Linda Castle (9 page)

Marisa had woken the moment the door closed softly. Growing up in the Territory meant sleeping with one eye open. She had nearly called out, but then something—some instinct—told her the intruder was Brooks.

Her pulse escalated as the dark form crept toward the bed. She could hear the echo of her heartbeat against the feather pillow, and strangely, the thud of her heart seemed to mirror a dull throbbing between her legs.

He moved into the slender shaft of light and she saw his chest, so wide and muscled, then his neck and finally the lower half of his face. She longed to touch his mustache and see if it would tickle the way she thought.

Lord Almighty, she wanted him in her bed.

The realization made her breath catch in the back of her throat. Marisa could no longer hide from the truth or her feelings.

She wanted Brooks to love her.

Brooks stopped only inches from the bed. He touched the curtains at the nearest poster, telling himself to turn around and leave before he woke her up and she screamed like a catamount.

“I am not asleep, Brooks,” she whispered.

And with that admission, Brooks knew he was not leaving.

With a husky moan of submission and lust, he was beside her. His hands were on her before he even knew that was his intention.

“Oh, Marisa.” He inhaled the scent of her hair, touched the soft fleshy mounds of her breasts.

“Why did you come?” she asked.

“How could I not?” He kissed her then. It was a kiss full of savagery and hunger. A kiss that he had denied wanting—a kiss he would never forget.

Her hands were curious and seemed to have a mind of their own. She found the width of his shoulders. His muscles flinched as she explored the feel of him. He was as hard and lean as she had imagined he would be. As she touched him a wave of heat enveloped her.

“God, Marisa—Missy—I have wanted…” His voice trailed off as he nuzzled her neck, nibbled on the ear that had been fascinating him for weeks.

She had never been with a man, but growing up on a ranch left little to the imagination about how they would couple. The persistent throbbing between her legs urged her to explore more of his body, even while a voice in her head warned that she was playing with fire.

“I want you.” Brooks climbed into bed beside her. A part of him knew that what he was doing was wrong. “I should’ve come sooner.”

“What made you come now?” She twisted her fingers in a whorl of his hair, feeling the soft tickle of the hair upon his chest against her body as he moved nearer.

“Tomorrow I’ll get our tickets,” he said while he kissed her throat, feeling her pulse beneath his lips.

“Tickets? For what?”

“So we can go back—to the Territory—just you and me.”

She became still as death. Her body seemed to grow cold as his hands came to rest on her tiny waist.

“Missy? What is it?” He raised himself on one elbow and looked at her shadowy face.

“You just naturally assume that you can come in here, climb in my bed and start making decisions for me.” There was anger in her voice.

“We don’t belong here, neither one of us. Let’s go back where we belong.”

“What about Violet Ashland?” She sat up.

Moonlight accentuated her full round breasts.

“What about your fiancee, Brooks? What will you do about her if we tuck our tails between our legs and run back to the Circle B like a couple of thieves in the night?”

Now it was Brooks’s turn to grow cold. He felt his
desire wither. For some foolish reason he had thought—hoped—that Marisa did not know about Violet.

He was wrong.

His voice was as brittle as his control. “Where have you heard about Violet?”

“The lady herself says you are going to be married.” The throbbing longing she had felt for him chilled in her veins. “And I don’t hear you telling me that she was wrong. I saw the ring.”

Silence hung between them for half a heartbeat. Brooks was torn. Should he tell Marisa that he had once loved Violet—had given her a ring and his heart, and had been crushed when she threw him over for bigger game? How could he explain that he had been entranced by her cool beauty, by what he had thought was a
lady?

“I think you had better leave,” Marisa said softly as she drew the sheet up to cover herself. “I may not be a lady but I won’t be any man’s fancy woman.”

Brooks glared at her in the half-light for a few minutes, and then he turned and left. He had to do something about Violet Ashland’s lies, and then, by God, he was going to set Miss Marisa O’Bannion straight on a number of home truths.

The next two weeks passed slowly for Brooks. He had tried to quell the rumors of marriage to Violet that were spreading like wildfire through his mother’s social circle, but it was not easy—not when Violet flitted around, showing off that damn ring. Why hadn’t he taken it back when she ended it?

Violet Ashland had done her work well.

But why?

Surely she did not believe he would forgive her and want her back?

Of course she would.

Violet Ashland was just that spoiled and just that simple. It would never occur to the beautiful, cold-hearted bitch that any man, much less Brooks James, who had been so besotted with her, could or would ever turn down the offer of her company. And even though she knew he no longer had any regard for her, she would not be above using his family’s business interests and partnerships as blackmail to accomplish what she wanted. His mother would be mortified by such a scandal. And Violet knew it.

Bitch!

He took a drink of whiskey and then threw the glass as hard as he could. It hit his mother’s favorite wallpaper, staining one pink rose a dirty brown with the last of the whiskey. Shards of glass peppered the tile floor. Within seconds he heard the rapid staccato of Tilly’s feet.

“Oh, sir. What has happened?” Tilly’s eyes were wide.

“Sorry, Tilly,” Brooks muttered.

“No problem, sir. I’ll get a pan and broom.”

“Just bring them to me, Tilly. I made the mess—I’ll clean it up.”

She stared at him for a protracted minute, then she bobbed her head and hurried off.

I made the mess—I’ll clean it up.

His words echoed in his head. He was the only person who could get Violet and her lies under control. He flopped down on the settee and dragged his fingers through his hair. It would be a damn sight easier if he didn’t see Missy everywhere he went.

Missy at the park with Cyril. Missy at DelMonico’s with Cyril. Missy and Cyril or Missy and any number of young swains that now squired her around the city. It galled him every time he saw her but it galled him even
more because he had not ever managed to speak to her, and as far as he knew she had never even known he was there.

