Denim and Lace

by Rice, Patricia

  She hadn't known how terrified she was until she heard Sloan's furious roar rise up from the ground below. She went nearly faint with joy and grabbed the railing to keep from falling headfirst down the stairs.

  Sloan raced up to grab her before she could lose her hold. Sam was so glad to see him up and mobile that she willingly fell into his arms, clutching his shirt and burrowing her face against his shoulder. Not until he hugged her awkwardly and murmured some silliness in her ear did she realize she was sobbing hysterically.

  She rubbed her hand against her eyes and tried to stop, but the tears kept coming. The sobs turned into hiccups as she tried to control them, but the last few minutes kept replaying before her eyes, and her hands kept reaching for her gun. Instead, she curled her fingers in Sloan's shirt.

  "It's all right, Sam," he pleaded against her hair. "Everything's all right. It's just a little scratch. I'm fine. You saved my life, sugar. Don't cry."

  He sounded so helpless, she almost managed a smile. If she could just forget ... A little scratch?

  Her head jerked up to see the blood streaming down the side of Sloan's head, and she screamed in horror. "You're wounded! Oh my God, Sloan Talbott, you get yourself up here right now." She leaned over the railing. "Joe, go fetch my mother and tell her to bring her bandages!"

  The men below watched in astonishment as Sam suddenly transformed from hysterical woman to stern nursemaid, wrapping her arm around Sloan's back and supporting him up the rest of the stairs. One of them gave a whistle of approval as a shapely ankle and bare foot appeared beneath the cotton wrapper. Others just stared in covetous awe as Sloan's hand slipped from the narrow curve of her waist to ride possessively on a round derriere so neatly outlined by the cloth that it was obvious she wore nothing under it. No one hurried to send for help.

  "Sit down in that chair and let me clean you up," Sam insisted as they entered the bedroom.

  Sloan didn't protest as she nearly shoved him into the room's only chair. His head spun, but he didn't blame it entirely on the wound. The woman wringing a cloth out in the cooling bathwater was a stranger to him. She wore Sam's clothes. She had Sam's tumble of red curls. But he'd never seen that tender look of concern in Sam's eyes or felt gentleness in her hands. She was somehow warmer, rounder, softer than the sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued virago he'd "married." He was always on guard with the other Sam. With this one, he closed his eyes and let her clean the wound without a word of complaint.

  "I think it's time you tell me what's going on," she murmured once she had the graze cleaned and bandaged to her satisfaction. She didn't seem to notice that no one had come to help her with dressing the wound. "If I'm going to live with a man everyone wants to kill, I'd like to know why."

  "You tell me, and we'll both know," he answered wearily, leaning his head against the back of the chair. He didn't know what he wanted right now, but it certainly wasn't a return to matching wits with his all too perceptive "wife."

  "I think Mama recommends that you stay awake for some time after a head wound."

  Sloan could hear her moving around the room, cleaning up whatever utensils she had brought out. He could tell her that he wasn't likely to be suffering a concussion, but he wasn't in a humor to discuss medical diagnoses and treatments.

  "I hate to let this bathwater go to waste," he heard her say, more to herself than him, he imagined. "It's not really cold yet." He had his eyes closed, so he couldn't see her turn to him, but somehow he could feel the focus of her eyes. "Would you like to try the bath?" she asked hesitantly.

  Sloan let the shock of that question ripple through him. He'd expected her to ask him to keep his eyes shut so she could bathe. He'd expected her to ask him to leave. He hadn't expected her to think of him first. His eyes opened and he saw her standing in the lantern light, holding out a towel and soap.

  A dozen images danced through his head. He saw her scrubbing his back while he sat naked in that tub. He saw them both naked in that tub. He saw himself lifting her from the water, dripping wet, and laying her across the bed. A surge of lust heated his loins as he imagined what he would do then.

  And the throbbing in his head and the weariness in his bones told him not one of those things was possible right now. He wondered idly if he could persuade her to sit on his lap and take care of him that way. He didn't think she was quite that experienced yet.

