by Lisa Bingham
The first thought that raced through her head upon seeing her long-time nemesis was that Jacob had changed a great deal in the ten years she’d known him. Although she’d been just shy of thirteen the first time they’d met, she’d taken every advantage of that glimpse of a genuinely naked man. True, she hadn’t seen Jacob without his clothes since, but she’d still been observant enough to mark the passage of the years. Each time she saw him, the cotton of his shirt stretched a little tauter over the width of his shoulders and the breadth of his chest. In the three years since she’d last encountered him, the most dramatic changes had occurred. He’d grown whipcord lean. Hard. His face had become blunter, all lines and angles.
She tried not to stare, tried not to let him see how much the mere sight of him sent a shot of adrenaline through her blood, but he must have sensed something.
“Fiona McFee, as I live and breathe. Has it only been three years?”
His coffee-colored eyes slid over her with an unwavering thoroughness, moving from the wisps of hair clinging to her damp forehead, to her neck, to the wedge of skin revealed by her corset cover. He held a revolver in her direction, the tip lazily pointed at her navel, but they both knew such a precaution was unnecessary. Fiona had done a lot of things in her life—on the right and the wrong side of the law. But she had never carried a gun.
His glance flicked to the carpetbag on the floor. “Going somewhere?”
There was no sense in denying her preparations. Not when he could see the evidence so clearly in front of him. But that didn’t mean she had to kowtow to him either. “I thought I’d take tea with the Duke o’ Wales,” she retorted flippantly.
“Don’t you mean the Duke of Buckingham?”
Seeing her guilty start, he chuckled, making a tsking sound of regret. “The two of you can’t stay out of trouble, can you?”
He was toying with her, baiting her like a cat baited a mouse. Fiona knew it was a game, one they had indulged in often enough in the last few years when Grey invariably popped up during the most embarrassing moments. But he always played by the rules, never stepping beyond the bounds of his authority.
The thought that his authority had recently been extended caused a real fear to twine inside her. “What have ye done with him?” Her nervousness and her fear brought a thick brogue to her tongue. One she had nearly eradicated over the years. If he only knew how much her speech betrayed her, she would never hear the end of it.
“What have ye done with him?” she demanded again.
“Nothing that shouldn’t be done. As far as most people are concerned, Mickaleen McFee should be strung up from the nearest tree—and I’ve a good mind to listen to them this time.”
“No!” She flew forward, her hand upraised, but he caught her before she could scratch him, twisting her arm behind her and drawing her close.
“Is that any way to treat an old friend?”
“Friend?”
“Acquaintance, then.”
“One I wish I’d never made.”
“True as that may be, perhaps you should reconsider your position and adjust it accordingly.”
Fiona knew he was speaking of her militant attitude, but the double entendre of the threat hit her about the same time as the realization that she was pressed intimately to this man, thigh meshed with thigh.
A bolt of iced lightning shot through her system. By all the saints, did Jacob Grey have to be so big? He towered over her, his chest broad, his stomach flat and hard, his legs ruthlessly fit.
Pushing at his ribs, Fiona tried to gain her release but only succeeded in bringing their bodies into even more intimate contact. Their hips ground together, making her succinctly aware that it was not just his gunbelt that nudged into her flesh.
Jacob Grey must have noted the same thing at about the same time, because his hold imperceptibly lessened and his eyes became a rich slumberous black.
“You’ve grown up, Fiona,” he murmured. “Last time I saw you, there was still a bit of the child in you. Is that what they call a late bloom?”
She didn’t bother to respond to such a question. His attitude had been irritating beyond belief, but comfortably familiar, like a pair of scuffed boots one had outgrown yet continued to use.
Unfortunately, that well-worn sense of familiarity had altered since the last time they’d clashed wills. She’d always been able to look upon this man as a bit of a pest, but today, Fiona felt his visual inspection as if it were a branding iron. With each pulsing second, she became overtly conscious of the scantiness of her attire. Her naked arms, the half-buttoned corset cover. The way her breasts pushed above the restraint of her stays and spilled into the tatted yoke of her camisole. Because of the heat of the day, she’d forgone her customary four petticoats and worn only two. The flimsiness of the fabric offered no resistance to the warmth of his legs and the buckles and ridges of his holster.
“When, Fiona?”
The words were barely distinguishable, more a gruff whisper than coherent speech.
“When what?” she ground out between clenched teeth, trying to deny the thundering sensations that spilled through her veins like the bubbles of a natural spring.
“When did you… blossom?”
The comment sounded as if the transformation was to be regarded as a miracle of gargantuan proportions. “Ye can go straight to bloody hell!” Her curse was punctuated by a hard kick to his shins.
Grey yelped in surprise, but his arms tightened rather than loosening. “You little wildcat!”
“Let… me… go!”
“Not until you promise to behave.”
Wriggling, she fought to free herself as the scalding tide flooding her cheeks began to singe her hair. “As ye so plainly pointed out t’ me, I am not a child t’ be ordered about according to yer whims.”
“No, you’re the daughter of the man I’ve arrested.”
Papa.
