Bucking like a thorn-saddled mule, she tried to shake free with a kick, but he’d pinned her to the bed in a blink of those deadly hazel eyes. Eyes that now studied her with affection. “Holy saints above, I’ve missed you, Libby,” he whispered as he hovered, the husky sound of her name on his lips disarming the blaze of her temper with a fire of a whole ’nother kind. Her tongue suddenly went drier than starched cotton while her so-called nausea barnstormed her belly like a herd of hummingbirds. The hue of his eyes deepened to dark brown as he slowly leaned in, eyelids sheathing closed.
No! She was so stunned, she couldn’t speak, and when he leaned in to nuzzle her mouth, his groan stole her protest altogether. She gasped, and those deadly lips took full advantage with a kiss so deep, it collided with a weak moan of her own. “Libby, I love you,” he rasped, “and God help me, I’ve never stopped.”
Never stopped? His words instantly paralyzed her to the bed, dousing the heat of his kiss when she suddenly remembered the day of their awful fight. The day Griffin Alexander McShane bullied instead of loved, giving her no recourse but to storm right out of his life. The truth cramped in her chest.
And he let her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“Bull biscuits!” she shouted, fear and anger snapping her out of her stupor enough to thrust him away. Finn had always been able to disarm her with a kiss, but not this time. Eyes wild, she scrambled off the bed and darted to the bureau to snatch her hair comb, brandishing it like a weapon. “All you missed was bullying me around, Finn McShane, and I sure didn’t come back here so you could start up all over again.”
Easing off the bed, he cuffed the back of his neck with a teasing grin, eyes twinkling as he scanned her head to toe, taking in her waist-long hair tumbling down her nightgown. “No, ma’am, that’s not all I missed …”
“Ooooooo!” She snatched her robe off a hook on the back of the closet door and struggled to slip it on while she held out her comb, determined that Finn McShane would never weaken her with those deadly kisses again. Seventeen years ago, the attraction between them had been so strong, she’d all but melted at his touch, thinking he’d loved her. But it had just been another means of control over her life, and no amount of attraction was ever worth that. Not when she was so close to the independence she craved by becoming Harold’s wife. Eyes blazing, she gouged the comb in the air. “You are a low-down skunk, Finn McShane, and I demand that you leave this instant.”
The grin receded along with the sparkle in his eyes as his features dissolved into the serious mode she’d once loved, where sincerity and tenderness toyed with her emotions, dismantling her, deluding her.
Deceiving her.
Well, not this time, bucko.
“Look, Libby,” he said quietly, the contrition in his tone more than convincing as he took his hat off, motioning it toward the bed. “I’m sorry for that, darlin’, I really am, but confound it, Libs, you’re my wife and I want to take you home.”
Jerking the sash of her robe tight, she jabbed the comb at him once again. “First of all, Mr. McShane, I am not your darlin’, your Libby, or your Libs anymore, and once this blackmail scheme of my father’s is done, I won’t be your wife either. So, you can just take those misguided notions right out that door, mister, because I am not going anywhere with you.”
He calmly put his hat back on with a sober smile, a faint tic in his jaw the only indication that a carefully restrained temper hovered beneath the surface. “Well, I’m afraid that’s where you’re wrong, ma’am,” he said as he bent to retrieve her chemise. He balled it up like she had and lightly tossed it at her, landing it on her shoulder. She scuttled out of his way when he strode to the closet to retrieve her valise. “I’ll give you five minutes to get dressed and packed, Libby, and then I’m coming in to take you home.” He placed the suitcase on the bed and without another word, stepped out into the hallway and closed the door.
She wasted no time flinging her comb down and darting to the door to quickly lock it, frantically looking around to see how she could possibly keep him out. Eyeing the bureau, she worried her lip, doubtful she could accomplish such a feat, but she had to try! At least to fight him tooth and nail, if not lock him out altogether. Her gaze then snagged on the bed, a sturdy mahogany frame that would be more difficult to move, but not impossible. Rushing to the far side of the bureau, she pushed with all her might, bare feet fused to the floor as she slowly inched it in front of the door, doing her best to stifle any grunts.
