by Sharon Ihle
Donovan, so politely quiet up to this point, leaped out of his chair and claimed her elbow. "I suppose it is time we were on our way."
Libby backed away from him, still maintaining her decorum, but gravely in doubt as to how long she could hold onto it. She favored Donovan with the sweetest smile she could manage and said, "Please don't trouble yourself with me. Stay and visit with your father. I have some personal errands to attend to on the way home, and as you already know, I'm quite capable of finding my way around town on my own."
Reclaiming her arm, she turned to head for the door, but bumped into Francis, who was standing on the other side of her. Libby hadn't even heard him get out of his chair. "Oh, excuse me," she said. "I didn't see you there." She shook his hand. "Thanks again for the lovely tour of the newspaper offices. Next time you're anywhere near Laramie, do stop by and pay us a visit."
"Oh, but must you leave so soon?" He shot a furtive glance in his father's direction. "I was hoping we might get together a little later. Over supper, perhaps?"
This was rich. Francis Savage apparently flirting with her, as his thick-skulled father looked on, scowling. If she hadn't been so damned mad, Libby might have burst out laughing. She didn't, but she wasn't so enraged as to miss what she saw as an opportunity to rattle the old goat a little. "That sounds perfectly lovely, Francis. May I let you know a little later?"
"There's no need to bother," said Donovan, reclaiming her elbow. "I've planned a kind of surprise supper for us tonight. Maybe she can join you some other time, Francis."
Able to smile at the thought of both Savage sons fighting over her in the presence of their scornful father, Libby fluttered her eyelashes at Donovan. "That's the first I've heard that I was having supper with you tonight."
"Of course it is. That's why I called it a surprise supper."
"Oh, I see."
She supposed she could have kept the little game up for several more minutes, but all Libby wanted at that point was out of the suddenly suffocating office. Peeling Donovan's fingers off her arm, she said, "I'll have to get back to you later, too. I'm not sure I'm up to any more surprises today, and I have a lot to accomplish yet. Now I really do have to go."
Looking beyond Donovan to where R. T. sat, Libby had hoped to see that smug grin wiped off the man's face, but he still wore a rather satisfied smile. Forcing herself to be polite, she murmured, "Good day, Mr. Savage. Thanks for the tour of your offices."
Rising from his chair in the fashion of a gentleman, but not, Libby was sure, as one who felt she deserved the courtesy, R. T. said, "The pleasure was all mine, Miss Justice, all mine."
And that, as far as Libby could remember, was the first statement the man had made all day with which she could agree.
* * *
To Libby's amazement, Donovan's biggest surprise was not this supposed supper he'd planned for them, but the dogged determination he'd shown in following after her. She'd stormed out of R. T.'s office, wanting nothing more than a little time and privacy in which to plan her next move. Sticking close by like a hired bodyguard, he'd accompanied her all over town, from the railroad station, where she'd collected a new schedule for east-bound trains and wired her brother to expect her home soon, and on to Market Street, where she'd bought a little wooden replica of a cable car for Jeremy. Donovan had done this in spite of the fact that throughout the waning afternoon, Libby had refused to talk with him except over the most trivial of matters, insisting that she needed time to think, to plan a new life for herself—a distinct possibility, considering the enormity of what R. T. had told her at Savage Publishing.
Of course her reasons for ignoring Donovan weren't quite that simple. For one thing, she was still too angry with the father to have a decent, lucid conversation with the son. How could she, when Donovan was so obviously happy with this newfound family of his? Although she wasn't terribly pleased that he hadn't at least tried to back her up in R. T.'s office, she could hardly blame him for keeping quiet. He was trying to become a Savage, not alienate them.
