Steal Me, Sweet Thief

by Carole Howey

  Geneva tried to temper her excitement. After all, she had been duped before, and not that very long ago, by similar extravagant promises. But the images Tabor conjured for her at that little table like some master magician were as compelling as they were real. The only dark spot in the evening was Kieran Macalester, sullen, yet obstinately remaining at the table like some glowering specter, even after the other diners had departed and he, Geneva and Tabor were the only ones left in the place.

  It was obvious to her that Kieran had no intention of yielding the arena to the Denver tycoon. Geneva found that notion, against her will, to be very exciting.

  Tabor at last retreated, with the promise of seeing her on the following day with an offer in print. Kieran escorted her up to her room without speaking, his arm tense as she held it. She offered a remark or two about Horace Tabor, his generosity and his persistence. Kieran, not surprisingly, said nothing. He paused at her door, but she did not release his arm.

  "Kieran, wait," she said, breathless from more than just the climb up the stairs. "I think I might faint. Stay with me for a moment."

  She leaned her back against her door, feeling very warm as he stared down at her with a serious, even forbidding, countenance. She had never seen him look more magnificent. She drew in several hard breaths, but found, to her surprise, that breathing was not getting any easier.

  Suddenly he was kissing her, his strong, hard mouth drawing an unexpected fury of desire from her like a firestorm. She seized his lapels and held him to his purpose, feeling deliciously out of control.

  He stopped quite as abruptly as he had begun, and disappointment stabbed her sharply. She felt a deep blush surge into her cheeks, and she could not meet his steely gaze.

  "Goodness," she managed to murmur at last. "I—I'm afraid I may have drunk too much Champagne. Would you—" Did she dare ask it? "Would you help me inside?"

  She felt his fingers on her chin, purposeful, but not bruising. In a moment, she was looking into his eyes again, and he would not let her look away. Her cheeks burned.

  "You're not drunk, Geneva," he told her in a low, dark tone. "You're not even tipsy, not any more than I am. I'll help you inside. But if I do, I'm not leaving until the morning, so just make damned sure it's what you want."

  Geneva, imprisoned by his intense sable eyes, swallowed hard. It was exactly what she wanted. It was exactly what she had always wanted. Her right hand fell away from his lapel and behind her back to the door lever, and in another moment they were inside, in the dark sanctuary of her room.

  Chapter Thirty

  The light of the full moon bathed the suite in an eerie, pale white glow, like a dream from which she could not, would not awaken herself Kieran had touched something deep within her, something that had stripped her of sense and reason and had left her only with the desire to feel him around her and inside her. He took her mouth again in the sanctuary of her room, and she yielded to him gloriously, trembling as his tongue tested her.

  She pulled on the end of his tie. It gave way with no struggle and she cast it aside, working at the buttons of his shirt. In moments she uncovered his chest and she pressed her hands against its hard, warm surface, caressing the contours and loving the feel of the soft hairs upon it. He moaned softly in response to her touch, his kiss becoming more fiercely urgent. Her breasts strained against the green taffeta, and she wanted him, desperately, to undress her.

  But he had already begun. His hands had found the buttons on the back of her dress bodice, and the kindly buttons loosened with ease. With his help, she slid her arms from the sleeves and the dress fell to the floor, forgotten. His lips burned a trail along her throat to the very swelling of her breasts, and her breath caught in short little gasps as she felt the first stirrings of a sweet climax in her loins.

  "Geneva," he murmured in a low growl, his tongue finding the cleft between her breasts. "My sweet… my love…"

  Her hands found his face and traced his very square jaw before losing themselves in the soft thickness of his sienna locks. The lacings of her corset were loosened by his deft fingers. She wanted him to touch her, and that want was a palpable thing. In moments, there was nothing but darkness between them, and an instant later, not even that.

