Oh, what was she thinking? She had only met Mr. Brown this morning, and here she was planning a polite refusal should he propose! Alice's voice interrupted her silly musings.
"Well, you're practically an old maid, you know."
Rosalyn gasped, not knowing whether to be outraged or amused. She settled for a bit of both. “I'm only two years older than you, Alice Carter."
The red head shrugged, her gay mood suddenly gone. “Exactly. Soon I'll be an old maid too. When Miss Howland took me in, I'm sure she wasn't expecting me to stay forever."
Rosalyn killed her smile, softening as she looked at Alice's gloomy features. Alice had lost her parents’ just last year in a steam boat accident, and only recently had she begun to smile and laugh. Aside from a smattering of freckles across her nose, the younger girl was pretty in a gamin way. Not a classic beauty, of course, but then, neither was she. Passable, Miss Howland would say.
"Oh, pooh! Of course you'll get married someday. Who says we have to do it before we're twenty? Why can't we enjoy life first, before we settle down to answer to a husband and tend children?” Warming to her speech, Rosalyn sat beside Alice on the bed, putting a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Have you thought about going to college?"
Alice shrugged, eyes as blue as a summer sky turning pensive. “Why would I go to college? I can work for Miss Howland for as long as I'd like. She's very impressed with the way I run the shop."
Rosalyn hesitated, then decided to forge ahead. “Have you given any thought to what you'll do if Miss Howland should decide to sell, or retire?"
Alice's eyes widened in alarm. “You don't think—"
"I didn't say she would, I'm just saying you should think of your future. More than likely you'll get married and you won't have to worry about such things."
"But if I don't..."
"Exactly.” Rosalyn smiled reassuringly. “But I don't think you'll have a problem finding a husband. I think you're very pretty."
"You do?"
"I do."
Alice's lips curled upward. The light of mischief returned to her eyes. “What color are his eyes?"
"Brown,” Rosalyn replied without thinking. When Alice's trilling laughter rang out, she knew she had blundered. She groaned and swatted at her.
The younger girl ducked away, giggling. “I knew you were fooling me, I just knew it! Does Chris Brown know he's about to have dinner with Worcester's famous Cupid?"
"No, and I can only pray he doesn't find out about that silly nickname. Cupid, indeed.” Rosalyn tried to sound stern, but her lips twitched. It was difficult to remain sober around Alice's infectious personality.
"Is he picking you up here?"
"No.” Rosalyn laughed at her disappointed expression. “I told him I lived with a group of nosey ladies, and he agreed to meet me at the restaurant."
"You didn't!"
"I did. Now scoot. I've got to finish dressing and you're making me late."
Alice gasped. "I'm making you late? When I came in, you were sitting on the bed daydreaming about Chris Brown!"
Rosalyn gave her a quelling look. “I was not."
A small, insignificant fib to retain her dignity.
* * * *
Christian recognized the coat before he saw her face. She brought a rush of cold air with her, and people dining inside the restaurant turned to stare. Christian noted the men did not immediately look away.
He could understand why. There was an air about her, an enjoyment of life that couldn't be ignored. He watched her as she made her way through the elegantly set tables, and imagined her cloaked in rich furs. She would be striking, he thought, with her dark hair and eyes, and her flawless white skin.
Hell, she was striking now.
She reached him, slowly coming to a halt. He lowered his gaze, noting the rapid rise and fall of her chest. So, she was nervous. “Miss Mitchell,” he drawled softly. With a gallant bow, he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.
"Mr. Brown."
"Please, call me Chris."
She hesitated, looking into his eyes, displaying everything in her own. Excitement, fear, doubt, hope ... Christian saw it all. “Chris, then. Please, call me Rosalyn."
He smiled a slow, lazy smile meant to further his cause. “I thought you'd never ask."
Rosalyn blushed. “We've only just met this morning,” she chided, but a smile lurked about her generous mouth.
"So you keep reminding me."
