Blaine shrugged. “Said it would be a lot more comfortable for him if you was still a kid.”
She smiled humorlessly. “It would be for me, too.”
Oh, yes, there was something new between them all right, she thought sardonically. Something that set her pulse racing and made it hard to breathe. She derived a perverse pleasure in knowing this new aspect of their relationship chafed him, too.
She’d expected Noble to ask her to dance. She’d looked forward to it. And when they had danced, it had been fun. But afterward . . .
She fanned herself with a folded piece of paper. After the dance he had simply scooped her up into his arms, his jaw set, and walked with her into the shadows. His intractableness should have been intimidating, the hunger in his gaze frightening . . . but instead it had been exciting.
And then he’d left.
“I guess I ain’t much for small talk,” Venice heard Blaine say and pulled her attention back to the young man. His voice was morose and he was still making diagrams in the dust with his toe.
“Not at all, Mr. Farley. I am purely in love with your accent.”
“You are?” He brightened. “Well, that’s right nice. I ah I sure . . . um . . .” His face fell. Clearly her praise had tongue-tied the lad. “Well sh—, er, shoot.”
“Maybe there is something else we could do?” she prompted him gently, noting that the lively polka the band was playing was one of her favorites.
The relief on Blaine’s face was laughable. He cleared his throat. “I’d be right honored if you’d consent to lettin’ me have another dance, Miss Leiland.”
With one last glance toward the vacant porch, Venice bobbed a curtsey. “I’d be delighted, Mr. Farley.”
Beaming with delight, Blaine grabbed Venice around the waist and, jerking her off her feet, spun her around. Her chignon slipped and her hair uncoiled, spilling down her back. She laughed. Whatever Blaine lacked in expertise, he made up for in enthusiasm.
Another man claimed Blaine’s place as soon as the polka ended, giving Venice no chance to recapture her wayward tresses before being whirled away. Another man took his place and another his. Dance after dance unfolded with partner after partner.
Venice loved it. She loved the underlying thrum of distant thunder counterpointed by human laughter. She loved the muted colors of the flickering Chinese lanterns bobbing on their wires and the scents of roasting meat and spiced wine, cinnamon, and cloves. Everyone was happy. Everyone except Noble, and she refused to think about him.
Why, even the chill bite of the approaching night air couldn’t cool the warmth in her cheeks after so many dances. Venice shook her head at the bearded man beside her and graciously declined his request for a second dance.
“Some gal’s been lookin’ for you,” Katie said, appearing at Venice’s side. “Said you were gonna lend her some dress or something. I sent her to your room.”
“Suzanne Gates. Heavens! It’s nearly eight!” Venice gasped. “I’ve been having such a lovely time, I forgot all about her. All these nice gentlemen, so flatteringly attentive, so pleasant, so respectful. Not one an ill-mannered, obstinate lout. Not one!”
“What’s wrong, Venice?” Katie asked.
“Wrong? Why nothing! I’m having a lovely time. How could I have a better time? I couldn’t!”
“Come on, honey. I seen McCaneaghy holding up the porch at the Gold Dust.”
“Why should I care? Honestly, Miss Jones, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Haven’t I just said I’m having a splendid—”
“Yeah, honey, you did.” Katie grabbed hold of Venice’s arm and led her off.
True to Katie’s word, Noble was leaning against a column. He averted his eyes the minute she stepped up onto the porch. Hot with mortification, she bit her lip, trying to stop it from quivering. Last time she’d cried, Noble had laughed. She wasn’t going to give him another opportunity.
Snapping her chin up, Venice swished imperiously past him, her red skirts slapping against his legs. He stepped back but in the process his spur snagged the deep, laced ruffle on her hem. She tried to jerk her skirts loose and heard the unmistakable sound of ripping fabric. She glared up at him.
Damn him. Arrogant, amused, and far, far too masculine. Disgustingly so. His long, tawny hair gleamed in the light escaping from the porch windows. He looked tall and lithe and dangerous. His teeth flashed in an insolent grin.
