by Tami Hoag
“Sneak? What do you mean, sneak?”
“Well…I’ve discussed this at length with the ladies, and Mrs. Claiborne isn’t convinced now would be the right time for us to take a dog on at Poplar Grove,” Maggie explained diplomatically.
“When does she think the right time would be?”
“Oh…she said something about electing a red-eyed communist from Mars president first.” She shook a finger at him. “See the trouble you’re getting me into, friend? I’m liable to get thrown out of my home.”
Then she could come and live with him, Ry thought, liking the idea a lot. He eyed the picnic basket. “What’s that for? As if I couldn’t guess.”
“Miss Emma thinks Mrs. Claiborne would come around on the dog issue if she didn’t see the dog until he was in the house already, fitting in with the surroundings. But if she catches us trying to take a dog into the house, she’s liable to take a switch to the pair of us.”
“So you’ve got Miss Emma in on the conspiracy.”
“In on it? Sugar, it was her idea! She has a naturally devious mind,” she said with more than a little admiration. A twinkle came into her sable eyes at Ry’s look. He refused to believe little old ladies could think of anything but knitting and church. “Watch your back when you’re around her, sugar. She pinched a man the other day.”
“She what?”
“Pinched him. She said he had great buns, so she pinched him right on the—”
Ry scowled at her. “You’re making that up.”
“Am not, but we don’t have time to argue about it now. Let’s get a move on, Quaid.”
Mrs. Claiborne’s tour group had moved into the house by the time Ry and Maggie made it to the front porch. Ry carried the picnic basket with Junior’s wet nose poking out from under the lid. Miss Emma was on the porch, starting her tour off with a liberally embroidered history of the plantation. Maggie often wondered how many of Miss Emma’s fibs were pure mischief as opposed to poor memory. Quite a few, she suspected, if the sparkle in the old woman’s eyes was anything to go by.
They stepped into the hall just as Mrs. Claiborne and her group emerged from the dining room. Maggie swore under her breath. In another minute, she and Ry could have been up the stairs and home free. Now they would have to stop and chat as the guests browsed.
“Why, Mr. Quaid, what a pleasure!” Mrs. Claiborne smiled, crossing the room with a swish of her skirt and petticoats.
“Mornin’, Miz Claiborne.” Ry ducked his head, shifting the picnic basket to his other hand.
She glanced at the basket. “It’s a lovely day for a picnic.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Where are you going?”
“Umm…” Feeling as if he were ten all over again and lying to Miss Thornbrush about cutting Sunday school, he shot a desperate glance at Maggie, who leaned toward her landlady with a concerned look.
“Miss Emma is telling that story about being abducted off the veranda by a British colonel in her previous life again.”
Mrs. Claiborne rolled her eyes. “Excuse me, Mr. Quaid.”
“Ma’am.” He nodded, then heaved a sigh of relief.
“Quick,” Maggie whispered, giving him a shove that didn’t budge him an inch, “get upstairs before she comes back.”
“Excuse me, miss?”
Maggie ground her teeth as she turned to face a balding bespectacled tourist with a nasal New York accent. Reminding herself about Southern hospitality, she plastered a smile on her face. “Yes? How can I help you?”
“Can you explain to me about the cut-glass lids on these liquor decanters in the dining room? I didn’t quite get that business about the shapes and the kinds of booze and all that.”
“Certainly.” Maggie followed the man back toward the dining room, sending Ry a look over her shoulder.
He turned to go upstairs but was confronted by a couple wanting to have their picture taken at the foot of the carved walnut staircase. He set the basket down to snap the photo, then all hell broke loose. A crash sounded in the parlor, followed by angry barking and a shout for help.
Maggie, Ry, and Mrs. Claiborne all made it to the parlor at the same time, followed by Miss Emma and the tourists. Perched on a drop-leaf table was one member of Mrs. Claiborne’s tour group. Snarling up at the man was Junior. Ry squeezed his eyes shut. Maggie pressed a hand to her mouth. Miss Emma covered her ears. Mrs. Claiborne glared accusingly at the three of them.
