To Desire a Scoundrel: A Christmas Seduction (Southern Heat Book 2)

by Tracy Sumner

  “Maybe—”

  “Listen,” Tanner said, setting a scowl on his face he hoped would convey his exhaustion with the subject. “I’m past wanting Kat Peters to be a part of my life. She’s nothing now except a faded memory.”

  “Faded memories make you act like you did by the stagecoach?”

  Tanner grunted. “She made me a little angry, is all.” He closed his eyes, the meager amount of whiskey he’d consumed clouding his mind. Maybe food would help. When had he eaten last? Two days, three?

  “Tanner?” Adam’s voice called to him from the end of a long tunnel. “Tanner, are you all right?”

  Tanner blinked, Adam’s face swimming into view. “Just tired, hungry. The last few weeks have been rough...working on a story. Hiding out. The beard, the clothes, simply part of the ruse. A few days ago, I got caught in some trouble.” He paused and wiped his hand across his mouth. His fingers quivered against his lips. “I—I had to leave town.”

  Adam rocked back in his chair. “Are the police looking for you?”

  “No. God, no.” He shook his head. “Nothing like that. I didn’t do anything illegal. I picked the wrong place at the wrong time. Trust me, a very wrong time.”

  “Your editor?”

  “Suggested I lie low for a week or two. Take a rest, so here I am.”

  Adam sighed. “Well, you’re safe here. This is as close to the end of the world as she gets.”

  For the first time in nearly a week, the flare of panic in Tanner’s chest dimmed. He realized he could place some of his burden on his friend’s capable shoulders. “I want to sleep. Forget about writing for a few nights. Forget what a newspaper looks like.”

  Forget he’d ever known Kat Peters.

  “How about we stop by the barber, then get you home? Tan, I think you need a few years sleep, never mind a few nights. We can work the rest out tomorrow.”

  Tanner released a weak smile. “A trollop, a barber and a bed? This place might be too much for me.”

  “Barber first. Bath a close second. No wonder Katherine Peters was in such a rage. Locked in a stagecoach with you smelling this...terrible.”

  Kat. Just a few doors down. Long limbs tangled in silk sheets, her glorious hair flowing down her back. God, she was so close he could almost feel her, simmering deep in his bones.

  I don’t care about her anymore, Tanner assured himself.

  What the hell difference would one more lie make?

  Kate closed the bedroom door and turned, slumping against it. Her legs didn’t want to support her, her feet didn’t want to move, but she forced them to, her knees finally cracking the wooden bedstead. Flopping to her stomach, she buried her face in the coverlet.

  Dear God.

  Tanner Barkley.

  As lewd images raced into her mind, she sat up with a whispered oath.

  Tanner Barkley.

  She yanked her boot off and flung it against the wall. She had avoided him for a year and a half. Except for four inadvertent meetings. Outside Palmer’s Antiques: willowy redhead. On the lawn of Capital Square: petite brunette. Chisom Taylor’s ball: voluptuous blond. Spring races. Hmm...she squinted and wound a strand of hair about her finger.

  Ah. Another blond.

  With a yank, Kate hurled the other boot against the wall.

  All at once, she felt like crying. Or leaping from the upper porch she had glimpsed from the walkway below.

  What was she going to do? What in the world was she going to do?

  Buck up, Kate. You shared a stagecoach with him. For over three hours.

  Yes, that was true. The longest three hours of her life. To avoid looking at him, she’d recorded the number of scuffmarks on her boots, identified every variety of shrub among the frost-covered tangle they passed, and calculated interest rates in her head.

  Regrettably, as the coach bounced, so did her gaze.

  Tanner looked dreadful. Emaciated. Pale blue eyes hollow in their sockets, normally bronze skin the color of chalk. Arm supported by a dirty sling. A nasty red scar snaking beneath the stubble on his chin. His good hand shaking as he lifted his cheroot—which he’d not asked permission to smoke—to his lips. The wind had snatched it from his fingers and thrust it, smoldering, atop her paisley shawl.

  She wrapped her arms around her waist and hugged tight. What did it matter? She hated the man. She truly did. However, she didn’t delight in his looking so frail. Senseless when, not long ago, she’d wished to see him at his worst: strung from the highest limb in Richmond, dragged down Bank Street behind a galloping horse, tarred and feathered and forced to run through Town Market. Naked. She shivered and closed her eyes as an image of his muscular physique, as clear as any daguerreotype, popped, unwelcome, into her mind.