Still, Libby suspected that he felt a little guilty about abandoning her, as it were. He'd insisted on taking her over to O'Farrell Street for a luscious and leisurely supper of succulent lobster at Delmonico's—the very meal he'd promised her the day she'd arrived in San Francisco. Although she appreciated the gesture, and even understood the awkward position he was in regarding his father, by the time they blew in through the front door of Donovan's house that night, Libby was still in a mood, questioning her blind devotion to the cause, her feelings for Donovan, and even the principles for which her own mother and father had stood. She was not in any way prepared for his sudden defense of himself.
"I'm sure you expected me to help you a little more today," he muttered, kicking the door shut behind him, "but Savage Publishing belongs to my father, not me. It's his business to run as he sees fit. I don't know the first thing about how a newspaper should be operated."
"I'm not questioning the way he runs the Tribune, or you for taking his side," she snapped. "Now if you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about this."
Libby wandered into the living room, leaving Donovan to light the lamp in the foyer. Inside the house, it was nearly dark—a perfect match for her mood. Strolling over to the bay window, she stared out at the dusky, fog-shrouded landscape and wrapped her arms firmly around her middle, fighting off the chill from the damp night air. She heard Donovan walk into the room and approach her, but Libby didn't turn to face him. God, don't let him start that topic again, she thought, eyes glancing up at the ceiling. She didn't know why she no longer wanted to fight "the good fight." She just knew that she didn't.
"Look," Donovan murmured, sounding close behind and very apologetic, "I'll admit that I didn't like some of the things R. T. said today either. But how can any of us be sure what's best for this country? For all we know, my father could be right about his stand on equal rights."
And that's when it all came together for Libby, when things began to make sense to her again. Before she'd fallen in love with Donovan, those words would have been fighting words. She'd have turned on him like a wildcat, scratching and clawing for equal rights, making damn good and sure he knew how terribly, terribly wrong both he and his father were. But now she had a pretty good idea that the equal rights movement and her love for Donovan were mutually exclusive. Would she have to give up one for the other? How? One choice would tear out her heart, the other, her soul. She was depressed just thinking about it.
Turning to Donovan, she smiled and said what she thought he wanted to hear. "You may have a point about your father. I didn't mean to suggest that he was not a fair man."
His relief was immediately visible. "I'm glad to hear you say that, Libby. I've gotten to know R. T. pretty well lately, and he really is an intelligent, thoughtful man. I'm sure he appreciates that about you, too."
"Thank you for saying so, but it really doesn't matter how he feels about me now. The way I see it, my business with him is concluded." That much, as heartbreaking as it may be, seemed to be true.
"Just like that?" He looked positively flabbergasted.
"Just like that." Libby touched the edge of his jaw, then turned back toward the window so he couldn't see the despair behind those words.
"You're really something," Donovan whispered against the back of her ear. "Do you know that?"
The relief in his voice went a long way in assuaging Libby's sudden feelings of guilt—or maybe it was shame. For the first time in her life, she was happy that her mother wasn't around to see what her daughter was up to. This way she would never have to know that instead of accepting the challenge as a woman and a reporter, she'd bowed to Savage's superior male power, and kept her mouth shut when she should have climbed up on that fancy leather chair and demanded her rights as an editor. What would she do next in the name of love? Completely turn her back on her mother and the promise she'd made to her as she lay dying?
"Libby, are you all right?" Donovan's lips were still
nuzzling the back of her neck, making it easier and easier to forget all else. "You're trembling."
"What do you expect from the way you're fondling me?"
His hands circled her waist, then slid along the rough buckskin hugging her soft little tummy as he whispered, "So what you have is a physical problem?"
"Ummm, yes, I would say that it is." His hands moved even lower along her abdomen, whisking away all thoughts of self-recrimination. Soon Libby was smoldering inside as Donovan stroked her, caressing her through layers of fabric both rough and silky, until Libby thought she would go mad with need.
Her head fell back against his chest and she drew in a ragged, gasp of a breath before she could say, "Oh, Donovan. Whatever you do, don't stop."