“Sorry . . . ma’am.” With the smooth, economical grace she’d come to associate with him, Noble leaned over and pulled the material free of his spur. He straightened. Lord help her, he had nearly golden eyes, laughing eyes. She recoiled haughtily from his amusement—and promptly recaught her hem in his spur. She stumbled, starting to fall.
He was there to catch her. Strong hands gripped her bare upper arms, pressing into her skin. She drew in a deep breath, heat and tobacco and whiskey. Heady stuff. She looked up to see if he felt it, too—the heavy lure of body seeking body, female seeking male.
His smile faded. He looked unhappy. Well, far be it from Venice Leiland to impose her presence on someone who didn’t want her around.
With a curt nod, she sailed into the Gold Dust, leaving him there.
“My, you certainly were nice to him,” Katie said, trailing behind. “I thought you fancied McCaneaghy. You used to know him, didn’t you? Blaine said his ma worked for you.”
“Yes, I did know him. A long time ago. But our friendship appears to . . . that is, Mr. McCaneaghy now seems to find me objectionable.”
“What a piece of sh—”
“I don’t wish to inflict myself on anyone who finds me objectionable. I have my pride.”
Katie stopped outside the room, looking Venice up and down. “Are all society gals like you?” she finally asked.
“I haven’t a clue,” Venice answered. “Why?”
“ ‘Cause if they are, it’s a wonder there’s any kids born in New York at all,” she said, opening Venice’s door and pushing her inside. “Go on, get in there and don’t worry about McCaneaghy. Katie’s got it covered.”
Still shaking her head, Katie closed the door.
Suzanne Gates, hands demurely clasped in her lap, sat straight-backed on the bed. The minute she saw Venice she leapt to her feet.
“The blonde woman said it would be okay if I waited for you, ma’am,” she said.
“I’m sorry I’m so late. Something distracted me,” Venice said. “Now for that gown . . .”
Noble inhaled deeply, trying to gauge the effects of the whiskey. Not too bad. The hell of it was, he couldn’t quite figure out what he was intoxicated on, cheap whisky or expensive sins. Either one was sure to do mortal damage.
The back door swung open and Katie stepped outside. She put her hands on her hips and looked up at the black clouds heaping on top of the mountains. “Nice night,” she said.
“Yeah,” Noble answered, following her gaze. If you’re partial to hail. What the hell was the woman up to? He squinted up at the blackness and immediately felt his balance threatened. He touched a hand to his head, willing the world to stop spinning. “Well, I better get moving if—”
“No!” She grabbed his arm and clung. He stared at her in astonishment. She managed to approximate a smile. She released her grip on him and casually dusted his sleeve. “Night’s young yet. Think it might rain?”
“Might.”
“Might what?” Blaine asked, approaching them, two cups of hard cider in his hands. Idiot, thought Noble. If Venice drank all the stuff Blaine had been toting after her all night, she’d be ready to float.
“Rain,” Noble and Katie said in unison.
Blaine gave them a look that clearly questioned their sanity. Noble and Katie continued to stare up at the sky. “Yeah, seeing how them’s storm clouds, I ‘spect you might be right. Anyone seen Miz Leiland?” Blaine asked.
Pathetic, lovesick pup, thought Noble. Blaine had been trailing after Venice all afternoon. It was amazing her nose wasn’t purple
from banging it into the fool every time she turned around.
“Upstairs,” Katie said.
“Oh,” Blaine replied, disappointed. He sighed, leaning against the porch rail. “Guess I kin wait. Hell, I’d wait till Ezekiel blows his horn if I thought Miz Leiland would—”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Noble spat. He snatched one of the cups from Blaine’s hand and drained it in one long, satisfying draught. If he had to witness every man—including the young idiot in front of him—make an ass out of himself over Venice Leiland, at least he didn’t have to do it anywhere near sober. Blaine started to protest. The look Noble shot him made him think twice.
Noble was just about to grab the second cup of cider when a sudden, high-pitched scream broke from a second-story window.
“Sakes alive! That was Venice! Mercy!” Katie clasped her hands dramatically to her chest. “Someone’s gotta save her!”