“Hey, will somebody call this mutt off?” the guy on the table demanded.
Ry stepped ahead and scooped up the dog with one big hand. “Sorry.”
“Sorry? Huh! Sorry’s not going to cut it, pal.” The man slid to his feet, straightening his jacket and reaching up to comb his black hair into place with his fingers. One hand inched back to the table for his camera bag while he maintained a furious expression. “I oughta sue.”
“Mr. Quaid,” Mrs. Claiborne said sternly, her gaze directed at Ry, then Junior, “did you bring this animal into this house?”
Ry swallowed hard. “Yes, ma’am.”
Maggie’s eyes suddenly went wide. “And it’s a good thing he did,” she said, stepping forward. Glaring at the tourist, she snatched away a polished pewter candlestick that was poking up out of his camera bag. “Would you care to explain how this came to be in your possession, sir?”
Mrs. Claiborne’s hand went to her heart. “The Revere candlestick! That’s been in this family for over two hundred years!”
The thief flung his camera bag at them and bolted for the back door. Ry shoved Junior into Mrs. Claiborne’s arms and charged after the man, who made it to the bottom of the steps before Ry flew off the porch and tackled him. The thief was sandwiched between the ground and two hundred sixty-five pounds of solid muscle. Ry sat up, digging a knee into the man’s back, and lifted the thief’s head by a handful of hair. The culprit spit out a mouthful of grass and dirt and shot a glare over his shoulder at his captor.
Ry gave him a nasty smile. “You’re in a world of hurt, slick.”
Behind them, people came spilling out of the house. Maggie and Mrs. Claiborne hurried down the steps, Mrs. Claiborne clutching Junior to her breast.
“Oh, Mr. Quaid, you caught him. Thank heaven!”
“And I caught this one, sister!” Miss Emma called.
The crowd on the porch parted like the Red Sea as Emma marched a second rascal through the double doors at sword point. Maggie gasped as she recognized the man as the one who had lured her into the dining room on the excuse of gathering information about antique bottles.
“This coward thought he’d make a getaway while y’all were after his partner,” Miss Emma said, swirling the tip of the sword under the man’s nose. She was a peculiar sight—a tiny old lady in a colonial dress and high-top sneakers, wielding a relic from the War Between the States. “Granddaddy’s pigsticker and I have persuaded him to stay until the police arrive.”
“My hero,” Maggie said with an impish grin and a melodramatic sigh. She clutched Ry’s arm and leaned into him, bosom first. They stood in the yard, watching as the police car drove away bearing the would-be thieves.
Ry looked down at her, his eyes instantly drawn to the creamy globes straining the confines of her costume. Heat rose from his groin all the way to the tips of his ears. He tore his gaze away and fixed it on the crowd that was filing back to the house.
“Me the hero? Shoot. What about Miss Emma? I swear, I never saw anything like that. I thought she was gonna lop that guy’s head off.”
“Isn’t she something? I keep telling you, sugar. Miss Emma is full of surprises. And you keep thinking all old ladies are interested in is drinking prune juice and tatting doilies.” She shook her head in reproach as she stepped back from him. “We are going to have to do some serious work on your mistaken impressions about women.”
Ry looked away, his expression dropping into his characteristic scowl. His impressions of women had been based on experience—bad experience. With
the exception of his sister, the women he’d trusted had betrayed him. Maggie had her work cut out if she thought she could erase those harsh lessons from his memory.
“I think it’s safe to say Junior has a home here now,” she said.
“Aren’t you glad I let you have the little guy?” Ry asked, letting go of his dark thoughts as Maggie led him by the hand into the old laundry building.
Maggie laughed. “Let me have? Ha! You’d better thank your lucky stars that man was a thief, friend. You should’ve seen the look on your face when Mrs. Claiborne asked if you were the one who brought that dog in the house!”
“My face?” Ry laughed. “How about yours? I thought you were gonna lose your breakfast when you saw that guy sitting on the table with Junior yapping at his heels!”
