Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  Frowning up at the sky, she recalled how little she liked the moon, too. Out here, it made the dance of light and shadow enigmatic, a lover's shroud for stolen intimacies. The notion conjured more uncomfortable memories. Trying to shake them off, she focused on the clouds instead.

  There'd been a time in her life when she'd waxed romantic about the allure of celestial bodies, but she was older now and sadly wiser. She'd learned not to succumb to the enchantment of the moon after it had tricked her into trusting Aaron.

  Satisfied that the sky wasn't going to unleash itself and keep her from a mud-free getaway at dawn, she started to turn, intent on packing her bags and abandoning her scheme, when something glinted, catching her eye. It had come from the rowan's quivering maze of leaves and flowers. Curious, she stepped nearer. A pair of silvery eyes stared back at her from the canopy's shifting, velvet shadows.

  "But soft," her voyeur purred in a liquid southern drawl, "What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun."

  Dumbstruck, Silver blinked for a full heartbeat before she could rally her wits enough to confirm that a man, not an angel, was perched in her tree quoting Shakespeare. His hair, she decided, was what had made her doubt her senses. Ivory-gold, perhaps amber, it gleamed with a pale luminescence above a high, intelligent brow. As much as she liked to think herself unmoved by masculine beauty, she couldn't help but gawk at his chiseled cheekbones, clefted chin, and lips so sinfully sensual that she didn't know whether to be alarmed or mesmerized when they smiled. Surely a face such as his had inspired the masterworks of Michelangelo.

  Nonsense, Silver. You've been associating with grizzled, unkempt miners for too long.

  With supreme effort, she recovered the use of her wit and her tongue. "You've mistaken your balcony, Romeo. No ladylove waits for you here. Perhaps you should try the plum tree next door."

  He chuckled, a sensual melody that played over her senses with all the golden resonance of a cello. "Fair Juliet mistakes me, I fear. Did you not ask me to meet you alone? To discuss an arrangement?"

  Silver started. This time his swallowtail coat, white bow tie, and watchfob registered on her brain. Then came his cologne, a tantalizing whiff of sandalwood and pine. An electrifying jolt smoked down her nerves. He was the imposter!

  "B-but how is that possible?" she stammered. "I mean, your hair. And your whiskers!"

  "Stage makeup, my dear Miss Nichols. Theatrical whiskers and a wig. You're not disappointed that I'm not an overfed graybeard, are you?"

  She swallowed. Good heavens, no. Or rather, yes! Lord, what was the matter with her? The man was a liar and a thief. Judging by his mouthwatering good looks, he was probably a rake as well. She'd become far too acquainted with the dangers of rakes to linger in the moonlight with one.

  "I must ask you to leave my tree at once," she said firmly.

  "Forgive me." He looked far more contrite than he sounded. "I've shocked you. But I assure you, Miss Nichols, you have nothing to fear from me. After all, you were kind enough not to sic the marshal on me. I owe you a debt of gratitude."

  She moistened her lips. She had everything to fear from him, she realized uneasily, and precisely for the reason he'd mentioned. "Y-you followed me here?"

  "At your invitation."

  "I invited you to my office, not my boudoir!"

  "Ah, my mistake." He smirked. "Perhaps I should indeed leave your tree."

  To her consternation, he swung down beside her, his broad shoulders all but blotting out her view of the French doors. Escape through the bedroom was impossible now.

  "Do you know what time it is?" she hissed, backing as far from him as the railing would allow.

  "Yes, before noon. That was a condition of your summons, was it not?"

  "You know very well I was asking you to make a proper morning call."

  "Do I?"

  A tiny tremor, half thrill, half fear, tiptoed down her spine. The balcony hadn't been designed to accommodate petticoats, tree limbs, and a six-foot-tall rogue. One sweeping gesture from his arms, and she'd be pushed over the edge... or pulled hard against him in a steamy embrace. Her stomach somersaulted at the thought.

  "I am quite certain I never conveyed more than an intention to do business with you, sir."