A young boy appeared to take her coat. Rosalyn removed her gloves and set them on the table, then quickly unbuttoned the long row of buttons. Christian watched, assuring himself his curiosity was healthy and natural. She was only a woman, and every woman had her price.
Dear Lord. Her figure was exquisite. Christian moved a leisurely gaze over her generous breasts to her narrow waist and flaring hips. Somehow, he knew her legs would be long and slender beneath the heavy folds of her skirt. They would match those delectable ankles he'd glimpsed this morning.
What the devil was wrong with the men in this town? She was a beauty, in face and figure, with a bold personality that had immediately captured his attention. That she didn't appear to have a long line of beaus baffled him. It also aroused his suspicion.
She caught him in the middle of his thorough, hot inspection and froze. Her deep brown eyes widened in recognition and Christian felt a tightening in his gut. So, she wasn't completely unaware of the lusting of men, he thought with a small measure of relief and a great deal of disappointment. Which was just as well, because in the moment she handed the boy her coat, he knew he had to have her, thief or not.
Who was he fooling? He wanted her just as fiercely this morning at the train station, and again when he'd kissed her by the park. Rosalyn Mitchell would know his touch before long, he vowed.
For a long moment, he stared intently into her startled, fearful eyes, then smiled to ease the tension. Instantly, she relaxed and gave him an answering smile. He pulled out a chair and seated her, brushing his fingers across the back of her neck as he pushed her chair forward. She shivered. He smiled behind her back and circled the table to sit across from her.
When his knees touched hers beneath the table, she quickly remedied the improper situation by swinging her legs to the left. Christian chuckled inwardly. He'd chose the small table with just such an intent.
"Have you dined here before?” he asked conversationally, reaching for his water goblet. It was time to lull her into relaxing her guard again. He would draw her out before the next strike, then retreat. A strategy he found worked quite well with women unschooled in the art of love—or lust, as he preferred to call it.
She cleared her throat, her eyes still shadowed with wary confusion. Christian suspected she wasn't certain the incidents were accidents.
"No. Miss Howland prefers simple fare, and we usually dine at the Casterillo.” She reached for her water and Christian's eyes followed the movement, admiring her long slender fingers and well-cared for nails.
His amusement deepened as she avoided his gaze by studying the menu. “Shall I order for you?"
Rosalyn finally lifted her head, jolting Christian with the directness of her stare. She looked determined about something and Christian was surprised to discover he didn't have a clue. “I prefer to order for myself, but thank you. I've heard the lamb chops are excellent here, so I shall have those with the stuffing."
Christian's expression revealed nothing but polite interest—he hoped. “Will you have wine with me?"
She didn't hesitate. “I don't drink spirits. The water will do fine.” She toyed with her water glass, taking a dainty sip.
Christian watched her lips close over the rim and remembered how lush they felt against his own. A man could enjoy kissing a mouth like hers, for long hours, he decided. There would be more enjoyment in this game than he first suspected.
The waiter arrived, greedily eyeing the expensive cut of Christian's satin vest and fine lawn shirt as he no doubt tallied
an imaginary tip inside his head. With a cynical twist of his lips, Christian ordered two lamb chop dinners and a bottle of fine wine for himself. He hadn't given up the possibility of Rosalyn sharing a drink with him. Women tended to lose their inhibitions with a little liquor, he'd discovered early on in life.
"Are you in Worcester for long, Mr—Chris?"
A bit surprised that she opened the conversation, Christian hedged. He wanted to ask the questions. “I'm not sure. My business here could take weeks, or even months.” He didn't think so, but he wasn't confident now. Apparently, there was more to Rosalyn Mitchell than just a pretty face and figure—and sticky fingers, he was fast discovering.
"You're staying at the Bolten Hotel?"
"Ah, yes, yes I am.” That was a close one. Christian realized he was frowning and quickly smoothed his expression. It was time to take charge and point the subject in a different direction—far away from personal questions he wasn't prepared to answer. “Tell me, how is it you came to work for Miss Howland?” There, that should do it, he thought. Women loved to talk about themselves.