  He earned her to the bed, laying her upon it and himself on top of her. He was heavy, but not crushing. His weight was as thrilling as the bold exploration of his tongue and his mouth. He got up from her, and she shivered with the sudden cold of his abandonment. He lit the small lamp by her bedside and she blushed again, knowing she wore her desire as plainly in her face as he did in his, and that she had no secrets from him. He gazed down at her, his bold stare lingering on her bared breasts, then again on her ivory silk garters and stockings. A slow, sensuous grin played upon his wide, slack mouth and in his adoring dark eyes. He parted her legs with an idle gesture and sat down on the bed between them. She found herself panting in anticipation, unable, unwilling, to move.

  "This," he whispered, fingering the garter lazily at her thigh, "is what I wanted to do in Roanoke." He undid her garters and, with agonizing slowness, rolled the stockings down each leg, one at a time, revealing the smooth, white skin beneath. When he was finished, he caught her left foot firmly in his hand and kissed the inside of her ankle. She heard a soft moan, and she knew it was her own voice. She thought she would go wild.

  He worked his way with kisses from her ankle to the inside of her knee. He paused there, gazing at her with that faint, drowsy smile she loved. She felt the wetness between her legs begging him.

  "Shall I continue?"

  She nodded. "Yes," she urged, her voice weak and trembling. "Yes. Oh, yes. Please. Oh, God…" And his lips completed their journey along the inside of her thigh to that soft, moist, tender place awaiting him. He drank from the well of her desire until she thought she would explode, and then she did. It was as if thousands of little pieces of her shimmered and danced and fell at last to the bed, where they slowly formed themselves back together again.

  He was on top of her, and she wanted more. He pierced her and she cried out, astounded by her body's thrusts that complemented his own, and by the sweet instinct that had possessed men and women since the beginning of time itself. Her legs held him to his design, and he went on, and on, each of her sobs of joy seeming to inspire him. Her climax crescendoed like a battery of tympany, and Kieran, groaning, throbbed inside her until at last he lay still, spent. She kissed his ear and his neck, relishing the salt of his satisfaction.

  "Gen." He sighed drowsily, not moving. "Gen, Gen, Gen…"

  Geneva thrilled at the sound of her name in his hushed baritone. She tried her own voice, and it came forth in a tranquil whisper.

  "Kieran," she murmured, raking his hair gently with trembling fingers.

  His hair was so soft, so fine and so abundant. She played in it for a long while, twirling it about her fingers. Presently he eased off of her, rolling onto his back with a shuddering sigh. He pulled her close and she nestled against his shoulder, losing herself in the caress of his hand as his fingers stroked her breast.

  "What are we going to do, sweet Gen?" she heard him ask at the end of another sigh.

  The question troubled her. She did not want this perfect night defiled by nagging thoughts of tomorrow. She stroked the faint, dark stubble on his jaw with her finger, feeling a quiver of desire wash through her again, like a gentle but persistent breeze rustling leaves in a dense forest.

  "We're going to make love again," she told him, turning his face to hers with the same finger. "And again. And again."

  She punctuated each repetition with a kiss on his lower lip. Thus it began afresh, and several times more, until Kieran drowsily told her she'd best put on a nightgown, or neither of them would get any sleep that night.

  The sun was bright by the time Kieran heard the knocking. He carefully disengaged the sleeping soprano's arms from about his shoulders and moved her leg off his before rolling naked out of her bed. He stumbled toward the doo
r half-asleep, cursing under his breath as he stubbed his toe on the bedstead.

  "What is it?"

  "A message for M'mselle."

  It was Adele, Geneva's secretary. Her tone was chilly and clipped. He guessed it was because she recognized his voice.

  "Slip it under the door, Adele," he told the woman, keeping his voice low. "She's asleep."

  There was a stiff silence on the other side of the door. Then a white parchment envelope appeared at the seam at the bottom.

  "M'sieur Durand will be here at ten o'clock," Adele informed him, and he heard the rustling of her skirt as she walked away from the door.

  Kieran stretched before stooping to retrieve the note. He had gotten precious little sleep in the night, but he nonetheless felt invigorated and better rested than he had in ages. It was a new day. He was a free man, and he was in love. How lucky, he mused, turning again to the bed upon which he and Geneva had wrought such celestial havoc the night before, could one man be?

