"Silver."
The gentleness of his voice stopped her again in midflight.
"You have nothing to fear from me."
She ventured a glance over her shoulder. He hadn't moved. He hadn't even pushed back the hair her questing fingers had spilled across his brow.
"Can I really believe that?"
"Yes."
She fought down a sob. She wanted to trust him. She wanted nothing more than to lull herself into that warm sense of security she'd felt so strongly in his arms.
"Th-thank you. Good night."
She hurried for the stairs, half afraid he'd lied, half afraid he'd follow. When he didn't, she was mortified to feel more deflated than relieved. God help her. She was falling under the spell of the very same Romeo whom she'd hired, with open eyes, to woo Celestia!
Pausing before her yawning, dimly lit chamber, she touched shaking fingers to her lips. She was almost tempted to call Rafe, to beg him to hold her safely through the night and trust him to keep his word.
Instead, she forced her feet across the threshold and closed the door behind her. Ghosts she could handle, she told herself weakly. They melted into the bright, sunny dawn of a Colorado morn. But Raphael Jones?
Her heart somersaulted, and her skin tingled in a frightfully exquisite shiver.
She worried his kisses would haunt her night and day.
Chapter 9
After her humiliation in the parlor, Silver spent the next few days avoiding Rafe. She couldn't bear the notion that she'd be fair game for his wit. After all, it was bad enough that she thought she was being haunted. Why had she admitted it to a wiseacre like Rafe?
Of course, her confession hadn't been her sole lapse into lunacy. Never mind how sweetly concerned Rafe had seemed. She knew full well the consequences of kissing a man. She was lucky he hadn't ripped open her bodice and forced her to the floor. She'd paid so dearly for cockteasing Aaron—although, in truth, she hadn't known the meaning of that word until much later. Five harrowing years ago, in that moonlit, Philadelphia garden, the man whom she thought she loved had taught her a shameful lesson about irresponsibility.
That's why she couldn't bring herself to face Rafe. As horrible as Aaron had been, she couldn't forget that she'd wanted him to kiss her... at least, at first.
And now she wanted Rafe to kiss her, too. Considering what she'd hired him for, she held herself fully accountable for her stupidity. Unfortunately, she wasn't sure she'd be any wiser the next time she was alone with him. She wasn't sure her fingers could resist the temptation of the incorrigible, sun-gilded curl that always spilled across his brow. She even doubted whether she'd have the strength to ignore his fallen-angel smile or a whiff of his mouth-watering cologne. The man was too handsome, too virile, too heart-stoppingly charming for her peace of mind. And she wanted him out of her house.
The trouble was Papa. He'd come to dote on Rafe and his annoyingly disarming otter.
"Now, daughter," Papa had told her the morning after the bathtub incident, "you can't throw a cute little bugger like Tavy to the wolves. They'd munch her up and spit her out faster than you can say hors d'oeuvres."
And Tavy had blinked up at her with those incredibly huge otter eyes, making Silver feel like the first cousin to Genghis Khan, until the little sneak had web-footed it back to her bedroom and trampled lip paint into her carpet.
Each time something similar happened (and the incidents numbered at least one per day), Rafe would arrive to scold Tavy, grinning all the while. Silver wouldn't have been surprised if, the moment they were out of her sight, he'd rewarded the creature with fish treats. Why his otter couldn't stay locked in its cage was something Rafe still hadn't explained to her full satisfaction. Silver had the sneaking suspicion that Tavy's freedom was another of Rafe's ploys to cross her path.
Yes, as astonishing as it might seem in a house with as many rooms as hers, avoiding Rafe had become nigh impossible, Silver mused wryly. If Tavy didn't sniff out her whereabouts, Rafe did. Not by coincidence, Silver was certain, had their chance encounters grown more frequent after she'd kissed him. He was too wily, too persistent, too exasperatingly creative, to let a whole day go by without engaging her.
And to her secret amusement, each of his excuses was more outlandish than the last.
For instance, after a red-faced Jimmy had spilled chocolate sauce down the front of his coat, Rafe had insisted on a late-night consultation to discuss the youth's new livery.
"Can't have my retainer looking like he bathed in whipped cream and cherries, now, can I?" Rafe had drawled in that seductive purr of his. "Not when I've got Cellie to impress."