  "Why don't you go ahead and bathe," he answered quietly. "I'll just close my eyes and rest a bit. Maybe when you're done, I'll be ready to take you up on that offer."

  Instead of accepting his generosity, her face instantly expressed concern. She returned to his side to feel his brow. "You're not feverish. Your head must be hurting. Why didn't Joe send for Mama?" she asked with frustration.

  "There's some powders in that wooden box in the other room. Bring the box here and I'll show you which one. You can mix it in a little water and I'll be fine in a few minutes." Sooner or later she would learn about him if they continued to live together this way. She might as well start learning now. She was too bright to do otherwise.

  She returned a few minutes later with his medical kit. Sloan forced his eyes open and pointed out the powder, told her how much to mix, and left her to it. He was just grateful that she wasn't asking questions yet.

  "Here, if you rest your head on my arm, you won't have to lift it."

  Sam slid her arm behind him and Sloan rested his head as he sipped at the drink she held out for him. He was more aware of the roundness of her breast hovering near him than of what he drank, however. She still didn't wear more than that wrapper, and it gaped enticingly. He knew the extent of his injury by his ability to resist that much temptation.

  "I don't suppose you'd be willing to sit in my lap right now," he murmured, leaning his head back against the chair when she started to move away.

  Sloan didn't open his eyes, but he could feel her suspicious regard at his question. He knew the instant she discovered the reason for his request. The bulge in his pants was probably pretty noticeable by now. He'd always thought it unfair of nature to make a man's desire so blatantly obvious. He didn't expect the amusement in her reply.

  "I might be willing, but I'm also wise. I don't think you need any extra exertion right now."

  He sighed as she moved away. "I don't suppose you're going to take advantage of that bath, either."

  "Are you going to keep your eyes closed?"

  "If you're not going to sit in my lap, what choice do I have? I'm already suffering enough."

  She giggled. She actually giggled. As if he weren't sitting here suffering the seven torments of the damned, she had to laugh. Life very definitely wasn't fair, but right now he would willingly forgive her anything. She'd killed a man tonight to save his life. For a brief few moments he had made her forget that. He wished he could.

  Sloan kept his eyes closed while she splashed in the bath. Even though the water couldn't still be warm enough to send out fragrance, he imagined he smelled lavender anyway. Sam might occasionally look like a ragged gypsy or a filthy urchin, but she always smelled good. He squirmed in the chair, thinking about just how good she smelled when he held her in his arms. She had to be a witch to do this to him when no other woman had been able to these last ten years. He'd kept complete control over his sex life until this red-haired brat wandered into it. Not brat—young woman. Hot-headed, lovely young woman.

  A knock at the door just as Sam was climbing out of the bath sent her squealing after her wrapper again. Sloan managed a frown, opened his eyes long enough to ascertain that she was fully covered, then growled at the intruder outside the door.

  Accepting a growl as admittance, Joe walked in. His gaze took in his employer still sitting in the chair, a makeshift bandage around his head, then diffidently slid to the woman now adding a blanket to her attire. He made a brief nod of acknowledgment to Sam, then returned his attention to Sloan.

  "I had a talk with some of the boys. Don't any of them know the perpetrator. Hank said he though
t he'd seen him around Ariposa when they were down there. People there seemed to know him. I'll send someone down to find out more."

  Sloan watched as Joe shifted from one foot to the other and glanced nervously at Sam. He had more to say, but not here. His bodyguard was trying desperately to impress Sam as it was. Joe couldn't read, but he collected words like gold nuggets. He pulled them out when he wanted to impress. Perpetrator had been a good one.

  Sloan didn't look to where Sam hovered in the corner, hanging on to every word of their conversation. He addressed Joe as if she weren't there. "Give me the rest. Sam has a right to know. I'd be ready to push up daisies now if not for her."

  Joe nodded, diverted his gaze briefly to Sam, then took off his hat to twist it in his hands. "One of the men that followed Ramsey down the mountain said a fancy fellow from back East stayed in the hotel down there. He was asking questions about you and the town, flashing a bankroll while he was doing it."

