gideon was a judge. Why didn't I start there and save myself the past few hours?"

  "Because neither of us are as familiar with the Holy Bible as we should be. What does it say?"

  "'And when Gideon perceived that he was an angel of the Lord . . . ‘” she began, reading each section that pertained to the name Charlie had found so important. “'And Gideon said unto God, If thou wilt save Israel by mine hand, as thou hast said . . . The sword of the Lord, and of Gideon . . . And Gideon the son of Joash returned before the sun was up . . . Thus was Midian subdued before the children of Israel, so that they lifted up their heads no more. And the country was in quietness for forty years in the days of Gideon . . . ‘"

  "So Gideon led the Israelites to victory over the Midianites wielding the metaphorical ‘sword of the Lord’ and bringing about forty years of peace—quite simply put, he was a Hebrew judge who saved the Israelites during a time of strife. Something tells me that if this Virgil Chatham fellow is our killer, and if he fancies himself a modem-day Gideon, he's taking all this angel-of-God talk a little too literally."

  "That's an understatement, if ever I heard one. He's twisting the real Gideon's motives to suit his own demented ambitions, I'd say.” She cocked her head to look at Brandt. “Do you think he really believes he's wielding ‘the sword of the Lord,’ ridding the world of sin?"

  Brandt chuckled. “He's got a lot of ground to cover if he's hoping to rid the world of sin. But if you're right, I'd say he's making a go of it here in New York. He'll be lucky if it lasts forty years, though."

  Although she saw the humor in Brandt's words, she was too preoccupied to respond in kind. Her mind was racing ahead. If the killer sought to rid the world of sin, it seemed he planned to begin by eradicating a class of women many considered to embody all the ills of society: the fallen angels, the prostitutes. Willow felt sick to her stomach. They'd assumed the wounds in the women's chests had come from a knife. She suddenly knew the murderer was following the Bible verse to the letter and those slashes had been made by a sword.

  "What are you thinking?” Brandt asked quietly, running the back of his hand over her cheek.

  She closed her eyes briefly, fighting off images of the victims struggling for their lives, being stabbed through the heart by a man who thought himself an angel of God. A minion of Satan would be a more accurate description.

  When She opened her eyes again, Brandt was still studying her, his face showing mild concern while his fingers continued to stroke calming patterns on her cheek and neck.

  "I'm thinking we'd better stop Virgil Chatham before he kills another innocent girl. And that if we're wrong about him being the killer . . . God help us all."

  "We will stop him,” Brandt said, his tone more sure than hers would be at the moment. “But first we need some rest. You've been out and about all day, and sitting here searching for names most of the evening. You look as exhausted as I feel."

  Standing, he took her arms and pulled her up beside him. “I say eight hours of sleep will do us both some good. We'll start fresh in the morning."

  "But what if he goes out again tonight?” she asked, even though he was right. She felt ready to collapse.

  "He won't."

  There was no way Brandt could guarantee such a thing and they both knew it. “But what if he does?” she repeated as he pushed her toward the bedroom.

  "Even if he does—which I'm praying he won't—there's nothing we could do about it. We don't even know where Chatham lives. We have to talk to Robert, see if he could get the man's address for us, and I doubt Robert'd appreciate being roused at this hour of the night"

  Having reached the bed, he folded back the covers and applied a gentle pressure to her shoulder until she half sat on the soft mattress.

  "First thing in the morning, we'll go down to the Pinkerton offices, tell Robert what we suspect, and enlist his help.” He lowered his mouth to the curve of her ear and dropped his voice. “And then we'll stick to Virgil Chatham tighter than your corset."

  She laughed and lifted her face to look at Brandt. He grinned down at her, only a hint of lasciviousness in his green eyes. Which, for him, was an improvement.

  "First thing tomorrow?” she asked.

  "First thing tomorrow,” he promised. “As for tonight. . ."

  Uh-oh. She'd forgotten about their bet. And the fact that, even though he'd only found Chatham's initials, he'd won.

  She swallowed hard and forced herself to hold his gaze. “What is it that you want?"

  He straightened and stood looking down at her. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said with a chuckle, “you should never ask a man a question like that. You leave him too many options to factor into his answer."

  She felt a flush of heat sweep up her cheeks and darted a glance over his left shoulder to avoid the scrutiny of his gaze. “I meant as your prize to our wager. You did find those initials before I found any mention of Gideon."

  "I know what you meant. But my warning holds true: Careful how you phrase things around a man willing to take advantage."

  She brought her eyes back to his face and fixed him with a piercing stare. “Are you willing to take advantage?"

  "Absolutely,” he answered with an eager nod and a smile that would put Lucifer to shame. “Are you willing to comply?” he asked suggestively.

  The air froze in her lungs as
she realized she was. She'd been awaiting this moment all night. And she wasn't so sure that had she won the bet, she wouldn't have requested the same boon.

  She'd been with him before, and even though she'd sworn not to make herself vulnerable to him again, she knew the sensations he could evoke, the pure pleasure to be found in his arms. And tonight she longed for his embrace. She told herself that as long as he understood that anything that occurred between them during the course of this investigation was simply a pleasurable little diversion, it would be all right. As long as they both understood their relationship was nothing serious, nothing leading to any kind of permanence, they could just enjoy it and both walk away unscathed at the end.

  Thankfully, Brandt didn't appear to be a man seeking ties.

  Digging deep for the bravery she'd used any number of times during her stint as a Pinkerton, she met his gaze and told him, “You won. I have no choice.” Her words sounded more dire than she'd intended. In truth, the tickle in her belly increased with every moment that passed as she waited to hear what sensual torture Brandt would demand.

  "Fine. I know how you feel about us sharing a chamber and I know you expect me to stay on that hard sofa"—he jerked a thumb over his shoulder—"or the equally uncomfortable chaise"—he nodded toward the lounge behind them—"but the prize I want is to share the bed with you tonight."

  Her eyes closed tightly and then opened wide. "What?"

  "It will be a far cry more comfortable than my other options, that's for sure. And I promise not to touch you. I'll hug tight to my side of the mattress. I'll even let you have all the covers if that makes you more comfortable."

  He promised not to touch her. She made a nasty face in her head. How gallant of him, when all she'd been dreaming of tonight was the moment when he would. The louse!

  "You want to share the bed?” she snapped, jumping to her feet and twining her arms huffily across her chest. “That's it? You're not going to demand I give in to your sexual appetites, or ask me to do your bidding for the rest of the week?"