“Then maybe that’s where I need to stay.”
“I don’t think this is a very good idea, Wyatt.”
“Gonna stop me, Miss Charity?”
Her throat moved again. “No,” she murmured.
“Good.” Then he closed his eyes and gave himself up to the sensation of kissing Charity. Her mouth tasted the way he’d imagined it might—sweetly subtle, with passion hiding behind a barrier of caution. He brushed his lips across hers to enjoy the velvet texture and the cushioning fullness before he pressed deeper, coaxing her to open to him. She did, but slowly, and he angled his head to gain what he wanted.
His tongue claimed possession gently, without rushing, at last taking advantage of her sigh of surrender to explore the moist heat of her mouth. And that heat was building. She spread her fingers over the back of his head and pulled him deeper, slackening her jaw in deliberate provocation. He cupped her cheek with his left hand, then cursed inwardly because he still wore the leather glove.
Amazingly, the touch of the worn leather seemed to bring her to a greater level of excitement. Moaning softly, she twisted more fully beneath him, arching upward. Only a fool would resist an invitation like that, and Wyatt was no fool. Pushing aside her robe, he unfastened the top buttons of the nightgown with clumsy movements of his gloved hand. When he slipped his hand inside and cupped her fullness, she gasped against his mouth.
As he kneaded her soft breast and wished he could eliminate the barrier of the glove, her kiss became more frenzied, her breathing more ragged. She was wild for him. He grew hard at the thought of making love to her right here, pushing her nightgown up and just…
But then understanding dawned. The glove was having this effect. It wasn’t him she wanted so much as a rough and rugged rodeo cowboy. Disappointment mingled with his arousal. He lifted his mouth a fraction as his hand closed completely over her breast, squeezing it. “If it’s leather you like,” he whispered, “maybe I should wear my chaps when we make love. And bring my rope.”
She grew very still. “Get away from me this second,” she said, panting with the remnants of passion, “or so help me, I’ll turn you into a soprano, buster.”
Breathing hard, he rolled away, right into a mound of snow. “Oh, jeez.” But she’d been in a perfect position to knee him in the crotch and he didn’t think she was too squeamish to do it. “Damn, this stuff is cold.” Wiping snow from his face, he sat up and glared across at her. He held up his left hand. “And I suppose this leather glove had nothing to do with your response just now?”
She tugged her nightgown together and struggled to a sitting position. “You’re so insulting.”
“Maybe I was a little insulted, too.” Despite himself his gaze drifted to her mouth, reddened by his kisses, and his body stirred anew. He shouldn’t have said anything, just helped himself. Did it matter whether he was her token rodeo cowboy if he got some pleasure in exchange? It wasn’t as if that hadn’t been the deal many times before, with other women. He couldn’t understand why it bothered him so much now.
“I’m going inside.” She tried to get up, but slipped on the wet balcony and would have fallen smack on her fanny if he hadn’t leaned over and grabbed her by the elbow, steadying her descent.
He guided her gently back to the balcony floor. “Need some help getting up?” he asked.
She pulled away from him. “No, thank you.”
“Okay.” He sat back, his arms wrapped around his bent knees and watched.
Her problem was that she was trying to protect her modesty while she got to her feet, but the nightgown and bathrobe kept riding up on her, and when she’d tug it back down she’d lose her balance on the slippery surface. Finally she made it up, but not before Wyatt had been treated to several delicious glimpses of her creamy calves and thighs.
She stomped through the French doors into Nora’s bedroom without a backward glance. She closed the door with an angry snap of her wrist. Then she closed the drapes. She pulled the cord with such energy that the drapes swung from the impact for several seconds afterward.
Observing this display of temper, Wyatt wondered if she’d turn the dead bolt, as well. He listened for the click. If it came, he’d just have to break in, but he’d rather not do any more damage to Nora’s house than necessary. He glanced at the sagging roof over the balcony and the post pulled out of position by his rope. Maybe he could shove the post back into position, but it would have to be repaired sometime.