Then there had been the oh-so-necessary tête-à-tête to discuss his sideburns crisis. Apparently Tavy had helped him misplace the paste he'd been using to attach the whiskers to his jaw.
"Maybe it's just as well," he'd lamented with a gusty sigh. "Cellie says she just doesn't like whiskers on a man. Too bushy for kissing."
But his most blatant attempt to goad her, Silver recalled with a reluctant thrill, had come one evening after she'd ordered her bathwater removed. The moment the servants had trooped out of her bedroom, Rafe had materialized and propped his shoulder against the doorjamb.
"Silver, honey," he'd crooned after she'd so foolishly hesitated to slam the door in his face, "you didn't bathe in lavender water again, did you?"
"Why?" she asked suspiciously.
"Well..." A suggestive smile teased his mouth. "I know how much you dread nightmares. And in all good conscience, I couldn't let you go to bed without at least offering to uh, keep you distracted through the wee hours of the night."
Her face flamed, but she did her best to ignore his proposition. "W-what does lavender have to do with nightmares?"
"You mean you didn't know?" He let his throaty whisper throb beside her ear. "Cellie bathes in lavender water every night to see ghosts."
Silver's throat constricted at the memory. She tended to believe he'd made the whole tale up. But even if he hadn't, he couldn't really expect her to believe her French soap had induced visions of Nahele. In fact, she wanted to believe his soap story even less than she wanted to believe he'd finally wooed Celestia enough to witness her evening toilette.
Silver stared glumly at the accounts she was supposed to be balancing. What was the matter with her? It was bad enough she'd wasted nearly an hour, reliving again and again the few precious minutes she'd stolen with Rafe. Now she had to come to terms with the rather shameful realization she was jealous—jealous that he might actually have succeeded at the job she'd hired him for!
Silver fidgeted in her chair.
Papa's wedding was little more than a week away. She should be ecstatic that Rafe was so close to compromising Celestia. Instead, just picturing the two of them together, Rafe so sinfully charming, Celestia so pathetically smitten, made Silver's stomach hurt. She tried to convince herself her upset stemmed strictly from the pain her father would feel when Rafe proved, once and for all, Celestia's perfidy.
But somehow, that rationale rang false. As much as she looked forward to Rafe's flirtations, Silver mused uneasily, she had too many reasons not to encourage them. Any attention he showed her now would foil their plot to ruin Celestia.
Besides, how could she let herself believe that a dyed-in-the-wool rake might ever feel genuine affection for her? As refined and well-born as Aaron had been, he'd taught her not to trust professions of love.
But more than that, he'd dashed her hopes for a doting husband, children, and a happy home.
Silver blinked back tears. She was a fool. Knowing the money she paid Rafe was his only real interest in her, how could she have grown so fond of him?
Disgusted with her folly, and her mathematical incompetence, Silver slammed the ledger closed and reached across her desk for the stack of mail Benson had left on the corner. She thumbed irritably through the envelopes, her fingers hesitating only when she came to the stilted scrawl and the Philadelphia postmark. Aunt Agatha
had, undoubtedly, sent her regrets for Papa's wedding.
Silver let a mirthless smile touch her lips. The letter was sharp and uncompromising, much like her aunt. "I see no reason," Agatha had written, "to travel half a continent to encourage my poor sister's widower to legitimize his lust for a circus performer."
Silver sighed. She could only imagine what Agatha might have written if she'd known Celestia had burned down a church in Kentucky. Sometimes, that knowledge was the only thing Silver, herself, had to cling to when the enormity of her crime touched her conscience. After all. Papa acted so blissfully in love with the woman...
Silver blew out her breath. Well, the arson question would be solved shortly. Unable to abide Rafe's accusation that her guilt was the sole reason she dreamed of Nahele, she'd decided to prove him wrong. She'd hired yet another detective, this one to investigate the organist's accusations.
Of course, retaining an agent had been just a formality. Silver had every confidence the organist's charges would be confirmed. Just as she had every confidence that Nahele would leave yet another morbid calling card on her windowsill. But at least she would be vindicated—on both counts.
Smiling grimly, she put her aunt's letter aside and reached reluctantly inside the envelope for the newspaper clippings Agatha always enclosed. Aaron was usually the topic of those clippings.