“Three minutes, Libs,” his muffled voice called, so I suggest you get dressed or I’m taking you as is.”
She glared at the door, feeling a lot like that high school girl Finn McShane always managed to rile, but it was no secret the man brought out the worst in her. She hurried to the far side of the bed and groaned as she worked to prod it away from the wall, finally butting her backside to the headboard to slowly maneuver it against the bureau. “There,” she whispered, dusting her hands against each other. At least that will buy me some time.
Heart thudding, she darted to the window and threw up the sash, stomach turning over at the distance between her second-story room and the ground, the height making her dizzy. But she had no choice. Without another thought, she snatched sheets and cover off the bed, doing her best to knot them together. She lowered them out the window, alarmed when they only reached three quarters of the way down.
“One minute,” Finn called, and Libby was desperate.
Snatching up her chemise, blouse, and skirt she tied them to the top of her sheet, hands trembling more than her makeshift rope as it wavered in the breeze.
But she was almost there …
“Time’s up, Libby,” Finn said, jiggling the doorknob.
Nooooo! Heart in her throat, she peered down at the ground, horrified to see her rope was still a good fifteen feet short.
The turn of the key stilled both her breathing and her pulse while Finn attempted to open the door. “Aw, Libs, are you serious?” he said, his husky chuckle stealing her air as her bed started creeping backwards along with the bureau. Panic struck when his head poked through with that crooked smile that used to make her dizzy.
She thrust her head back out the window, suddenly encountering a “dizzy” of a whole ’nother kind at the distance she had to descend. Please God, please God, please God …, she silently prayed, wishing she hadn’t let her relationship with God lapse as much as she had. But that, too, she blamed on the man on the other side of the door.
Screeeeeeeeeech.
Hyperventilating, she yanked her robe off, fingers fumbling as she knotted it onto the rope, praying she wouldn’t break her silly leg with a ten-foot jump.
“Libby—don’t you dare!” Finn shouted, hazel eyes all but singeing her as he thrust the door open as much as he could with 200 pounds of furniture in the way.
Hurry! The blood pounded in her ears as she clumsily attempted to tie the robe to the sash handle, the material almost too bulky.
“Libby, no!” Finn pushed through.
And Libby dropped the rope.
Terror-stricken, she bolted to the closet and slammed the door, heels dug in as she clung to the knob in the dark.
Screeeeeeeeeech.
Chest heaving, she held her breath. It sounded like the bureau was being shoved back in place, followed by the scrape of the bed across the plank-wood floor, finally hitting the wall with a thud. She clutched the knob all the more, body slanted diagonally to exert her full weight while she waited … and waited …
Nothing happened.
Allowing herself to breathe, she cocked her head to listen, trying to distinguish the faint movement she heard across the room. Leaning close to the door, she pressed her ear to the wood. What on earth is he doing?
A drawer slammed and she immediately jerked back, nearly horizontal as she re-gripped the knob for all she was worth. Which wasn’t much at the moment given the sweat of her palms, growing slicker at the heavy thud of boots approaching the door.
Whoosh! The door flew open, and Libby went flying back.
Oomph! Right on her backside.
All she could do was blink as Finn McShane’s silhouette stood in the blazing light like a confounded angel of God, hand on the knob and hip cocked. “It’s time to go, darlin’,” he said in that infuriatingly patient tone, swooping her up before her protest could even clear the roof of her mouth. He dropped her on the bed without ceremony, right next to the open suitcase he’d haphazardly packed. “I suggest you pick something out to wear right now, Libs, and gather anything I missed from the closet and nightstand because I am taking you home. With or without your things.”
Totally infuriated, she promptly upended the suitcase, dumping everything onto the floor. “Get it through your thick head right now, mister, I am … not … going anywhere with you!”
“No?” Sweeping her up, he clamped her firmly to his chest, restraining her movement with a steel grip. “Beg to differ, darlin’,” he breathed in her ear, riling her all the more when he pressed a quick kiss to her neck on his way to the door, “but we are going home.”