  Sloan didn't want to hear that. From back East. He'd left that life behind a decade ago. No one knew where he was. He'd even changed his name. They couldn't know who he was. He'd been very careful to hide his identity, although admittedly, he'd been getting a little careless lately. He'd even visited Matthew. Dumb. That had been dumb.

  He closed his eyes again and nodded. "Send Bradshaw down. If Hawk's kid brother is still around, have him poke around a little, too. It's probably nothing but some idiot who thinks I've got the world's largest gold mine up here, but we might as well put a stop to it now."

  After Joe left, Sloan waited. He didn't have long to wait. He could smell the lavender on her skin as she sat on the chair arm. Her cool hand felt his brow for fever, then returned to her lap.

  "You're mining more than quicksilver up there, aren't you?"

  He hadn't expected the attack to come from that angle, but then, Sam never did the expected. He grimaced. "It's not all mine, either. Each man owns a share in the profits. We just decided it was quicker and safer if we all worked together."

  "Then how come you're the one with the money? Nobody else seems to have anything around here."

  Sloan relaxed and propped his feet on the edge of a table. "Because the land is mine. Nobody thought there was anything up there. It had been prospected to death. I bought up all the shares for nothing. I just wanted the damned mountain, not the gold. There's timber out there, and quicksilver, and other ores that could make a profit once we get in some transportation. Mostly, there's privacy. I liked that. I was willing to wait to turn a profit. Then some idiot found a nugget, and all hell would have broke loose if I hadn't stepped in to control it. Bradshaw and some of the others were as tired as I was of the stink and the crime and the back-breaking labor of prying a few dollars' worth of gold out of these hills. So we kept it a secret. We work at it carefully, following the lode. There's no claim-jumping, no stealing tools, no working twenty-hour shifts. Every man gets paid for his share of the work. If he doesn't work, he doesn't get paid. Most of them drink up their share of the profits. I invest mine."

  He liked the way her hand brushed the hair off his forehead. The headache was already starting to fade. In another minute he might be asleep. He had to haul himself out of here.

  "So killing you would only give your men a bigger share of the profits?"

  He was too tired to think about it. "It would mean they'd have to do their own books, do their own selling, and find someone to run the town and make the decisions. I doubt that there's one of them willing to take on that much responsibility."

  "So much for that theory," she murmured. "Do you think you've stayed awake long enough? You sound awfully sleepy."

  "If I had a concussion, I'd know it. I'm just too lazy to get out of this chair." And too enthralled by the scent and touch of her to want to move unless it was into her bed, but he didn't tell her that.

  "You'll be stiff if you stay there. Put your arm around my shoulder. I'll help you over to the bed."

  He'd have gone out and got himself shot sooner if he'd known that's what it took to persuade into her bed. Feigning more weakness than he felt, Sloan wrapped his arm around her shoulder and let her help him up. His stumble was real as he reached his feet, and he shook his head to clear it. Maybe he'd lost a little more blood than he'd thought.

  But he wasn't so far gone that he didn't know where he was when she pulled back the covers and helped him to the mattress. Quick, clever little hands pried open the buttons of his shirt and slid it back, then held him up to help him take it off. Eagerly, he waited to see what she would take off next. If he hadn't been feverish before, he most certainly was now, and the damned head wound had nothing to do with it.

  She tugged off his boots and set them neatly next to the bed. Sloan could feel her hesitating, and he didn't dare open his eyes and let her see what was in them. He would have killed to have her reach for the buttons of his trousers right now, but they'd not had enough time to learn each other that well. Sam might have her brazen moments, but this wasn't one of them.

  Stifling a sigh of regret, Sloan held out his hand to her. "Lie down beside me. I'm not going to do anything but snore for the next twelve hours. You'll be safe enough."

  He wasn't even trying to be persuasive, but she gave in without a single protest. She turned down the lantern and climbed in on the other side of the bed. From the way she snuggled against him a few minutes later, he figured she needed his company right now as much as he did hers.

  Turning on his side, he scooped her against him. He didn't even try to take advantage of her gaping wrapper.