  Scratch the tar and feather idea. Too easy to visualize the mob of women, plucking feathers and pinching Tanner’s tarred behind. She punched the pillow, clenched her fist tighter, and punched again.

  And his face, still so handsome that when she’d gotten her first good look—light from the carriage window spilling over him, making him appear innocent and golden—a breath of air, thick as cotton, almost choked her.

  Even the greenish cast to his skin could not alter such undiluted beauty.

  Kate flung the pillow to the floor and drew her knees to her chest. Breathing in the scent of lemon verbena, she let her gaze rove the room. Faded doilies and somber furniture hemmed her in.

  Oh, and the colorless prospect of marrying a man she did not love.

  A debacle she’d fumbled once before, maladroitly, but with a sincere measure of naiveté. Why, why, did the same man seem to be once again standing in her way?

  “Sweetheart, tell me you didn’t.”

  Charlotte Chase pressed her lips to her husband’s shoulder and snuggled against him. The teasing scent of leather drifted from his skin. He released an exasperated groan, but slid his hand from her knee to her waist, drawing her in. She smiled. Perhaps, this wasn’t going to be so bad after all. “You’ve been busy writing the feature on” —she kissed his chin— “Harriet Beecher Stowe and” —the corner of his mouth— “with the amount of work here, I figured—”

  “You figured you’d stick you nose in Miss Peters’ business,” Adam said, disgust lacing his words.

  She sighed. “If you must state your case so bluntly, I suppose, yes.”

  “Oh, Charlie.”

  “Oh, Charlie, nothing. This will keep Kate occupied while she’s here. The project interested her. Besides, September was the last time you tabulated our subscription accounts. Heavens, she’s a bookkeeper in Richmond, perfectly qualified to review our records. A bookkeeper when she can find work.”

  “I hear the edge. Another crusade for the independent woman?”

  “No, but” —she tapped her fingernail against his chest— “you should have seen her mother’s face when I suggested it. Mrs. Peters is as likely to approve as she is to sprout wings and fly to the moon. Plus, I like Kate. She has spirit.” She shook my hand when she met me.

  “Wait until Mrs. Peters realizes Tanner is in town. They’ll hear her shrieking on her flight to the moon.”

  Charlie popped up on her elbow. “Kate and Tanner? What is this?”

  “I came across them clawing at each other by the stagecoach. Pretty obvious something was going on. No woman would be that angry unless emotions were bubbling beneath the surface.”

  “Did you get any information out of him?”

  “Christ, Charlie.”

  “Adam Jared Chase.” She jabbed him in the chest.

  “All right, all right, get that bony nub away from me.” He captured her hand. “Tanner said they knew each other before, something about a newspaper article. He lied to her, tried to explain things, I guess. Hell, the man seemed ready to pitch to the floor. I didn’t ask anything else.”

  “And, you waited this long to tell me?”

  “Yes, I waited. I wanted to avoid some harebrained scheme. Like this one. Tanner just happens to
stop by the office to write an editorial and who is there but Kate Peters. Doing the subscription accounts for the newspaper, my ass.”

  Mercy, he understands me well, Charlie thought, and plopped to her side, the bed ropes squeaking in protest. “She has quite a mathematical mind. Even Mrs. Peters said so, and she wasn’t giving praise. Intelligent and beautiful. What more could the woman want in a daughter?”

  “Yeah, well, what do you expect from that old crow? I guess Kate told you about Tanner?”

  Charlie grinned. “Not exactly. I mentioned we had a guest for the holidays she might enjoy meeting. Both unmarried, attractive. I thought I would give it a go.” She ignored her husband’s amused snort. “Anyway, Kate said she had no wish to associate with Tanner Barkley, thank you very much. And, I never even mentioned his name to her!”

  Adam sighed. “Please, Charlie, no more projects.”

  “I don’t think Kate Peters needs my help. She seems to have a mind of her own.” And, lovely eyes filled with anguish.

  Adam stiffened. “You didn’t invite her to your damned tree-decorating party did you? I already told Tanner about—”

  “Of course, I invited her. I hate these things, even my own. Hellfire. Kate may throw a few sparks in and brighten this one a little.”