Ice water shot through her veins. He wouldn’t! “But I’m not dressed!” she said in a near shriek, heart thumping chaotically when she realized he fully intended to carry her out near naked.
“Sorry, Libs, but you had your chance.”
“No, please—I’ll get dressed this time, I promise, so give me another chance.”
He grunted. “You mean like you gave me after you left? Sorry, darlin’, but I’m a little low on patience right now, and don’t even get me started on trust.” His iron grip loosened a hair when he attempted to open the door, and she jumped at her chance—literally.
Limbs lashing, she apparently stunned him when she lunged from his arms, bucking like a hot-pokered mule when he tried to grab her again. “I … am… not … going … with … you,” she gritted out, kicking and battering for all she was worth.
Which wasn’t much given her ragged breathing when he crushed her to his chest like a vise. “So help me, Libby, if you kick and scratch me one more time, I’m going to tie you up in a sheet,” he hissed, his words as winded as hers. Pinning her all the more, he butted her bottom with his knee to reach for the knob, leaving her arms free for barely a second.
But it was more than enough.
One arm lunging loose, she tried to whop him but good, but all she managed to do was knock his hat off his head.
“That’s it,” he shouted in that strained voice that indicated she’d breeched his temper, flinging her on the bed so hard, she bounced like a jackrabbit on springs, nightgown flapping in the breeze. Before her lungs could kick back in, he’d ripped the sheet out from under her to topple her to the edge of the bed. “I’ll be hogtied and hand-stuffed if you think I’m going to let you claw me like a cougar, woman.” Chest heaving, he rolled her up in the sheet so tight, she felt like one of Gert’s homemade sausages stuffed in pork casings.
“Finn, no!” she cried, her desperation obvious in the use of his name. “I’ll get dressed—I swear!”
“Too late, darlin’.” With a do-or-die look she remembered all too well, he proceeded to whip off his belt. She gasped when he wrapped it around her arms and torso so securely, it felt like a strait-jacket, a rather appropriate analogy considering he was making her crazy!
“You untie me this instant!” she demanded, flailing furiously to no avail while he tossed her over his shoulder like a rolled-up rug.
“Sorry, Libs.” He snatched the cover from the bed and hurled it over her. “It’s for your own safety and mine, Mrs. McShane, just till we get out of town.”
Her heart climbed into her throat when he marched to the door. “I swear I will scream blue murder if you don’t put me down!” she hissed. The blanket fell off when she flopped like an earthworm on a desert rock at high noon.
“Doubt it.” He calmly plucked the blanket up and flipped it over his other shoulder, his serene tone in direct contrast to the frenetic pounding of her heart as she dangled all the way down the hall. “Unless you want every customer in this hotel to see you wrapped in a sheet and little more.” Chuckling, he bounded down the steps, mortifying her when he ran a palm down the length of her body. “Especially when it doesn’t appear you’re wearing much underneath.”
Blood instantly gorged her cheeks, nearly asphyxiating her when Mr. Turley gaped with saucer eyes at the base of the stairs. Mortified, Libby wanted to bury her face in Finn’s shoulder, but had to settle on squeezing her eyes shut instead.
“Borrowing your blanket, Don,” Finn said in a tone laced with humor, “but I’ll return it later when I retrieve everything she so rudely threw out the window.”
“No problem, Finn.” Don shuffled back out of Finn’s way. “But I’d be happy to pack up your things before you go, Miss O’Shea, if you like.”
“Oh, Mr. Turley, yes, please—”
“Naw, Don,” Finn said, cutting her off on the way to the door, “Miss O’Shea will be sharing a room with Miss Mullaney, so she may as well share her clothes too.” Finn tossed a wink to Mr. Turley over his shoulder. “Gave her a chance to pack, but she wasn’t so inclined at the time, so thanks anyway.”
“Finn, please, I need my things!” Libby pleaded, but Finn just kept walking.