  "There are all manner of businesses, Miss Nichols. But very few are done alone between a woman and a man."

  She flushed, realizing the error she'd made in being so vague. Still, only a cad would dare to suggest her motives had been anything other than ladylike.

  And just what did you expect, Silver, given what you already knew about the man?

  She winced inwardly.

  No wonder she'd felt like she was being watched. The reprobate had apparently stalked her, having the absolute gall to crouch in her tree for a good half hour or more. Undoubtedly he'd been using the time to confirm she was alone and unprotected.

  She waited for the old apprehension to seize her at this thought. Strangely, it didn't. The knowledge that he'd been watching her so long actually helped to calm her. That, and his passive demeanor. If harming her had been his intention, he could easily have carried out any number of dastardly deeds. Besides, he'd said so himself: he owed her a debt.

  Straightening her spine, she tried to make her stare more withering than wary. "My dear Mister..." She blew out her breath. How did one upbraid a man whose identity one didn't know? "Might I have the courtesy of your name?"

  Something like cynicism marred the refined roguery of his smile.

  "By a name, I know not how to tell thee who I am," he taunted softly. "My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself."

  How odd. She knitted her brows. She could almost have sworn he'd been mocking himself, rather than her, with that piece of Shakespeare.

  "Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title," she quoted.

  Appreciation flickered over his features. "You know your Shakespeare, Miss Nichols."

  "A bit. So, as I suspected, you are an actor."

  "At the moment." His irony wasn't lost on her. "Raphael Jones is my name."

  She caught her breath. A scoundrel with an angel's name? Should she consider his arrival another stroke of divine providence?

  "I'm... not so sure this is an opportune time for us to talk, Mr. Jones. I was preparing to pack my bags."

  "I see," he said gravely. "Then I shall be happy to await your convenience."

  She felt the heat slowly build in her cheeks. He'd quite literally meant that he'd wait for her to clear the bed.

  "How very considerate you are," she said dryly, glad she'd had the presence of mind to litter her quilt with shoes and toiletries.

  Despite his scandalous lack of decorum, she couldn't quite dismiss the notion that Raphael Jones might be a gift from heaven. He'd appeared in the nick of time, saving her from abandoning what was, admittedly, a desperate scheme. Everyone always said God moved in mysterious ways. Maybe He was giving her a sign.

  "What do you want here, Mr. Jones?"

  "Why, to be of service to you, of course."

  "Then you should be aware that you and I have very different ideas of what your, er, service should be."

  "Perhaps."

  He eased his exquisitely sleek length backwards, putting more space between them. She breathed a sigh of relief—until Jones propped his derriere on the railing and carelessly spread his thighs. She gaped to see how precious little the gaslights left to her imagination.

  "So tell me, Miss Nichols. What's on your mind?"

  Mortified, she yanked her gaze back up to his eyes. They were pearly gray, mocking, and far more perceptive than any man's had a right to be.

  "I, uh, was going to, uh, make you a proposi—" Oh! She bit off an oath. "I mean a deal," she amended hastily. When he hiked a brow, she balled her fists. "I meant a business deal."

  "Do tell."

  "I am sorely tempted not to. Would it be too much to ask you to behave like
a decent gentleman?"

  "Certainly you may ask."

  Odious man. She added impertinence to his growing list of sins.

  Still, if anyone could star in the script she'd been writing in her head, Raphael Jones could. His audacity was one of his greatest—albeit vexing—qualifications. His lack of whiskers made him look younger than she'd first thought, but he'd proven his ability to pass for an older man of means. Besides, there was no denying that what he lacked in maturity he made up for in a scintillating sexuality...

  He cleared his throat. She squirmed to be caught red-handed.

  Silver, for heaven's sake, keep your eyes above his belt! Remember what happened the last time you were so bold?

  Repressing a tremor, she squared her shoulders and folded her arms. She wouldn't make that mistake again. Not ever.