"Explosion Kills Congressional Candidate and 26 Others," the first headline blared. "Townsend Denies His Luxury Hotel Unsafe for Guests."
Silver winced, her heart lurching into a painful and unsteady pace. The article, which had come from the front page of the Philadelphia Enquirer, was dated twelve weeks ago. She mumbled a short prayer for the victims.
"Hotel Tragedy Yields No New Evidence," the second headline read. "Grand Jury Dismisses Townsend Murder Charges."
Silver didn't know whether to be disturbed or relieved. This wasn't the first time a murder charge involving Aaron had been dismissed. Two years ago, Aaron's older brother had died during a hunting accident. In one of Aunt Agatha's newspaper clippings, Aaron had claimed he'd heard a gunshot as he'd been gathering firewood. He'd supposedly run back to the cabin only to find that Charles's rifle had misfired while he'd been cleaning it.
That accident had made Aaron sole heir to the family fortune. After the ensuing investigation, he'd emerged as a tragic hero in the society pages. In her letters, Agatha had berated Silver for letting such a "promising young man" slip through her fingers.
Aunt Agatha's third and final headline read, "Ironworks Magnate Travels West to Raise Capital."
Silver's gut clenched at the news. Oh, no. Aaron here?
Her dread wasn't eased any when she spied Agatha's notation in the margin: "Perhaps you'll have a second chance. They say Townsend also wants to raise an heir."
Silver shuddered, imagining Aaron's lily white hands bruising her throat once more.
A loud rap on her office door made Silver jump in her seat. As usual, Papa didn't wait for her summons but barged in. Rafe was strolling in his wake. Dropping the clippings, Silver forgot about Aaron altogether as she tried to hide her silly schoolgirl delight at seeing Rafe.
Then she saw Celestia trailing behind him, and her frown came more easily.
"Good morning, daughter," Papa boomed, peering under her ornately carved mahogany credenza. "Haven't seen Tavy anywhere, have you?"
"She's missing again?" Silver countered warily, her nerves starting to stretch as Papa combed through the fern fronds in the sterling planter by the bookshelves. She'd been so desperate to keep him from running off any more miners, or investors, with his séance nonsense that she'd pilfered his newest stash of spiritkeepers.
Of course, she'd had every intention of smuggling Papa's rocks to the backyard and dumping them in the pond. Unfortunately, Nahele had made her leery of wandering alone beneath oak trees in the dead of night. Too, there'd been the matter of Rafe, prowling around her house like a hungry wolf, and she hadn't wanted to chance any more midnight encounters with him. So Papa's spiritkeepers, much to her chagrin, were stuffed in a satchel of ore samples that she'd hidden behind her draperies.
She glanced at Rafe. She didn't suppose he would actually help her divert Papa from his search...
"Uh, Papa, I've been working here all morning," Silver said quickly. "And I'm quite sure if Tavy were in my office, she would have knocked something over or chewed on something to give herself away. Don't you agree, Your Grace?"
She gazed beseechingly at Rafe. The rogue's dimples peeked.
"Sink me," he drawled, striking one of his foppish poses. "I don't believe Octavia's much of a morning chewer. She so loves to break her fast with fish, you see. She'll gorge herself quite shamelessly, then curl up somewhere for a nap. I daresay a little tyke like Tavy needs a great deal of rest to be ready to gorge again for lunch, what?"
She wanted to smack him.
Meanwhile, Papa had dropped to his hands and knees and was poking his head under the ticking that protected Silver's wing chairs from the sun. He was only five feet from the draperies, and hence, the hidden satchel. She bit her lip.
"Honestly, Papa," she said, rising and hurrying to protect her cache, "I can't imagine why you'd think Tavy is napping in here. She doesn't like me in the least."
"Pish posh, my dear." Rafe perched on a corner of her desk and began swinging his leg in a lazy rhythm. "Tavy adores you. Why, until she'd met you, she didn't have the foggiest notion what lavender soap and lip paint were for. I daresay she's developed quite a taste for them."
Silver cleared her throat, dragging her gaze away from Rafe's arrestingly muscular thigh. "Well, I... uh..." She shook herself and glared into his laughing eyes. "I can quite assure you I keep no soap or lip paint in my office. So you see, Papa," she continued briskly, "there really is no reason to think Tavy sneaked in here."