They laughed until Maggie had tears rolling down her cheeks and Ry was holding his stomach. When they finally stopped to catch their breath, Ry leaned back against a work table piled with antique linens and shook his head in wonder. He hadn’t laughed so much with a woman since…ever.
He hadn’t given it much thought when he’d hatched his “just friends” scheme, but Maggie really was his friend. He liked her as a person and enjoyed her company; they could plot together and laugh together. Suddenly the idea of spending the rest of his life with her took on a whole new dimension, one he wasn’t entirely sure he should trust.
Maggie wiped the last of her tears away and looked up at Ry, her heart tripping over the expression in his eyes. It was speculative, a little wary, and yet there was a vulnerability in it that made her want to take him in her arms. The moment caught and held.
Forgetting his own warning to keep his hands off her, Ry reached up and touched her cheek, marveling at how soft she was beneath his calloused fingertips. He lowered his head and brushed his mouth across hers. His heart slammed into his ribs as her hands framed his face and drew him back for another, deeper kiss. Lord, she tasted sweet. And she smelled…like a quart of Passion’s Promise.
The scent caught in his throat so that he had to draw back from her, coughing. “Maybe you ought to think about giving up perfume altogether, Mary Margaret.”
FIVE
IT WAS A dress so hot it could have sent Antarctica up in flames. Deep teal in color, the shimmering fabric clung to every strategic curve on her body. It seemed almost like a living thing, sliding over her as she walked, teasing the viewer as she wandered through the crowded ballroom making idle conversation. Strapless, the sequined bodice was heart-shaped, rounding over each breast and nipping in at her tiny waist. The sequins trailed down over her tummy in a suggestive arrow.
It was so tight, she looked as if she had been poured into it. Her breasts swelled temptingly above the edge of the gown, capturing the attention of the males present. They seemed to hold their breath in anticipation as the gown shifted with her every movement. The floor-length skirt was glove-snug and would have been restrictive if it hadn’t been for the slit that exposed her right leg to midthigh. In a room full of tuxedos and evening gowns, she stood out like an emerald in a handful of lesser jewels.
No man with a hormone in his body could have looked at her and remained indifferent. So it had cost her a small fortune. Maggie considered it as necessary to her as the Pentagon budget was to the country. She had a battle of sorts to fight, and she meant to be armed to the teeth. Miss Emma had told her different men found different things erotic. She was going to try every one of them until Ry tossed her over his shoulder and carried her home. She was mounting a feminine offensive on all fronts, and she was determined to keep up the fight until Rylan surrendered himself to her love.
Tonight her role was seductress. She was playing it to the hilt.
“Do you think your horse is going to end his career on a high note tomorrow, Ry?” asked Clifton Brachman. He was one of the horse owners in the crowd, which included trainers and dignitaries from the international show world as well as the Virginia horse community.
Ry swore under his breath as he caught another male gaze lingering on Maggie’s derriere. His hand tightened on the stem of his empty wineglass until it quietly snapped and dropped to the rich red carpet. He kicked it under a table. The rest of the glass was angrily shoved into the hand of a passing waiter. He snatched up a fresh drink and tossed the contents back with none of his usual respect for good wine.
The man attempting to have a conversation with him backed away with a nervous smile. “G-good luck t-tomorrow.”
Ry never heard a word he said. Maggie paused in her conversation with Katie and another woman to glance up at him and send him a smile brimming with seductive promise.
Another glass bit the dust.
Damn her. When he’d planned to lure her by pretending indifference, he hadn’t counted on her re acting quite so enthusiastically. It was one thing to have her batting her eyelashes at him, but this dress was something else again. His plan was working, but damned if she wasn’t wreaking havoc on his control!
He had held off making love to her for too long. That was the whole problem. He should have bedded her weeks ago and gotten this lust out of his system, instead of letting it simmer until it felt as though his blood was boiling in his veins.
His plan had been to end their wait after the party. He’d spent the week working like a dog, all the while telling himself over and over that he could hold his passion in check, that he could be patient and gentle with Maggie, that he could be careful with her and not rush her or hurt her.