But he did. He had to, in order to indulge himself with a real taste of her, to make certain he'd been mistaken about the hopelessness he'd thought he heard in her voice. Turning Libby in his arms, Donovan glanced into her velvety brown eyes, pleased to see they'd taken on the same lusty glow he felt raging throughout his entire body. Nowhere in her expression could he detect despair or regret. He held her close, so close she could have no doubts about his dire physical condition, then brushed her mouth with his as he whispered, "Give me Liberty... or give me death. And you'd better give me one of them pretty damn soon."
Her response was a deep and throaty laugh, which had him needing her all the more. Capturing that beautiful mouth with his, swallowing her laughter and taking it deep inside as if he thought he might preserve it there, Donovan kissed her again. He plumbed her roughly, deeply enough for Libby to gain full knowledge of his exact intentions. By the time he finally ended the kiss, her hands were grasping his buttocks beneath his jacket and one of her legs was hooked around his knee. She was his once again, and still on his terms.
"So..." He sucked in a euphoric breath. "So tell me, woman, what's it to be? You're not going to stand there and let me die, are you?"
She laughed again, the sound even throatier than before, and said, "I'll do my best to keep you alive, but I can't guarantee that I won't hurt you a little in the process."
A surge of hot desire tore through Donovan at those words, and he had to steal another kiss before raising his head to reply. "Don't sound so pleased with yourself. The way I feel right now, I'm afraid you're the one who could get hurt a little."
Again came that throaty laughter, and suddenly, Donovan couldn't wait another moment. He glanced around the room, figuring, since the rug had been good enough before, it would be good enough now. Before he could even start nudging Libby down to the floor, his gaze snagged on something, momentarily distracting him.
Narrowing his vision to be sure of exactly what he'd spotted among the shadows by the wall, Donovan stared at the area a moment. When he realized what he must be looking at, the thought of even standing in this room, much less dropping his trousers in it, filled him with icy terror.
He went cold inside, and in the very next second, Donovan couldn't have hurt a fly.
Chapter 16
Libby noticed the change in Donovan immediately. Before she could comment on his sudden "transformation," he grabbed her hand and began dragging her out of the room.
"Hey, wait a minute," she cried, wondering what she could have done to dampen his ardor so thoroughly. "What's wrong? Were are you taking me?"
"I thought we ought to go upstairs. More comfortable, you know."
Donovan's gaze swept the floor as he pulled her toward the foyer. What was he looking for? she wondered, or was he hiding something? Libby scanned the rug behind and in front of her, but couldn't find a thing out of place.
When they reached the landing, Donovan abruptly released her. "You go on up," he insisted, waving toward the second floor. "That'll give you a little privacy to, you know, get ready for bed. I'll join you in a minute."
Libby resolved not to budge until she had some idea what was going on. "What happened out there? One minute you couldn't keep your hands off me, and in the next, you can't get rid of me fast enough. What did I do wrong?"
"Nothing, sweetheart." Donovan laughed—actually, it was more of a nervous chortle, kind of like a giggle. Then he flashed the phoniest grin she'd ever seen. "Get going to your room. Everything's fine."
For a crazy moment, Libby wondered if maybe he didn't have another woman stashed in the living room, but she was too worn out both mentally and physically to give the thought much credence. With a weary sigh, she said, "All right. If that's what you want, goodnight."
"This isn't goodnight," he called after her. "Once I secure the house, I'll be up to join you."
Libby didn't trouble herself by commenting on his odd behavior. She went directly to her room and slammed the door good and loud. But she had no intention of staying there. After grabbing her glasses, which gave Donovan a few seconds in which to embark on his clandestine activities, she quietly opened her door again and crept out into the hallway. She listened intently, but the only sound she could hear from below was the rapid tattoo of Donovan's boots as he took off running down the hallway. Moments later came the clatter of pots and pans, a few muffled curses, then the thunder of his boots as he ran back up the hallway.