Papa straightened, red-faced and huffing. "'Course there is, daughter. The spirits rapped once when Cellie asked 'em."
She tossed a withering glance at Celestia. "They rapped once?"
"One rap means yes; two raps mean no," she explained in her enigmatic alto.
Silver hoped Tavy was contentedly gnawing a shoe somewhere on the other side of the house. It made her crazy when Celestia's predictions proved accurate.
"With all due respect to your spirits," Silver retorted coolly, "this is not a convenient time to launch an otter search. I have our lawyer's answer to the Union's accusations sitting here, and I must edit the draft before the morning's through. I promise you, if I find Tavy, I'll call Jimmy. Now, if the three of you don't mind..."
"Ah-ha!" came Papa's muffled exclamation. He emerged from behind the firescreen. "The little rascal's got to be around here somewhere, Chumley. Look!" The bedraggled, ash-smeared ribbon he held was staining his fingers black.
"Dash it all." Rafe made an exasperated sound as he lowered his quizzing glass. "And I went to such trouble picking the precise shade of pink for her bow. One can't wear just any shade when one is otter-brown. Cellie, my dear, do you think you might spare a bangle or two for Tavy to wear for her newspaper photograph?"
"Photograph?" Silver nearly choked on the word.
"Why, yes," Rafe crooned. "Tavy is going to pose with that delightful Mrs. Trevelyan for the society pages. Mrs. T invited Tavy, as my ward, to be the guest-of-honor at her charity ball."
Silver groaned. It was bad enough that Rafe's preposterous quotations were appearing in one of the newspapers daily. But did his otter have to make the headlines, too?
"Uh... has Mrs. Trevelyan ever met your ward?" she asked him.
"Odds fish, my dear. Of course she has." Swiveling, he reached for the Aspen Times she'd tossed into the wastepaper basket. Breezing past the stock pages, which she read more religiously than the Bible, he turned to the section of the paper she'd come to dread. "Look you here," he said, snapping the sheets open with a flourish.
Reluctantly, she edged away from her post to peer at the headline. She needn't have bothered, thou
gh. The type splashed across the society pages was a full six inches high: "Teamster Baron and His Wife Host Charity Ball for Orphans and Motherless Otters."
Silver cringed. Brady Buckholtz was having a field day at Daisy Trevelyan's expense. Even though Rafe had been careful not to let his own likeness be photographed, leery as he was of attracting bounty hunters and tinstars, not a day went by when Silver didn't worry he'd be recognized. Pernicious Brady would have a field day at her expense, then.
"Aren't you supposed to be looking for a suitable stream stocked with plenty of fish and frogs," she reminded Rafe accusingly, "instead of splashing Tavy's likeness across the society pages?"
To her surprise, he grimaced, averting his gaze.
"Me and Chumley are going up to Swindler's Creek this very afternoon," Papa called, his voice echoing from one of her cabinets.
"So far?" Silver was momentarily distracted by the news. "But that's nearly a two-hour journey from Silver's Mine. Surely you can find a stream closer to home."
Papa straightened, red-faced and huffing. "That's just it, daughter. What with all the lumberyards around here, it's just not safe for otters. Why, even a living, breathing submarine like Tavy can't swim too good through sawdust. 'Sides, Cellie's spirits say there are otter lodges further up the mountain."
"Otter dens, dearest," Celestia corrected him gently. "Beavers live in lodges. Try looking for Tavy on the window seat."
"Whatever you say, sweet pea." Grinning, Papa threw her a kiss and moved toward the draperies.
Silver quailed.
Suddenly, the dark-gold bombazine rippled. Papa had no sooner reached for the drawstring than something svelte and brown dove past his ankles. He chuckled. "Shoot. I shoulda known Tavy would be snoozing in the sunshine."
Silver had to choke back an oath. Those galloping otter paws had dislodged the satchel strap, and it was in full view now.
Meanwhile, Tavy chirped sleepily and trotted over to Rafe. Wrapping around his ankle, she sighed and settled on his boot, as if she intended to continue her nap. His throat worked as he stooped to lift her.
Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) Page 18