  "Mr. Jones," she began again in her most businesslike voice, "let us understand one another. On no account do I condone your behavior at the Mining Exchange. But I find myself in the indelicate position of needing to hire someone with your, er, particular dramatic flair. In order to determine your appropriateness for the role, therefore, I must ask you certain questions."

  "Questions about acting, Miss Nichols?"

  "Questions about your background, sir."

  "Ah." He flashed a smile so unrepentant that it would have made the angels sigh. "You mean my past. I give you fair warning, it is not the sort of fare I usually inflict upon a lady's ears."

  "And yet if I am to hire you, Mr. Jones, I am entitled to know all—within the realm of good breeding, of course."

  A long, well-manicured finger tapped his lips, as if to hide another smile. "Please. Call me Rafe."

  She raised her chin. She wasn't about to encourage his familiarity. Moonlight, balconies, and bedrooms to the contrary, she was suffering the ne'er-do-well's company only because she couldn't hope to hire a man of integrity for the plot she'd devised. It was high time he understood that, too.

  Thinking to put him in his place, she fixed him with the stare she usually reserved for insubordinates and Celestia.

  "Let us proceed with our business, shall we? Have you ever visited Aspen?"

  "Regretfully, no. I've limited my, er, pleasure trips to Leadville and Denver."

  She pressed her lips together. She should have guessed he couldn't answer a perfectly proper question without a ribald afterthought.

  "Do you recall ever meeting my father, Maximillian Nichols?"

  "No."

  "Are you sure? This is most important."

  He regarded her for a long moment. She sensed he was weighing his response, trying to determine what advantage he'd gain by changing his answer. Any prior association he'd had with her father would prove disastrous to her scheme, of course, so she did her very best to keep her expression more bland than creamed corn.

  "I'm sure."

  The air fled her lungs in a rush. Only then did she realize she'd been holding it. She cursed herself for telegraphing her feelings. Raphael Jones was a professional prevaricator. She could see the keen mind at work behind his lazy fringe of lashes, and while his quick wit was certainly attractive, not to mention necessary, it presented a problem, too. Would she be able to stay one step ahead of him? Could she keep him under rein? Unlike Jones, she didn't make her living by swindling people.

  Calling upon a finesse she'd honed while haggling over wages with the miner's union, Silver shuttered her expression once more.

  "I could not fail to notice you played a geologist this evening, not an investor. We're both acquainted with the abysmal results of that choice. Am I to assume you're unfamiliar with the sort of financial speculation that's discussed in mining circles?"

  The amusement was back, flickering over his mobile mouth and high cheekbones before taking up residence again in his gaze. "I read the stock pages."

  "Yes, but if you were in the company of my father, could you discuss stocks and dividends and grades of ore with assurance?"

  "Most certainly."

  Her heart quickened. Even if he was lying, he was doing a bang-up job. Mastery in the art of deception was no doubt essential if a man was to survive in his world.

  "Very well." She chose her next words carefully. "Mr. Jones, the sort of work you'll be doing for me will require that you... uh, not have a wife or fiancée waiting in the wings. At least, I would not feel comfortable employing you if you were so committed."

  "Indeed?" The lilt in his bourbon-smooth drawl was unmistakable.

  "I assure you, Mr. Jones, you'll be playing a part, nothing more."

  "I see."

  He didn't see anything yet, damn him, but she clamped her mouth shut anyway. She couldn't keep letting his mockery goad her.

  "Mr. Jones, I am considering you for the role of a lifetime. A performance requiring such talent, such daring, such supreme mastery of the dramatic arts, that thespians across this continent would weep to learn that they missed this opportunity."

  She paused expectantly, waiting for some reaction—any reaction—other than the smirk that was beginning to make her wish she dared reach over and shake him.

  "Do go on, Miss Nichols. I love performances."

  She gave him a sharp look. Just what did he mean by that?

  "Your exposure to Shakespeare should be most helpful in this role. However, a certain savoir faire will be required if you are to play the part convincingly. Tell me. Have you ever been cast as a nobleman?"