  Geneva's dark auburn curls were strewn carelessly about the pillows, and her fine lawn nightgown was caught up high on her legs, revealing that soft, firm, white flesh he had so delighted in mere hours before. He smiled, feeling the glow of awakening desire as he approached her again, tapping the envelope against his fingers. He propped the note up against the lamp on the nightstand and sat on the very edge of the bed by her side. With a gentle hand, he brushed a lock of hair from her throat and replaced it with his lips. He kissed her neck softly, loving the yielding of her skin to the gentle pressure of his mouth. He tried another place on her neck, and another, and finally he kissed the hollow just above her breastbone, and he heard her utter a soft cry.

  A surge of need swept through him at the sound, and he slid his hand up along her thigh, under the deliciously flimsy garment she wore.

  "Gen," he called to her softly, finding her hip bone, her softly curved belly and, finally, the firm, tender roundness of her breasts. "Wake up, Geneva. Wake up and love me again."

  He felt her gentle hand at the back of his neck, pulling his head down to hers as a sleepy smile played upon her sweet mouth. She giggled like a naughty schoolgirl, and the giggle gave way to a sigh as he took her mouth with his own. This morning it was quick and urgent, almost as if she knew she hadn't much time. But he didn't mind. He imagined, lying beside her afterward, that there would be many, many, many ways of loving Geneva in the days and nights to come, and that belief was every bit as satisfying as the act itself.

  "There's a note for you, Gen," he said, rubbing the stubble on his chin. "On the nightstand. And Adele said that fellow Durand is coming at ten."

  "Did you answer the door like that?" Geneva teased, and he started at the touch of her hand to his groin. "Of course," he rejoined, chuckling. "Adele fainted. She's probably still on the floor." Geneva punched his hard bleep playfully. "Liar!" she teased.

  Kieran cringed inwardly at the word, even though it had been uttered in jest. Geneva, too, seemed to fall silent afterward. Presently, she sat up and retrieved the note. The quiet while she read was too unnerving for him. He got up and collected his clothing from around the room, wondering how the glow from so brilliant a night could so quickly fade in the unforgiving light of morning. When he turned around, she was folding the note into a pink calico notion box. He waited, hoping she would volunteer its message. It became clear, shortly, that she had no intention of doing so.

  "Who's it from?" he inquired, keeping his tone light.

  She glanced at him, not smiling. "Horace Tabor," she replied blandly. She said nothing else.

  Kieran digested this, pulling on his rumpled pants. "What's in the box?" He tried not to sound too curious.

  She granted him an enigmatic look. "That's where I keep my men," she told him with a half-smile. "Elaine is in there. And Abbey. Maple son. All of the notes and telegraphs I've received here in New Orleans."

  Kieran found her a grin, in spite of his sudden uneasiness.

  "It must be nice having all of those men at your fingertips now," he offered. Then he was silent, putting on his shirt, buttoning it.

  Geneva did not answer. Instead, she walked briskly to the door and opened it a crack. "Adele, please have Harriet draw me a bath. Tell her to hurry. Mr. Tabor is coming up, and I want him to wait, but not too long."

  "Tabor!" The exclamation came out before he could prevent it.

  Geneva narrowed her eyes at him. Was he intending to be difficult now?

  "Yes," she replied shortly. "I must ask you to leave, now, Kieran, or—"

  "Or what?" Kieran's voice rose in pitch. "Or he might think there's something between us? We can't let that happen, now can we?"

  She rolled her eyes heavenward, then stared at him again. His dark eyes returned her gaze with the same unreadable expression she'd become accustomed to, and it angered her.

  "You selfish, insufferable oaf!" she flung at him, wishing the words were rocks. "How do you dare to speak that way to me after everything that's happened? After what I've been through on account of your loyalties, and your greed? Horace Tabor is coming here in half an hour to offer me the chance to put my career back together! By what right do you presume to sabotage my future?"