Hiding in the shadows, Libby flattened herself against the wall, but the gesture wasn't necessary. Donovan hadn't even looked up as he ran past the landing and ducked back into the living room.
What could be more interesting down there than what she had to offer upstairs? Had she been too forward, too willing? She remembered some schoolgirl chant about free milk and the cow's in the barn, but couldn't recall exactly what point the fable tried to get across. She'd done something wrong, but what?
* * *
Aware of the cold sweat trickling down from his brow, Donovan approached the bay window in the living room carrying the mousetraps he'd baited with bits of Libby's casserole. After positioning each of them behind the curtains, he ran out of the room as if the devil was on his trail. He took the stairs two and three at a time, and by the time he burst into Libby's room and slammed the door behind him, he was puffing like a steam engine chugging over the Rockies.
"There... we... are," he said between gasps. "How come it's so dark in here?"
"Because I'm asleep." Her voice sounded distant and muffled. "Go away."
"Now, Libby," he chided, feeling his way to the foot of the bed. "That's no way to talk. You don't sound like the same lusty woman I held in my arms downstairs."
"I'm not. I've simply changed my mind."
"In that case," he said, slipping out of his clothes and hanging them from the one of the four posts. "I guess I'll have to convince you all over again." Concerned more about the uninvited guests in his house than Libby's feeble attempt to convince him she'd had second thoughts, Donovan tore back the covers and jumped into bed beside her. She held him at arm's length.
"Hey, what's this?"
"I told you. I've changed my mind. Why don't you go back downstairs and keep chasing after the shadows in the living room."
"Ah, so that's it. You were listening in on me."
She muttered something unintelligible, then tried to roll away and turn her back to him. Chuckling to himself, Donovan pinned Libby's wrists to the pillow on either side of her head, keeping her immobile. "You might be interested to know that the shadows I was chasing were shaped like mice."
"Mice?"
He nodded, fighting a shudder. Through the years, Donovan had faced guns, knives, drunken gamblers, and hands the size of hams clamped firmly around his throat, but never, ever was he more terrified than when confronted by a member of the rodent family. His fears came from long, long ago, but they ran deep, too deep apparently to fade away as he'd hoped they would have by now.
He tried hard to keep that fear out of his voice as he explained. "That's why I hustled you out of the living room so fast. I didn't want to alarm you by saying that I thought mice or rats had gotten into the house, so I just sent you upstairs while I went to get traps and set them."
"If you need proof, go down and have a look for yourself. I didn't actually see a mouse, but I found where they've eaten away almost an entire strip of wallpaper by the bay window."
"The wall—" For a minute, Donovan thought she was going to apologize for doubting him, but then she burst out laughing.
"You think mice are funny, do you? Fine. You check the traps in the morning and you take the disgusting creatures outside and bury them. I'd just as soon not have to fool with them anyway, thank you."
Still chuckling softly, Libby said, "I'd be happy to check your traps tomorrow." Then, surprising him, she wrapped her arms around his neck and turned serious. "I'm wondering if maybe you won't be setting traps for me next. Aren't you getting a little tired of me being underfoot?"
"What does that have to do with mice?"
"Nothing, except that I can't stay here forever. Even if I could, there's no point in it. Not now that my business with your father is finished. There's a train to Laramie tomorrow afternoon. If I had any sense, I'd be on it."
"You're not going anywhere tomorrow." He didn't know a hell of a lot about emotions, relationships, or exactly what he was feeling for Libby, but Donovan did know one intractable thing: He was not ready to let her go just yet. "I don't know why you had to bring this up at all dammit, but you've said yourself that it won't matter if you stay in San Francisco another few days or weeks. Your brother and his helper are doing just fine without you."
"It isn't just the paper I'm worried about. I have to think of—"
But Donovan didn't want to hear any more of her excuses for leaving. He hushed her with a well-placed finger. "If you don't stay at least through Saturday, you'll be putting me in a very bad situation with the countess of Timbuktu, or wherever the hell she's from."