"I needed a job,” she answered readily enough. Then she startled Christian once again by asking, “Are you married?"
He nearly choked on a mouthful of water. Eyes watering, he swallowed, then wiped his mouth on his napkin. He studied the embroidery at the edge of the snow-white cloth for a moment before replying. “No, I'm not married. You are a curious thing, aren't you?"
Rosalyn's eyes twinkled with mischief. “I would think that a question long delayed. After all, we are dining together."
"But we are not making love,” he said softly. Her gasp of shock brought a wicked smile to his lips. To his continued amusement, she glanced quickly around them to see if any of the other diners had overheard his outrageous remark. When she faced him again, flaming color rode high on her cheeks. Christian covered a laugh with his hand and tried to look chastened.
"Please—don't say things like that,” she beseeched him in an undertone. Her eyes looked huge. “Unless you're out to ruin my reputation?"
"My apologies."
The waiter appeared with his wine, nearly tripping over himself in an effort to please. Christian remained silent until he retreated. “This is not the place for intimacies,” he agreed, and before she could inform him there was no such place, he rushed on, “Tell me about this valentine factory. I believe you mentioned you've worked there two months?"
Rosalyn blushed and lowered her eyes. Christian felt a twist of savage satisfaction, knowing she remembered the kiss. “Yes.” Her voice quavered for an instant, then grew stronger. She brought her chin up and looked him in the eye, determined not to let him see how much he unnerved her, and unaware that she failed. “When Callie died I had no place to go, so I sought employment with Miss Howland. She graciously rented a room out to me."
"Gracious, indeed,” Christian agreed.
"Well, she's renowned for helping gentlewomen down on their luck, you know."
Christian smiled before he could catch himself over her ‘you know'. No, he didn't know, but she seemed to expect him to. His thief did have endearing qualities. Casually, he lifted the wine to his lips, savoring the dry burgundy. He watched her from beneath lowered lids as she stared at his throat. “This
Callie—"
"Garret,” Rosalyn supplied.
Christian licked the wine from his lips and she followed the movement before tearing her gaze abruptly away. “Mrs. Garret.” He silently cursed his slip, for he couldn't remember if Rosalyn had told him she was a widow. Hopefully, she wouldn't remember either. “Didn't this Mrs. Garret provide for you in her will?"
"You're assuming she had anything to provide,” Rosalyn said, a hint of reserve in her voice. “As a matter of fact, everything was left to her step son, a hateful man who wouldn't give her the time of day."
To Christian's astonishment, an angry glitter sparkled in her eyes. Hiding his surprise, he said, “You know the man? This step son?"
Rosalyn's fingers tightened around the stem of her glass and Christian tensed, wondering if it would break beneath the pressure. “I've never met him, no. But I know he's a cold, heartless brute. Callie wrote letter upon letter—I know because she had me write them—begging him to come for a visit so they could reconcile their differences. It was all a misunderstanding, you know."
"No, I don't know,” Christian murmured, intensely interested in the conversation. “Tell me."
Rosalyn didn't appear to find his interest unusual. “Christian Garret hated Callie because she married his father. I think his motives childish, after all, he's a grown man. Widowed people deserve a second chance at love, don't you think? I mean, surely Christian didn't expect his father to mourn his mother forever, did he?” She pleated the napkin in her agitation, missing Christian's start of surprise.
With great effort, he forced himself to sound neutral when what he really wanted to do was shout the ugly truth at her. “I don't know. Maybe there are other reasons you don't know about."
Snorting, Rosalyn speared him with a look meant to shrivel, leaving Christian to wonder if she had forgotten he was a stranger and knew nothing about what she spoke of. “Callie told me everything, and Christian Garret had no reason for his bitterness toward her.” A husky note softened her voice as she continued. “The worst of it was that he wouldn't answer her letters as she—as she neared the end. I shall never forgive him for that."
Chapter Four
Lies and Torment Are Your Game
But You Someday I Hope to Tame
Until in Truth You Call My Name
Then I Shall Know...?