The hotelier scurried to open the front door. “Sure thing, Finn. You two have a wonderful evenin’, now, you hear?”
Wonderful? Libby’s lips gummed as tightly as the stupid sheet plastered to her body while Finn nonchalantly toted her through the lobby. Not until I have my comb in hand …
“Oh, and Miss O’Shea,” Mr. Turley called as Finn hauled her outside, “do come again anytime, all right?”
Oh, I will. Libby issued a grunt as she bounced over Finn’s shoulder.
And way sooner than you think.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Somewhere a hoot owl called, and Maggie released a contented sigh. The soft trill of desert crickets blended with the gentle creak of the rocking chair on the wooden wraparound porch of Finn’s house, nearly lulling her to sleep as she waited for Aunt Libby. She glanced at the watch pinned to her blouse, its ivory face perfectly illuminated by the light of the desert moon overhead. Almost midnight, and no sign of her godmother yet!
Wrapping her shawl more tightly, Maggie was grateful that everyone else had long since gone to bed except for Dash, who plied liquor at the Ponderosa Saloon till the wee hours of the morning. And then Blaze, of course, who apparently plied women with his charm, at least according to his younger sisters who seemed to adore both older brothers despite their questionable ways.
Charm. Maggie’s smile took a twist. As far as possessing any, Blaze Donovan had certainly fooled her. Other than the heart-melting smiles he’d given to lure her into retrieving his clothes on the day they had met, his so-called charm had been as cool as the desert night—brisk, bitter, and chilling to the bone.
As timing would have it, a cool breeze rustled her hair just as the thundering hooves of a lone rider reached her ears. The desert night somehow seemed less cool now that Blaze Donovan was galloping down the drive, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake.
Along with a string of lovesick women, no doubt.
I should go up to bed, the thought occurred, avoiding Blaze Donovan far more appealing then butting heads with him again. But Maggie desperately wanted to be here to greet her godmother, especially given the coercive circumstances of her arrival, so cowardice was out of the question. Besides, if Mr. Donovan had been slated to teach Maggie to ride beginning tomorrow, it was probably best to clear the air tonight. Right?
Right. Maggie gulped as Blaze disappeared into the barn, evidently putting his horse up for the evening. “As long as I can steer clear,” she muttered when he reappeared, Sister Fred’s warning that first day suddenly echoing in her br
ain.
“Well, young lady, you may be just what I’m looking for, then, as long as you can steer clear of heartbreakers like our Mr. Donovan. But it won’t be easy.”
Maggie grunted, the sound drowned out by the accelerated groan of her rocker as it picked up pace along with her pulse, both going at a fast clip. Easy? Well, keeping her letch of a fiancé at arm’s length hadn’t been “easy” either, but she’d managed, and she’d do it again with a Romeo like Blaze Donovan, too, six months under the same roof or no.
“Good evening, Mr. Donovan,” Maggie said, her smile as polite as her tone. “It’s a beautiful night.”
“That’s debatable.” Blaze mounted the porch steps slowly, pausing at the top to study Maggie through hooded eyes that held the trace of a tease. “After all, you’re not the one who’s been tossed out of your bedroom for company, Miss Mullaney.”
“No, but the company certainly appreciates it, Mr. Donovan, fresh sheets and all.” She bit the edge of her lip, battling a telltale smile. “Although it likely means you’re several sheets short in your wardrobe, I’m afraid.”
His mouth compressed, but she thought she spied a sliver of a smile. He nudged his hat up to give her a half-lidded stare. “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”
“Nope.” Maggie kept on rocking, lips curved as she observed the moon in the sky. “Too good of a memory.” She glanced his way, pretty sure her eyes twinkled more than the stars overhead. “One rarely sees a stubborn cowboy cloaked in humility, you know.”
He shuffled over to take the chair next to hers, commencing to rock in a slow and easy rhythm far more relaxed than her own. “I know what you mean,” he said in a lazy drawl, the heat of his gaze burning into her profile. “I’ve yet to see a New York debutante cloaked in anything but jewels and fancy airs, hunting for a husband.”
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