  It was enough just to have her pressed against him from top to bottom. For now.

  The morning would be time enough to explore the attractions of this captivating woman he fully intended to make his.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  “Samantha! Samantha! Open the door. My hands are full. Aunt Alice said I was to bring this to you."

  Groggily, Sam opened one eye. Sunlight crawled across the floor, illuminating what had just been shadows a few hours before, or so it seemed. Recognizing Jack's shouts, she started to throw her legs over the side of the bed, then realized she was caught. Pushing aside the covers, she glanced down—and found a man's arm wrapped around her waist. The heat of him warmed her back.

  That woke her fully. Her robe had fallen open during the night. What on earth had possessed her to go to bed, wearing just a robe? She watched in horror as Sloan's rough hand began to stir, seeking the warmth of her skin beneath the cotton, rising higher until he almost brushed her bare breast. Holding her breath wouldn't work. She had to scram out of here.

  When she tried to pull free, his hold tightened. He was awake, the bastard. She turned enough to look over her shoulder. He had his eyes closed, but he was smiling. She poked him with an elbow. "Let me up, Talbott. Jack's out there."

  "He'll go away."

  He pulled her against him so her buttocks tucked into the curve of his hips, and she swore under her breath. She might not know a whole lot about lovemaking, but she knew enough about Sloan Talbott by now to know the meaning of that hard ridge pressing against her. If she didn't get out of this bed in the next few minutes, he'd have her under him in the following few.

  "Let go, Sloan, or I'll scream." She tried to wriggle away.

  "That should create a little amusement around here. You don't think last night was enough?" His hand slid upward to encompass her breast.

  He wasn't holding her trapped now. She could easily pull from his grasp. But he was doing horrifyingly lovely things to her nipple, and she was having difficulty separating right from wrong. He had only to touch her and she melted. She had the reckless urge to part her legs and press back against him so he could settle the tiny explosions he was producing in her belly.

  That thought sent her rocketing out of the bed. It was the worst possible time of the month to do what he wanted to do. It was bad enough they played out this charade of being married. She refused to let him trap her with his children.

>   Sloan groaned and flung himself on his stomach when she got up. It was a damned good thing she'd left his pants on him last night, Sam decided. Tugging her robe tighter, she opened the door for Jack.

  He looked at her curiously, glanced at the bare shoulders of the man in her bed, then set his tray down on the square oak table in the corner. "Aunt Alice said you might not be up to fixing breakfast this morning. She sent this over." He glanced toward Sloan again, then asked in a loud whisper, "Did someone really try to put a bullet through his heart?"

  "They were fools if that's where they aimed," Sam said dryly, poking at the contents of the tray. "There's only one portion of Sloan's anatomy that would kill him, and they missed it by a mile."

  She heard him choking against the pillow and figured the feathers would be flying in her direction shortly. She blocked the breakfast tray from possible artillery and nodded at the door. "Thank Mama for me, and tell her we're fine. We'll be over directly."

  Jack left reluctantly, sneaking another peek at the wide shoulders of the man sprawled against the pillows. He slammed the door after him.

  Sloan groaned at the noise. "Remind me to send him down a mine shaft and forget about him until he's thirty."

  "I suspect that's what someone should have done with you." She poured a cup of coffee and took it over to the bed. "How's your head? Do you need more powders?"

  He rolled over carefully, trying not to lift his head from the pillow in the process. Sam winced when he did, then tried not to be distracted when she realized that sometime during the night he'd unfastened his trousers. It was a little difficult to ignore the dark swirl of hair descending from his navel and disappearing beneath the heavy cloth.

  "You can't drink this lying down. Want me to help you sit up?"

  She knew that was a mistake the moment she said it. There was a definite gleam in his eye now. Before he could get any ideas, she reminded him, "The coffee's hot enough to scald."

  Sloan scowled and pushed himself to a sitting position. "Remind me sometime why I got mixed up with a termagant with more brains than she needs when there's bound to be dozens of featherheads out there waiting to grace my bed."