When no sound of locks turning came from the door, Wyatt concluded that Charity understood that locking him out wouldn’t do any good. At least she’d figured out that much about him.
Wyatt decided to sit in the slush a little longer. His shoulders and arms could use heat and massage, but what he was sitting in was perfect for easing that other ache, the one that wouldn’t be getting any relief soon, if Charity had anything to do with it.
7
ALISTAIR SELDOM resorted to blasphemy. He considered it a sign of insufficient vocabulary skills. But as he propped himself on his front porch railing to rid himself of the tangle that had once been snowshoes, he allowed himself one muttered, “Dammit.” He’d found the confounded things in a trunk packed years ago by his dear, departed Cordelia. He’d never been on snowshoes in his life, but in these dire circumstances they’d seemed like a gift from above. Apparently they’d been a curse from below, instead.
Fortunately he’d layered himself with two pairs of thermal underwear and two pairs of socks before he’d put on his ski pants and boots, so the time he’d spent half submerged in a snowbank hadn’t given him frostbite. A man who failed to plan was a man who planned to fail, he’d told both his sons more than once. They’d each made use of that advice in their careers with military intelligence.
He could have used his sons’ expertise in this caper, as a matter of fact, but he seemed to be managing fine on his own. Swinging on the rope had been quite exhilarating until the nephew had let it go and he’d smacked up against the railing spread-eagled like one of those characters in a Roadrunner cartoon. Thank heavens he’d been able to grab the rail at the last minute instead of falling backward into the snow.
They were a devilish pair, those two, cackling away up on the balcony after they thought they’d finished him off. But Alistair Updegraff was tougher than that, by golly. Maybe the loss of electrical power had knocked out his carefully placed listening device, but he’d find some other way to collect his evidence.
He still had his telescope, and his bedroom window was exactly opposite Nora’s. If they hadn’t pulled the shade down on that window he might be able to see something interesting. He’d also continue to study Sleuthing Tips, so chock-full of ideas gleaned over the years from his panel of experts—Miss Marple, Hercule Poirot, Sherlock Holmes, and of course his beloved Jessica Fletcher. What an astounding think tank! Charity Webster and Wyatt Logan had no idea what they were up against.
CHARITY TOOK Nora’s boots and robe off as soon as she closed the drapes. MacDougal danced around her in pleasure, welcoming her back.
“Stay back, fuzz-face, until I can deal with this mess,” she ordered. Everything she had on was sopping wet, but the robe had soaked up the melted snow like a sponge and was dripping. She bundled it in her arms and carried it into Nora’s bathroom, where she dumped it in the tub. MacDougal followed her and cocked his head, looking puzzled.
Charity reached down to give him a pat. “Your world is upside down, too, isn’t it? Oh, Mac, what I wouldn’t give for a long, hot bath.” And the privacy to enjoy it, she thought. She tried the tap and discovered not even cold water came out. This power outage was turning into a bigger hassle than she’d originally expected.
Shivering, she returned to Nora’s closet and found a pink sweat suit. After going back inside the bathroom to put the suit on, she locked the door, leaving MacDougal to whine unhappily on the other side of it. Then she realized she’d forgotten underwear, but she didn’t dare go out again. Besides having to deal with the dog, she had
Wyatt to consider. He could come in at any minute, and she wanted to be dressed when he invaded the house again.
Invasion was the only word she could think of in connection with Wyatt. He’d burst into her world with all the force of a rodeo bull coming out of the chute, and he’d caused more turmoil and confusion in a few hours than any man she’d ever encountered.
Every time she thought of his crude remark concerning chaps and a rope, she wanted to hit something. Or someone. A certain someone. When he’d touched her with his gloved hand it had merely reminded her of his heroic effort to rescue Alistair. That was absolutely all there was to it. She admired that sort of courage and resourcefulness. Instead of recognizing that, he’d turned her response into something distasteful, implying that she was some sort of bondage freak. Disgusting.