  She saw Kieran blink, and she knew she had hit her mark. She waited for his answer. He seemed to be looking past her as if at some distant mirage, clenching and unclenching his very square jaw.

  "Are you telling me—" Kieran's next words were low and deliberate—"after last night, that there's no place for me in your future?"

  After last night: The sweet memory stormed her reason. She could still feel his arms around her, his bold, gentle touch caressing her. She could almost feel him inside of her. She trembled at the memory and choked back a small cry of desire. She realized at once that she was in danger, in terrible danger of losing sight of her ambition and of failing to fulfill the promise of her talent and training. She realized that a word from Kieran Macalester might very well make her forget all of those things that had once been so important to her, but seemed at this moment to be so elusive and intangible as to be no more than a wild fantasy.

  "There are things I must do," she answered him simply. "For myself And they are things I must do alone."

  "Alone?" His voice was hard. "Or with Horace Tabor?"

  His meaning infuriated her. She clenched her fists in the folds of her nightgown.

  "Horace Tabor," she said through her teeth, "is the chairman of the Tabor Opera House. He's offering me a contract in black and white, Kieran. Not the pie-in-the-sky arrangement offered me by a bogus San Francisco attorney on behalf of a nonexistent company. There's a measurable difference between the two!"

  "Not to mention several million dollars!" he retorted hotly, his face red with rage.

  His words hurt her, as much because the idea had occurred to her as because it meant he suspected her of mercenary qualities. It wasn't Tabor's money she wanted; it was the opportunity he was offering.

  But how could she explain that to a man who had always seen opportunity in terms of dollars—and someone else's, at that?

  "Kieran, be reasonable!" She tried to keep her hurt and her anger in check. "What do you expect me to do? Tell Horace Tabor, 'No, thank you. I prefer to go chasing around the country after an outlaw—excuse me, a pardoned outlaw—than to open your opera house and headline half a dozen productions?' "

  Macalester tried to order his response, but realized bitterly that his answers sounded shabby and hollow, even to him. What, after all, was the professed love of a thief and a celebrated liar when compared to the genuine offer of a millionaire who would make her, at the very least, the star of Denver? Even if he did have his amnesty, he was penniless and without a future. Before him stood a woman who would be heiress to a king's ransom. That alone would have been enough to place her totally beyond his reach, but combined with her formidable abilities as a performer, she might as well have been on a distant planet. He found himself, to his dismay, staring at the floor.


  "What happened last night," Geneva went on softly, so softly he thought his heart would break, "must never happen again, Kieran. I admit there's—a physical attraction between us. But that isn't enough. It's barely anything. It certainly isn't enough to throw away a career."

  So it was merely a physical attraction on her part. Did she assume the same was true for him? Liar, she had called him. Would it, he wondered bleakly, make any difference to her, if she knew the truth?

  He drew in a deep, painful breath. It was as if steel bands were clasped about his chest, preventing him from taking in quite enough air. She was watching him. He made himself meet her gaze once again, and he forced the pain and disappointment from his face.

  "I suppose it's over, then, isn't it, Gen?" He congratulated himself on a light and even tone. He felt as though his insides had been ripped from his body by a sharp-clawed predatory bird who was devouring them before his eyes. Please say no, he begged her silently. Please tell me it's only begun!

  Geneva could not deny the lump in her throat as she returned Mac's steady, measuring gaze. Her heart was not comfortable with her statement, which was really only a tiny lie: She had confessed to a physical attraction, and that was real enough. What purpose would be served by admitting to a love that could only result in bitterness and failed dreams? Or worse, in the realization that he hadn't ever really loved her at all? Please give me a sign, she entreated wordlessly. One word. One look.

  The small space between them might have been a bottomless chasm filled with silence. Her sigh hurt deep in her chest. "I suppose it is, Mac."

  Kieran wanted to seize her by the shoulders, to shake her, to kiss her as he had kissed her in the night, and would never kiss her again. And if he stood there looking at her for another moment, he feared he would do just that. And he could not. It would earn her rebuff, if not her disdain, and he could not bear either result.