Christian slowly lowered his wine glass to the table. It took him several minutes to gather himself so that he could speak. “Maybe he didn't know she was dying,” he suggested softly.
Her head came up with a sharp jerk. “He knew. Within a week of her death, he had his lawyer throw me out onto the street, so he knew.” She sounded totally convinced.
Christian was surprised by the tiny surge of guilt her words evoked. He quickly ground it into oblivion, reminding himself he had nothing to feel guilty about. He leaned forward and took her hands in his. Her eyes opened wide. She tugged on her hands and found them imprisoned.
When she stopped struggling and just stared at him with that desire inducing mixture of apprehension and anticipation, Christian said, “Let's change the subject since it upsets you.” Just as it upset him, but Rosalyn couldn't know this. “Do you have someone special?"
Rosalyn's mouth fell open and Christian dropped his eyes to linger for an electrifying moment, making certain she saw his interest. His desire was real, so it wasn't hard to look convincing.
"I—No, I don't have anyone special."
Christian leaned closer, triumphant when she didn't move away. His thumb found the rapid beat of her pulse at her wrist. He began to rub the spot in teasing, feathery strokes as he whispered, “Good. Then I get you all to myself. I don't like to share, and I'd rather not have to punch a man in the nose."
"You—you would do that?” Rosalyn asked, her eyes fixed on his seductive gaze.
"Yes, I would. I've never met anyone like you, Rosalyn."
Rosalyn fidgeted with the heavy silverware. He watched as she swallowed hard, obviously struggling with alien feelings. Christian ignored his protesting conscience, waiting for her response. That she would surprise him, he didn't doubt. He found himself anticipating the moment.
"I-I've never met anyone like you, either,” she finally managed. She didn't sound pleased with the idea. “In fact, I've half a mind to leave this instant, before—"
"Before what, Rosalyn? Before you have to be honest with yourself?” Christian taunted.
"I hadn't planned on becoming involved with anyone, you see."
Christian frowned. “No, I don't see."
She nodded, her eyes suddenly glowing with a different excitement Christian suspected had nothing to do with him.
"I'm going to college in
the spring, to become a teacher,” she announced in a breathless rush.
Christian wondered at the sudden tension in the hands beneath his, as if she expected him to protest. Trusting his instincts, he did the opposite. “I think that's a wonderful idea. I admire career women."
"You do?"
Her squeaked question confirmed Christian's suspicions that she wasn't expecting his approval. Something to file away for later use, he thought.
"Certainly I do. What intelligent man wouldn't?” Flashing her a charming smile, he added with studied casualness, “I take it Miss Howland pays well?"
Rosalyn's cheeks began to glow with color. Before his eyes, she came alive, encouraged by his acceptance. In her excitement, she didn't seem to consider the personal nature of his question, just as Christian intended.
"Oh, she pays very well, and sometimes the customers tip generously.” He tensed as her voice dropped an octave, signaling confidentiality. “Besides, I have a secret nest egg should I be forced to use it."
"Left to you by your parents?” he couldn't refrain from asking. He held his breath, praying the waiter would not choose this moment to arrive with the food. Any second now, he feared she would realize his questions were entirely too personal.
She shook her head so hard the curls at her temples danced. “No. Chris...?"
"Hmmm?"
"You're hurting my hands,” she chided gently, tugging them free.
"Your food, ladies and gentlemen,” an unwelcome voice interrupted.
Christian muttered a curse beneath his breath and glared at the waiter, sending the poor innocent stumbling back a step.
The moment was lost.
* * * *
Two hours later, a thoroughly kissed Rosalyn held her hands to her hot cheeks as she watched Chris Brown stride away. She backed against Miss Howland's front door and took a deep, shuddering breath. Good gracious, she feared she would melt into a puddle and it was freezing out here!
That man was impossible ... and incredibly exciting. Oh, Lord, what was she letting herself in for? A heartache, scandal, shame? All three? She turned and opened the door, grateful to find the hall empty as she hurried upstairs.
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