She’d wanted to lock the French doors against him, too, but he’d have found some way, perhaps a way that would damage the door, to get in. He wasn’t the sort of man who would allow her to lock him out of the house on a freezing day. He was a very resolute character.
Determination was admirable in some contexts, Charity realized, and dangerous in others. The same persistent behavior that had saved Alistair could very well be her undoing unless she made it very clear she didn’t want anything more to do with Wyatt. He was obviously highly sexed and unable to spend twenty-four hours in the company of an available woman without trying to seduce her. She mustn’t allow that to happen.
Just as she finished combing her hair and fastening it on top of her head, she heard the French doors open. Taking a deep breath, she came out of the bathroom. “Hold it,” she commanded, halting him in the open doorway. MacDougal greeted Wyatt as joyously as he had greeted her. The dog was a complete traitor. “I can’t have you walking all through the house making a mess,” she said.
“Want me to strip right here, then?”
She’d have to ignore remarks like that, she told herself, even if they did make her heart pound and her cheeks flush. “Yes. After I leave.” She moved quickly to Nora’s closet. “I think Nora has a bathrobe in here you can wear to get yourself decently back to your room.” She quickly sorted through the garments hanging in the closet and found a blue satin robe—trimmed in white fur. Served him right. She pulled it from the hanger.
“This should work.” She crossed the room toward him and laid the robe over a chair positioned next to the French doors.
He glanced at the robe, then back at her. “You picked that one on purpose, didn’t you? Nora probably has a plaid flannel robe hanging right next to it.”
“I really have no idea.” She turned and headed out of the room. “But I’m sure you’ll look lovely in that,” she added over her shoulder. “Just dump your wet clothes in the bathtub.” Then she called the dog, but MacDougal didn’t come. The turncoat had chosen to stay with Wyatt.
NORA’S BEDROOM window shade was up, but Alistair couldn’t see anything incriminating going on in the bedroom except for Charity making free with Nora’s clothes. The two women were about the same size. Had been about the same size, he reminded himself. It was so difficult to think of poor, dear Nora in the past tense. No doubt Charity planned on expanding her wardrobe now that Nora wouldn’t be needing anything.
He watched Charity toss some blue silk garment on a chair. She was talking to someone. Alistair figured out that the nephew must be standing just inside the French doors. Then Charity left the room. The nephew hadn’t come into view yet, but he would. If Alistair was lucky, the nephew might take this opportunity to go through Nora’s jewelry chest.
Alistair slapped his forehead. His video camera! He nearly tripped going down the stairs to get it. Thank goodness he always kept it loaded. In less than a minute he was back, winded but ready to film. Gasping from his run up and down the stairs, he trained the viewfinder on the window.
He’d been prepared to watch the nephew poke through Nora’s jewelry and pocket a few of her valuables. He’d hoped that would happen, so he could get it on film. He hadn’t been prepared for the nephew to walk past the window wearing a woman’s blue silk robe trimmed in white fur. Alistair nearly dropped the camera. The nephew was not only a murderer, he was a cross-dresser. And Alistair had the proof on film.
CHARITY LEFT Wyatt with the prospect of wearing the fur-trimmed robe and went downstairs to check on the fire. She was chilled to the bone, and the fire was the only source of heat in the house. Well, not the only source, but the safest one. Wyatt’s kisses had made her forget the cold completely, but giving in to that temptation again would truly be playing with fire.
The coals smoldered, nearly out, and the room was much colder than it had been when she and Wyatt had left it earlier. Without electricity the fireplace really was their salvation, she realized, poking at the embers with one of Nora’s decorative brass fireplace tools. She added more wood and blew on the coals to get the blaze going again.
“Why not use the bellows?” Wyatt asked from the doorway.
She turned and had to clamp her lips together to keep from hooting with laughter at the sight of him in Nora’s blue silk. His broad shoulders strained the armhole seams. Instead of the cleavage that the robe was designed to reveal, a mat of dark hair was exposed where the white fur collar inadequately covered the muscled expanse of his chest. His strong calves, also sprinkled with dark hair, stood out in sharp contrast to the fur trimming the robe’s hemline.