  "Hmm." He began to swing his leg, making his knee skim her skirts in the most provocative, nerve-jangling way. "In addition to Prince Hal from Henry IV, I've played Don Pedro in Much Ado About Nothing and Antonio in The Merchant of Venice."

  She frowned at the mention of Prince Hal, a carousing reprobate whom Shakespeare never redeemed until Henry V. The role suited her impression of Jones far too well.

  "Don Pedro and Antonio are both noble characters," she said pointedly, "with the kind of refinement you'll require."

  He said nothing. He just continued swinging, gazing into her eyes with that enticingly wicked, charmingly masculine smile. Her stomach fluttered.

  This was it. Her last chance to change her mind. Once she told Jones her plan, she'd be stuck with him. There'd be no turning back.

  Courage, Silver. This is for Papa.

  "I suppose all that remains, Mr. Jones, is to tell you what I would be hiring you for."

  She waited for her resolve to resurrect itself. Since moving to Colorado, she'd often had to be strong, even harsh, to protect her happy-go-lucky papa and see that his business stayed afloat. Now, once again, Papa needed to be saved from himself. His time was running out. No matter what she might personally think of Jones, the man was quite clearly a godsend in her time of need.

  Jones raised an inquisitive eyebrow. She drew a bolstering breath.

  "Mr. Jones," she said crisply, "I would like you to pose as a British aristocrat in order to seduce my father's fiancée."

  Chapter 3

  Rafe's jaw dropped. Then he laughed out loud.

  The way Silver had been trying to reel him in, he'd figured she must be plotting a fraud. Still, he hadn't given her enough credit. He'd never dreamed she was capable of such guile.

  "You want me to do what?" he gasped, clutching the tree limb to keep from tipping over the railing.

  Her face grew as red as the ruby on her hand. "I daresay you heard me correctly the first time, Mr. Jones."

  "But I assure you, the novelty hasn't worn thin."

  "And I assure you, this is not a laughing matter! I am not in the habit of... of consorting with confidence men, but my father's utter disregard for his safety, his reputation, and his business has forced me to this lamentable end!"

  "And here I thought you saved my neck because you liked me."

  She shot him a quelling glare. "Might I continue?"

  He swallowed another chuckle. "Yes, yes, by all means. So this conniving gold digger got her hooks in Midas Max, eh?"

  "You said you didn
't know my father," she countered suspiciously.

  "I know his reputation. His magic pickax is legendary around these parts."

  "Yes, well..."

  She cleared her throat, and he suspected she was thinking what he was: Maximillian Nichols was a horny old devil with more luck than brains. Of course, she was probably thinking it in more ladylike language.

  Nichols was renowned for blundering into his fortune. His first strike was the indirect result of his charity to a hard-luck stiff who'd had every intention of swindling him with a worthless claim. However, that "worthless" claim yielded pay dirt almost immediately when Nichols started puttering around its shaft. After buying three more "bust" claims and striking bonanzas in every one, speculators had dubbed him "Midas Max."

  She raised her chin. "You haven't met 'conniving' until you've crossed paths with Celestia Cooper, I assure you. Madam Celestia, as she calls herself, parades around town purporting to read palms. She prescribes talismans for good fortune, potions for love, and amulets for physical complaints. She even professes to speak with spirits. Dead men's ghosts, for heaven's sake! I mean, really. Have you ever heard anything so preposterous?"

  Actually, Rafe's idea of preposterous was Silver on the rampage against some harmless crackpot. Whatever did a millionaire like Max see in Celestia Cooper, anyway? She must be breathtakingly beautiful.

  "But the truly worst part," Silver confided, gripping her newspaper in a stranglehold now, "is that this... this witch torched a church and burned it to the ground."

  A lopsided grin tugged at his lips. "To the ground, you say?"

  Silver nodded.

  Well now. I'll have to shake the crackpot's hand.

  "If I wasn't so certain Celestia was just a showboater, I might be swayed to believe her love spells and potions really do work. Papa insists on marrying her, even after that church-burning incident."