All she’d had to do was show up in that dress, and his theory had been shot to hell. His control had gone up in smoke the second he’d set eyes on her. Then she’d insisted on sitting right beside him in the car so that his arm brushed against her every time he moved the steering wheel. It was a wonder he hadn’t driven into a tree or something. Now he’d had to endure an hour of watching her slink around in the mouthwatering slip of silk and sequins, shimmering like a heat wave in the dog days of August.
He was ready to drag her into the nearest dark room and ravish her. If he looked at her for more than thirty seconds, he started getting hard. More than once since the evening began he’d had to shift positions in an attempt to hide his discomfort. It was all Maggie’s fault.
And he was ready to kill the next man who came near her, glanced at her, or commented on her.
“Maggie looks good enough to be put on the dessert table this evening,” a cultured British voice announced beside him.
Red-faced, fists knotted at his sides, Ry wheeled on his trainer.
Christian Atherton took a prudent step backward, but his lean, handsome face was bright with amusement, his pale blue eyes glittering. “Now see here, old boy, I was merely paying the lady a compliment! Touchy, aren’t we?”
Ry grumbled under his breath about the British sense of humor.
After brushing back a lock of pale blond hair, Christian slipped his hands into the pockets of his formal black trousers and rocked back on his heels. “Don’t worry, I won’t stray into your territory. Pity the fool who does.” He shot a speculative glance in Maggie’s direction. “Carter Hill, for instance.”
A growl actually rumbled low in Ry’s throat as he leveled his gaze on Maggie and the corporate lawyer from an old-money family. The Hills were upstanding members of the Briarwood community and owned a small stable of hunters that competed well locally but not on a national or international scale. Carter Hill had dated Maggie in the past. It looked as though he was approaching her with interest in renewing the relationship.
And she was flirting with him, damn her pretty hide! Never mind that she’d been born flirtatious, that she seldom meant anything by it. She’d probably batted her long dark lashes at the doctor who’d delivered her. The point was, she was turning her charms toward a bona fide gentleman who came from a long line of bona fide gentlemen. It hit Ry in a spot that had been rubbed raw years ago. He wasn’t a gentleman.
He glanced down at the tuxedo jacket he’d squeezed himself into. Who was he
trying to fool? Muttering swear words, he picked a fleck of lint off his lapel then ran a thick finger inside the starched wing collar of his shirt, swallowing uncomfortably. “Damn suit. I feel like a mule in horse harness.”
“On the contrary,” Christian said diplomatically. “You look very dapper.” A mischievous grin spread across his mouth. “Didn’t Maggie tell you so?”
Maggie had told him that the sight of a big strappin’ man in a tuxedo made her heart flutter in her breast. With that wicked teasing look of hers, she’d invited him to feel for himself. He’d nearly busted the fly on his trousers just thinking about it. But now she was smiling at Carter Hill.
“She’s asked me to give her riding lessons,” Christian said.
And she was going to be spending time alone with the fourth son of the Earl of Westly, notorious playboy of the show-jumping world. Ry glared at his friend.
“Isn’t that sweet?” Christian asked, the picture of innocence.
“You think that’s sweet?” Ry ground the word like gravel under his boot heel.
“Oh, rather. She told me she wants to learn to ride to please you, that she wants to be able to spend more time with you on the farm. It’s doubly sweet because she confessed to me she’s terrified of horses, and she wasn’t just saying that to be coy.”
Ry stared down at his shoes, feeling like a heel. Here he was suspecting Maggie had designs on his trainer, when all she wanted was to please him. He knew she was afraid of horses, but she was willing to try to overcome that fear so she could spend more time with him. It really was sweet.
The thought made him uncomfortable. He could handle Maggie’s being feisty. He could handle her scheming. But sweetness scared the living hell out of him. What was he supposed to do with sweetness? He couldn’t return it; there wasn’t anything sweet about him. And he didn’t want to accept it, though he wouldn’t admit why even to himself.
“See here,” Christian said with a note of censure in his smooth voice, “you’ll have to learn to curb that jealous temper of yours.”