His statement effortlessly reminded her of what Fiona had so nearly forgotten. Papa had been here. Jacob Grey had probably stormed into his room, taken him captive—and who knew what else. Beaten him? Humiliated him? Dragged him off to some horrid prison?
“What have ye done?”
“Will you stay calm if I tell you?”
“Damn it, what have ye—”
He brought her flush against the cradle of his hips and a certain area of his anatomy with which she would rather remain a stranger. The heat in her face increased threefold. Since Fiona had a tendency to blush at the drop of a hat, she could only pray that Grey attributed her heightened color to the airless room and the fervidness of her protest.
“Not until you promise to remain calm.”
Her teeth snapped together with an audible click, but she schooled her features into a concerted blandness.
“Fine.”
He studied her suspiciously. “You will sit on the bed, arms folded, and listen.”
Her lips pursed at his patronizing tone, but she nodded.
“Very well.” He loosened his grip, bit by bit, as if expecting her to bolt at any moment. When she remained true to her agreement and didn’t try to lash out at him, he gestured to the cot.
Whirling, she marched to her assigned place, sat stiffly on the edge, and folded her hands in her lap.
“What … have ye done with me father?”
Jacob propped his shoulders on the doorjamb, effectively cutting off her escape should she foolishly think to try such a thing. But Fiona was not a foolish woman. She knew the futility of such an attempt. Grey could outrun her should she try to dodge into the other room. Besides which, he had her father. Until she knew what Grey meant to do to him, she couldn’t leave. Wouldn’t leave.
“Mickaleen is safely tucked away.”
“Which jail?”
Grey didn’t immediately respond, and she glanced up. There was no softness in him, no hint of vulnerability. He could have been carved from stone.
“Well?”
>
“He’s been taken into custody.”
“At… which… jail?” she repeated.
“He’s not in a jail.”
Fiona could not have been more surprised had he burst into song. If there was one thing she knew about Grey, it was that he was true to his word. He believed that a man’s actions were either black or white—there was no fuzzy area in between. If he said he would arrest Mickaleen McFee for breaking the law, it was only a matter of time. So if Mickaleen McFee had not been taken to prison, Grey must have…
The color suddenly bled from her face. Her heart clenched, then dropped to the base of her chest.
“Ye’ve killed him. Damn ye! Ye’ve killed him!”
Chapter 2
“Ye huge, overgrown, bloody bastard!”
Jacob barely had the time to straighten from the door. Fiona launched herself in his direction, clawing and scratching, screaming a mixture of obscenities peppered with colorful Irish colloquialisms regarding his parentage. It wasn’t until he caught the gist of what she was saying that he realized she’d misunderstood and thought her father was dead.
“Hold on now!”
She slammed him against the door panels and began to pummel him with blows. Swearing, he tried to restrain her, but she was possessed by some demon and wanted only to wreak her punishment for the hurt she imagined he’d inflicted.
The revolver tumbled from his grip and hit the floor, discharging into the wall. When she drew her knee up with an obvious aim in mind, Jacob hissed, wrapped his arms around her waist, and tackled her onto the cot, pinning her to the mattress.
“Hells bells, woman! Would you listen to me? Your father’s not dead! He’s at the Liberty Hotel!”
It took a full minute for his words to sink into her brain. When they did, she didn’t stop altogether but gradually calmed—a kick here, a punch there—losing her anger like a child’s wind-up bauble uncoiling its spring.
“He’s not dead?”
She panted beneath him, her chest rising and falling with the effort. Her hair, partially freed from its braid, spread wildly about her face, giving her an inexplicably wanton appearance.
“Ye haven’t killed him? Ye really haven’t killed him?”
“My word of honor.”
His promise left her limp and suspiciously bright-eyed. She blinked at the telltale moisture, sniffed, then demanded, “So why didn’t ye say so in the first place, lawman?”
His head dropped in weary resignation at her belligerent tone and he sighed, trying to regain his composure and his breath. He should have known better than to expect any show of gratitude or softness from this woman. He and Fiona McFee reacted as favorably to one another as a match to dried grass.
“Get up, ye big oaf.”
She writhed beneath him, making him conscious of the way he sprawled upon her, his legs wrapped about her thighs. He’d stretched her arms overhead and grasped her wrists, causing her breasts to plump beneath the strictures of her undergarments.
“If I let you loose you’ll emasculate me,” Jacob stated after some time.
Without a word, she managed to relay that as far as she was concerned, such an idea would not be completely unwelcome. Jacob had to smother an unwilling grin. She had more fire and spirit than ten ladies combined.
“Let… me… up!”
“No.”
Her glare could have set fire to his eyebrows, but Jacob ignored it. His fingers tightened around her wrists, absorbing the velvety texture of her skin. He knew she’d been working in a laundry, but he felt no evidence of such labor in the form of soap-roughened hands. No, not at all.
“Damn ye, stop gaping at me like I’m a peppermint stick in need o’ tasting.”