It didn’t sound like Venice to Noble, but his body’s reaction was instantaneous. Diving for the back door, he shot through it and raced for the stairs. A hand on the banister and he vaulted over the railing, landing halfway up the staircase, still moving. He reached for Venice’s door, crashing it open so hard that it bounced against the wall. He entered the room half-crouched in anticipation of violence.
He blinked. A young girl in petticoats and a chemise stood on the middle of the bed. A yellow dress was crushed to her waist. Her eyes were huge in her freckled face. She was stuttering, terrified.
Venice was pressed against the wall next to an open armoire.
“It’s all right. I don’t think it’s dangerous, Suzanne,” she was saying. Her voice held a questioning quaver. Her eyes were riveted on a huge king snake napping on the floor of the armoire.
Even though Noble knew this particular species of snake was harmless, he could appreciate how intimidating one this large could be. Particularly if you thought it might be poisonous. Particularly if you were afraid of snakes like Venice had always been. His jaw clenched. He’d like to find whoever had done this to her.
The snake lifted its head and lazily uncoiled a third of its length. Venice gasped and the girl on the bed shrieked again.
Suddenly, Blaine crowded in behind Noble. “What the hell’s going on?”
The girl on the bed took one look at Blaine, glanced fearfully at the snake, and promptly launched herself at the boy. The impact of her body hitting his was audible.
Noble watched the expressions on Blaine’s face change in rapid-fire order. He was painfully easy to read.
For half a minute, Blaine stared at Venice. It took another few seconds for him to realize that Venice didn’t even know he was in the room. She was too busy watching the snake. After that, it took Blaine about a second more to recognize that fate had conspired to place an armful of half-naked, warm, and willing female flesh in his embrace. His grin as he tightened his hold on the girl was nearly idiotic with delight.
“Get me outta here, Blaine,” the girl pleaded.
He needed no further prompting. Making soft clucking sounds, he scooted the girl out the door and off for further comforting.
Venice looked up at Noble.
“I’m . . . I’m afraid of snakes.” The admission was obviously painful.
“I remember.”
“It was in the closet. It was there when I opened it.”
“Amazin’ where those damned things’ll git to,” Noble drawled, trying to make light of the situation even though he hated the fact that someone had purposefully frightened Venice. Fury pulsed through his body.
“No, Noble. Someone put it there.” A touch of anger colored her own fear now. “My practical joker?”
“I’d guess so.” Striding across the room, he grabbed the sleepy snake behind the head and, stalking to the window, dropped it outside.
“Was it poisonous?” she asked.
“Nah,” Noble said shortly.
She sighed her relief, clearly embarrassed by her fear, which made him angrier. Hadn’t Trevor even allowed Venice to be afraid?
“Judging by how slowly it was moving, I suspect it had just eaten,” he said. “Wasn’t in an aggressive mood at all. Someone just wanted to scare you, Venice, not hurt you.”
“Still, I admit I’m glad to be leaving Salvage tomorrow. Maybe whoever it is will tire of their pranks by the time I return.” She smiled.
She was leaving tomorrow with Cassius, Noble remembered. There just wasn’t enough liquor in Salvage to keep that thought at bay.
“Don’t you think?” she prompted.
“Maybe.”
She was too damn beautiful. His gaze traveled hungrily over her, committing to memory everything from her small, naked feet to her narrow waist up to the creamy white skin exposed by the dipping neckline, where the feminine flesh trembled with each fear-laden breath she drew.
Fear? He looked up into her eyes. There was no fear there now. Just a dark, intoxicating awareness. And a pull as physical as anything he’d ever felt. His gaze feasted on her. Her smooth cheeks; her tender throat; her lush, parted lips; her long, tangled curls. He frowned. When had she let her hair down? Who’d let it down?
Cassius?
“You’d better hang up your dancing shoes sometime before dawn if you’re planning on going with the Utes, lady. They won’t wait on you just because you indulged a whim to try and bedazzle every single hick in this town.”
She stared at him.