  “Charlotte Chase, are you trying to kill me before I make it to thirty-four?”

  “What’s wrong with helping two lonely people find love?”

  “Didn’t seem like love to me, seemed like a bad case of hate.” He laughed and pressed a kiss to her brow. “True love? Tanner Barkley and Katherine Peters? Sweetheart, I think you’ve lost what’s left of your mind.”

  2

  Kate slid her spectacles into place, adjusted a curved arm behind each ear, and plunged into the ragged rows of numbers before her. Her mother kept the worst record book she had ever seen. Blotches of ink stained every sheet; the pages were wrinkled and torn. Figures miscalculated or simply left out. Nevertheless, it presented a creative challenge, much like designing bonnets did for her mother. Moreover, it kept Kate’s mind from dwelling on her disturbing predicament.

  With a deceptively merry doorbell jingle and a deep laugh that brought forth images she’d assumed were dead, Kate’s disturbing predicament strolled into the millinery. Kate’s hand jerked, halting her rapid progress across the page.

  “Why, thank you, Mr. Barkley. I didn’t know how I was going to open the door with this load of Christmas packages,” said a sweet voice Kate did not bother to connect to a face. He attracts them like flies to honey, or manure, Kate thought, and gripped the pen until her knuckles whitened.

  “My pleasure, ma’am. I’ll just put them on the counter.”

  Kate recorded the last set of numbers. She could not recall how she had arrived at them, but she saw them clearly, though they were a bit red-tinged. Three, six, nine.

  “Mr. Barkley, surely you’ve seen a poinsettia before. From Charleston.” Kate heard the shuffle of leaves, an enticing laugh. “Takes a special...touch to keep them happy. Lots of darkness, a little pampering. Much like....”

  Tanner laughed and the woman whispered, their voices overlapping, intertwining, becoming a mindless warble. Kate clenched her teeth and pressed down on the final curve of the nine. Ink spurted, dribbling from the tablet to mahogany. “Damn.”

  “Tsk, tsk, Kat. Such language,” Tanner said, amusement riding high in his voice.

  Kate dabbed at the spill, then rose, forcing a bland expression. For the benefit of the woman at Tanner’s side, she smiled. “Can I help you, Mr. Barkley?”

  Tanner bent over the counter and poked at a taffy-filled cornucopia. After a moment, he cocked a chin naked of yesterday’s stubble and caught her gaze. Unwrapping a piece of candy, he popped it into his mouth and rolled the wrapper into a ball between his thumb and forefinger. He blinked, ridiculously long lashes brushing his skin, his jaw flexing as he chewed. “I hoped you could, Kat. I need ribbon.” He paused, considered, chewing slowly. “Red. About a yard.”

  “Don’t tell me you need to purchase a lover’s trinket at this early date? Been in town, oh” —she tipped the watch pinned at her waist— “thirty hours.”

  He shrugged his good shoulder and flicked the wadded wrapper to the floor. “Certainly, entertainment is hard to come by in this” —he glanced at the package-laden woman glued to his side, flashed a charming smile, then looked back at Kate, his smile thinning— “well, let’s just say I work quickly.”

  His words were subtle, but the gleam in his eyes and the finger he skimmed along the counter were not.

  Kate worked to keep her smile in place, felt it slip, and dropped her gaze. A tattered wool coat hung from Tanner’s shoulders, the sleeves dangling past his wrists. Strange. Tanner had always taken an almost feminine interest in his attire. “Nice clothing,” she said, pleasure flooding her as his lips flattened, leaving a rather setback look upon his face.

  The woman at Tanner’s side released a sigh and swept a lock of white-blond hair from her face. She looked from Tanner to Kate and back again. Her gaze traveled to the top of Kate’s head, inches above her own, then settled on Kate’s spectacles. Kate understood what her appeased expression meant: no competition here. “You must be Katherine, Mrs. Peters’ daughter. She told me so much about you. I’m Mrs. Walker. Lila Dane. Of course, your mother has mentioned me. I’m her best customer.”

  “Yes, certainly.” Katherine lifted her hand. “I’m sorry to have you wait, but I don’t know a thing about bonnets.”

  Lila glanced at Kate’s ink-stained fingers and raised her gloved hand hesitantly.