The quivering fur of the hemline was too much of a temptation for Mac. He made a grab for it, but Wyatt jumped out of the way just in time. “No!” he commanded, hiking the robe out of the dog’s reach.
Charity would have given anything for a camera.
“There’s a bellows hanging right there.” Wyatt gestured with one flowing sleeve while he held the robe’s hem away from the dancing dog with the other hand.
Charity nearly choked with the effort not to laugh. “I know,” she said in a strained voice. “But they’re antique.”
“So use ‘em anyway. Down, Mac.”
Surprisingly, the little dog dropped to his belly.
Wyatt strode into the room, white fur trim flouncing. “You’ll never get the fire going blowing on it that way.”
“Wait,” Charity protested around a giggle as she rose to her feet and placed a protective hand on the bellows. “Really. We can’t use them. I don’t think Nora’s kept the leather oiled and it’ll probably crack.”
Wyatt glared at her, then down at the fire. A wisp of fur got near his mouth and he blew it away impatiently.
That did it. Charity doubled over in helpless laughter.
“You think this getup is real funny, don’t you?” Wyatt challenged.
She looked at him through eyes streaming with tears. “Yes!”
“Would you like me to leave it on for the rest of the day, so you can be entertained?”
Still grinning, she took off her glasses and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “That won’t be necessary. The image of you in that robe is firmly planted in my brain.”
He nodded. “You know, revenge can be a dangerous path to follow.”
Something in his tone of voice warned her to be careful, yet she still held the upper hand, and she decided to make the most of it. She met his gaze. “Are you threatening me—” her lips trembled with suppressed laughter “—ma’am?” She knew from the flash in his dark eyes that perhaps she’d pushed him too far.
He pulled her roughly against him before she could step out of reach. “In my experience, revenge usually backfires,” he said.
She struggled to free herself, belatedly realizing that her motions had loosened the slippery silk and she was pressed disturbingly close to a very naked, very aroused man. Liquid heat seared through her as Wyatt gazed into her eyes.
His voice was husky with desire. “I was prepared to forget what happened between us out on the balcony. But when you forced me to wear this robe, I decided it was a signal that you wanted to continue the fun and games.”
“No,” she p
rotested, although her body was saying something completely different. “No, I just…”
“As I started to say before Updegraff interrupted us, it looks as if we’ll be alone together for some time.” His breath was a warm caress on her face. “You’d better decide what you want.” Then he released her, retied the robe and left the room. A brief whistle brought Mac to his feet to follow him.
Charity stood trembling, not from the cold, which she’d forgotten entirely, but from the wave of sensuality that had washed over her as Wyatt held her tight in his arms. Decide what you want. Twenty-four hours ago she would have been able to. But ever since Wyatt had first touched her, she’d felt like a damaged compass with its directional needle whirling out of control.
She took a deep breath and knelt to take care of the dying fire. The effort of nursing it back to life helped calm her and redirect her thoughts to other practical matters. She and Wyatt had more important things to worry about than their sexual appetites. Feeding themselves, for one thing. She’d give a first edition of Dickens for a cup of coffee right now. Glancing at the cheerful fire, she wondered if there might be a way to brew some.
A tour of the house produced an enamelware coffeepot. Charity opened the back door long enough to scoop some snow into it. After ladling coffee grounds into the basket and making a silent apology to Nora, she used the fireplace tongs to nestle the pot in the midst of the flames. As she feared, black soot quickly coated the pot, but the heavenly scent of brewing coffee filling the room made up for it.
Just as she stood and turned to get a couple of coffee mugs from the kitchen, Wyatt appeared dressed in jeans. He was in the process of buttoning a clean Western-style shirt, and Mac trotted happily at his heels.
“Do I smell coffee?” Wyatt asked.
Charity’s mouth went dry at the sight of his muscular chest. He sent shivers of desire through her without even trying. She cleared her throat and motioned back toward the fire. “I found a coffeepot.”
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