He couldn’t help himself. He wanted her to protest, to deny the thinly veiled accusations. “I’d have thought you’d care for more of a challenge, Venice. Or are you content with any victory?”
She pulled back as though he’d struck her. Then a light ignited in her dark eyes. “But I haven’t danced nearly enough.”
“What?” He snorted, goaded by his imagination, seeing her held by dozens of men, hundreds of arms, none of them his. Seeing her disappear into shadowy corners with them, seeing them bend over her . . .
“You mean there’s a man in Salvage who hasn’t had his arms around you at least twice?” It sounded dirty, even to his own ears.
She didn’t even blink. She didn’t so much as hiss a denial. Instead, she placed her hand on her ribs and slowly, deliberately, smoothed her palm downward over the thin, loose material, pulling it tight across her breasts. She stared into his eyes, never breaking contact, and glided slowly toward him. The roll of her hips was a flagrant invitation.
She stopped a hand breadth away, tilting her head back. Her hair fell down her shoulders like black satin streamers. Her eyes were cold, glimmering gems, arctic ice. Noble’s fingers curled into fists, his nails biting through the thick calluses on his palms.
“Why, yes. I think there are a few men left,” she purred, exaggerating the careful enunciation, the slow mouthing of each word a kiss on the air. “Like you. Won’t you dance with me again, McCaneaghy? Won’t you put your arms around me one more time?”
“What happened to ‘Noble’?”
She shrugged. The movement caused the loose cotton to slip from her breasts, briefly exposing the shadowed valley between them. His blood thrummed dully in his ears. He had never wanted anything quite as much as he wanted to touch Venice Leiland at that moment.
“You don’t give me any respect, why should I give you any?” she whispered.
He didn’t trust himself to speak. She put a hand on his chest. His heart pounded in response. For the life of him, even though he knew this was as much playacting as her tears had been, he couldn’t make himself smile, let alone come up with some hard, sophisticated response as one of her New York suitors would have. Oh no, the Irish slum brat could only wait, transfixed like the greenest of boys, awaiting her whim like a panting stable lad.
“What about it, McCaneaghy? One more dance?”
Her other hand joined the first, both palms flat over his heart. She must be able to read his desire in the heaving of his chest.
If he gave in to this mad impulse and took her mouth, here, now, how would
he compare to her New York beaus? And how many were there to be compared to? God, he wished he didn’t feel so fog-headed!
He stared at her long, elegant fingers splayed across his flesh. He watched her hands ride the deep rise and fall of his own harsh breathing.
“Aye,” he rasped. “I’m flattered by the invitation.”
“Don’t be. You know how we fast New York girls are. Anything for a kick. You’re on to me, Noble McCaneaghy. But you always were a perceptive lad.” Her voice was sarcastic and bittersweet, low and hypnotic. “I just gobble up men for breakfast. How about it, McCaneaghy? Want to be eaten alive?” she purred.
It took all his effort to make his voice flat and disinterested. “I’ll just have to decline the honor, Miss Leiland.”
“What’s wrong? Aren’t I pretty enough?” She read something in his tense stillness, something she mocked. Her lips tipped in a scornful smile, moist and succulent and pink. “Just like I thought. Hypocrite.”
With an undisguised moue of disdain, she jerked her chin up and started past him.
She was right. He was a hypocrite and the knowledge was too much.
His arm shot out and snaked around her waist, dragging her body hard up against his. And then he was kissing her, feeding on her lips with all the hunger and passion and need he’d failed to bury beneath common sense and self-preservation.
There was nothing gentle about his possession. He bruised her with his desire, forced his way between her lips, and lathed the sleek warmth of her inner cheeks with his tongue. She whimpered, clinging to his neck for support. His head spun with darkening passion and his hands trailed down her neck, stroking the silken skin on her shoulders and moving to cup her breasts.
He moaned, kneading the lush mounds through the damnable cotton, feeling the tips of her unbound breasts go turgid with his manipulation. He tore his mouth from hers, bending and catching her behind the knees, lifting her high against his chest so he could wet her throat with his tongue, taste her skin, suckle her breasts fiercely, hungrily through the thin cloth.
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