  Tanner laughed. “Shake it, Mrs. Walker. Don’t worry, the impudence won’t rub off. Thick skin holds it in.”

  Kate shot him a sharp look. Hush up, you.

  He arched a brow, the corner of his mouth kicking.

  Again, Lila glanced between them, then back to Kate’s outstretched hand. She grasped the tips of Kate’s fingers, wagged once, and dropped the offensive digits as if they burned.

  Kate sighed and rolled her eyes. “Mother, Mrs. Walker is here.”

  “One moment, dear,” her mother called.

  Kate pressed her hand to her stomach. One moment? One moment in hell. Oh, she could smell him: smoke and leather. Man. She recognized his scent, had tucked it in her memories, a sliver beneath her skin. If she had to, if she wanted to, she could select it from a thousand others.

  Easy when it used to cling to her clothing, to her hair, to her skin.

  To her sheets.

  Horribly vivid images assaulted her as his fragrance traveled from her nostrils to her brain.

  Please, Mother, please hurry, she prayed and turned to face the couple whose mingled laughter crowded the shop.

  “Why, Mr. Barkley, all that for a newspaper article? And with a broken arm?”

  “I didn’t break the arm, darling. Someone shot a hole through it.”

  “Shot?” Kate said, leaning in before she was able to stop herself.

  Tanner’s pale blue eyes shifted to her, held. Until a subtle cough forced a break. He turned, smiled into Lila’s upturned face, shrugged.

  Lila twisted the beaded fringe dangling from her purse around her finger. “Such craziness over a newspaper? Grief! My family is in a respectable business.” She sniffed. “Banking.”

  Tanner slipped a cheroot from his coat pocket and grasped it between his teeth. “Respectable? I’m not sure I agree, although my family’s heart pumps with the same veins.” He leaned, dipping the tip into a sconce sitting atop the counter.

  Lila frowned at his lack of courtesy and waved her hand before her face. “Veins? Is your father a doctor?”

  Kate focused her attention on the poinsettia basket. Thank goodness for beauty.

  Although she could not deny her curiosity about Tanner’s family. Beyond the basics, he had not disclosed much.

  “Doctors.” He shook his head. Gray ash drifted from his cheroot. “No doctors. Banking. My grandfather, my fathe
r. God help, even my poor brother.”

  Lila preened, spiking up on her toes in rapture. And interest. “A large bank?”

  “Fairly.” He blew a breath of smoke in Kate’s direction, although his gaze remained on the woman standing by his side. “Sloane-Barkley.”

  “Sloane-Barkley?” Lila frowned, heels slapping the floor. “I’ve never heard of them.”

  “Sloane-Barkley,” Kate repeated, choking on the smoke. Sloane-Barkley? Tanner’s family was the Barkley in Sloane-Barkley? Stocks and bonds Sloane-Barkley? Textbook case study Sloane-Barkley?

  “Something wrong, Kat?”

  She swung her head up. “Wrong? What could possibly be wrong, Mr. Barkley?”

  “Must have been my imagination. I thought I detected a hint of surprise.” He scrutinized her face then retreated with a forced smile.

  “Surprise? Why, you could be a traveling circus performer for all I know. Oh, no, that’s absurd. Let me guess: a newspaperman. A newspaperman who is an heir to a small banking fortune.” She snapped her fingers. “Yes, that’s it.”

  “Sorry to find you gave up the heir for, what is his name again, Crawford?”

  She turned and walked out the back door before another thought formed. Or dear heaven, another response. The wind snatched her skirts as she crossed the alley behind the row of shops. She elbowed past a string of prickly shrubs, ripping her sleeve on a stubborn branch. Beginning to shiver, she started to run. Ran until her lungs ached, until her skin stung. Cotton stockings and thin wool did little to protect her from the cold.

  She bowed at the waist, gulping air. Memories and pain flooded her mind. Damn him. She yanked her spectacles from her face and rubbed her eyes, her hand trembling. The sound of pounding footfalls reached her ears.

  “Kat? What the hell are you doing?”

  She whipped around. “You bastard,” she cried and flung her spectacles at him.

  Tanner stepped back, his gaze dropping to his feet. He slipped his arm from his sling and stooped, extricating the silver frames from the dirt. The wind lifted his hair, whipped it against his face.