The very thought proved interesting, causing him to note the fullness of her lips, the ripe red color. Disgusted with the bent of his own thoughts, he pulled his wayward brain into line. True, he’d been away from the comforts of the city for quite some time. True, he’d been celibate as a monk for months and longed for a little bit of refined company. But this was not just any female. This was Fiona McFee. Tangling with her would be like tangling with barbed wire.
Clearing his throat to rid it of an annoying sense of dryness, he stated, “I want to talk to you, peacefully and rationally. If this is the way it has to be done in order to escape personal injury, then I’m willing.”
“Get off!”
“No.”
He waited until she realized he was not about to give in to her demands. Each involuntary emotional concession was plainly displayed on her face, first in the annoyed pursing of her lips, the jutting of her chin, then the shift of her shoulders. She took as deep a breath as she was capable of doing in her current position and asked, “What do ye want?”
“I’d like to make a deal.”
“Do ye honestly expect me to take ye seriously? Everyone in the state of Illinois and beyond knows that Jacob Grey doesn’t make deals.”
“Perhaps I’m willing to learn.”
She digested that comment, but obviously didn’t like the hypothesis she’d formed after such ruminations. “So it’s come to this. I dally with ye how many times… once?… twice?… and ye let my father go? Is that what ye mean to say?”
“Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve got no designs on your body.”
Rather than offering a sense of reassurance, his words only insulted her. She fought with all her might, trying to release at least one hand to hit him, but he hastened to add, “I need a little of your time is all. Just your time.”
“Get off!”
All her bucking had begun to exact a telling reaction from Jacob’s body. Deciding he needed a bit of breathing room in order to best phrase his proposition, Jacob reluctantly slid off the bed and bent to retrieve his revolver.
Fiona scrambled backward, sitting with her shoulders to the wall and her legs drawn up to her chest in much the same position she’d adopted in the pasture on that day so long ago.
Turning the chair around, Jacob straddled it, resting his arms on the upper rung, his weapon once again pointing in her general direction.
Fiona attempted to repair the damage done to her hair as best as she could, buttoned the placket of her corset cover as high as it would allow, then rubbed her nose, sniffed, and asked, “What kind o’ deal are ye proposing, an’ what does it have t’ do with m’ sainted father?”
“Your father’s a crook.”
“Says ye.”
“As well as the combined states of Illinois, Virginia, Missouri, Arkan—”
“Enough! If he’s so blasted dangerous t’ society, then why have ye put him in a hotel?”
Her brogue grew nearly as cloying as her father’s, a sure sign that she was still angry enough to spit nails. It was a point he’d noticed about her long ago.
He grinned, stretching his legs in front of him. “As we both know, your father has racked up enough offenses that I could very well throw him into the nearest jail-house and forget I ever put him there.”
She didn’t offer a retort but watched him with a steely gaze.
“Therefore, I find myself in the unusual position of being forced to make a trade.”
“Forced? By whom?”
“The governor.”
“D’ye mean t’ tell me the governor himself is forcin’ ye into this?” The idea caused her to chortle in delight. “The high and mighty Marshal Grey, bein’ told t’ fraternize with the lowly. Imagine that.”
Her taunts had enough of a sting behind them to prick his pride, but Jacob refused to allow her the satisfaction of seeing that she’d struck a nerve. When the governor had been told the nature of their investigation and the methods that would have to be employed, the man had decided to extend the offer of a pardon to the McFees due to their unorthodox talents. Jacob had been the first to protest—but protest in vain. He had been requested—no, ordered—to put his personal feelings aside and enlist this woman’s he
lp.
“What kind of trade did ye have in mind, Grey?”
He stood, still keeping her well in the range of his sights. Beside the cot, a crate had been turned on its side and used as a makeshift nightstand. Fiona had topped it with a chipped china plate that was littered with all sorts of feminine frippery: hairpins, a needle, thread, brush, an empty bottle of scent, and a buttonhook. In the midst of it all lay a worn deck of cards.
Jacob collected the cards and extended them toward her. “You used to be a bit of a gambler.”
“As far as I can recollect, such a skill’s not a crime.”
“Then you still play?”
She shrugged. “Now and then.”
“Are you good?”
Her brows lifted with imperious pride. “I’m the best.”
“Show me.”
She took the deck. “What d’ ye want me t’ do?”
“Shuffle, cut the cards, and deal me a winning hand.”
“Are ye an’ the governor thinkin’ of openin’ a gamblin’ hall, then?”
“Just do it.”
She didn’t bother to glance down. Her fingers, long, slender, and dexterous, shuffled, fanned, and cut the cards in a show of skill that would have made a saloonkeeper salivate. She then dealt a round for him and one for her. When Jacob showed his cards, his three of a kind bested her pair.
“Now deal another set that will beat both of us.”
She grinned, flipping the cards onto the blanket. He was concentrating on her technique, trying to see how she would perform such a feat, but even to his discerning scrutiny, she appeared to be dealing fairly from the top of the deck.
“Turn them.”
One by one, she exposed the cards. A royal flush. “How do you do it?”
Her smile was leisurely and infinitely wicked. “I cheat.”
“Has anyone ever caught you?”
“Nay.”
“Do you think anyone ever will?”