He was miserable. And he was getting mad.

B
rooks tiptoed down the stairs, careful to avoid the third rung, which had squeaked since before he started to shave. He breathed a sigh of relief when his boots touched the parquet floor in the foyer. The first pink-and-gray fingers of dawn showed through the transom, the light tracing a jagged line across the toe of his boot.

“Sneaking out, brother?” Rod’s voice caused the hair on Brooks’s nape to prickle.

Brooks turned to find Rod, fully clothed, watching him over the rim of a steaming cup of coffee. Brooks wondered why he had not smelled the aroma. In the back of his mind he could almost hear Clell’s derisive comment about his lack of awareness—how if Rod had been an ‘unfriendly,’ Brooks would be in a world of hurt.

Brooks shook his head at the thought and glared at his brother, but Rod only sipped at the hot brew.

“You know, Brooks, you used to do this the other way around—sneaking in before dawn, instead of out.” Rod’s voice was spiced with dry amusement.

“Shh…” Brooks crept toward his annoying brother, his irritation growing with every step. “Keep quiet, you’ll
wake the entire house.” His voice was a husky rasp, accompanied by a vicious slice of his hand through the air.

“Hmm…I wonder which one of this household you do not want to wake, and why?” Rod leaned against the doorjamb of the dining room.

Brooks would liked to have had a cup of the coffee that now seemed to fill the whole house with its aroma, but he didn’t have time. “I am on my way out,” he whispered harshly.

“That, I think, is rather obvious. The mystery is where are you going at this early hour? And who are you going to see?” Rod’s brows arched over his brown eyes. Rod could be as tenacious as a terrier with a soup bone when he wanted to be. “An assignation, perhaps? A clandestine meeting with a woman?”

Brooks yanked his watch from his vest pocket and looked at the face. He had no time to spar verbally right now.

“Just out,” he snapped. “Do I need your approval?”

“How about a cup of coffee? I can rouse Tilly. She’d be glad to fix some eggs and we could talk over breakfast—”

“Enough of this!” Brooks cut him off. “I can see I’ll have no peace until you know my business. I am on my way to the gentlemen’s club.”

Rod nearly choked on a mouthful of coffee. “Indeed? The club? But the only pursuit that starts this early in those hallowed halls is boxing…” He grinned. “Wait a minute, I’ll throw on a coat and come with you.”

“I don’t have time for this inquisition,” Brooks snapped. “And I don’t have time to wait for you to finish your coffee and grab a coat.” The last thing he wanted was Rod coming along. He glanced back over his shoulder. “And don’t you dare mention this—to anyone.”

Rod held one palm up as if taking a solemn oath. “I assure you, brother, I will be the very soul of discretion.” An expression of feigned innocence swept across Rod’s face and left Brooks feeling as if someone had just walked on his grave.

Tilly opened the shades, allowing brilliant morning light to flood the bedroom. Patricia yawned and stretched.

“Is Miss O’Bannion still asleep?” Patricia rose and pulled on her yellow silk wrapper.

“Yes, ma’am, I peeked in and she was sleeping sound as a babe,” Tilly answered.

“Good, she needed it. Poor dear. What time is it, Tilly?” Patricia yawned again as she pulled the silver-backed brush through her long white hair.

“It is just now eight, ma’am. Will you be wanting your tray up here?”

“No, not today. I’ll be down directly. Please wake Miss O’Bannion, then tell Cook I am ready for breakfast.”

Tilly quietly shut the door behind her.

Patricia washed her face at the basin, then patted it dry. She had not slept well. Memories of her conversation with Brooks had kept her awake. She stared at her features in the looking glass and tried to make sense of what he had said.

Mother, I want you to ignore everything you hear about me and Violet Ashland. I can’t explain now, but I promise that I will—soon.

She sighed and forced herself to focus on her ablutions. When she opened her door she heard the long clock downstairs chime the half hour. She was on the second-floor landing when Marisa appeared, dressed in a mint green print frock. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, as
if she had not slept. Her hair was pulled back with a simple ribbon, and wisps curled about her neckline.

“Morning, ma’am,” Marisa said.

“Good morning. Did you rest?”

“Yes—no. I must’ve been more tired than I thought.”

Patricia studied Marisa’s face in silence. She decided that Marisa must have slept badly because she was worried about Ellen. “Would you join me for breakfast in the dining room?” Now that Patricia had spent some time with Marisa, she was growing very attached. Marisa was a breath of fresh air, guileless and unaffected, and amazingly good company. For the first time Patricia realized how much she missed having her daughters at home.

She slipped her arm around Marisa’s waist and went into the dining room where she took a seat. The sound of the front door being opened caught her attention shortly afterward, and she swiveled in her chair.

Marisa found her curious gaze following Patricia’s line of vision. She nearly choked on her coffee when Brooks appeared.

“Brooks?” Patricia smiled. “What a surprise. I thought you were still in your room. Come have coffee with us.”

Brooks glanced at Marisa and she felt his anger—or was it disapproval? “No, I…”

“Brooks.” Patricia used a motherly tone that made Marisa sit up a little straighter.

“All right, Mother. One cup.” Brooks walked into the dining room and sat down at the table. He kept his eyes averted, as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at Marisa.

A cold finger traced a line down her back and she fidgeted in her chair.

“What have you been up to so early?” Patricia poured coffee from the silver pot and cast a speculative gaze at
her son. She put the pot back and turned her full attention on him.

“Nothing much.” Brooks reached for the cup and Patricia grabbed his hand.

“What on earth have you done to your knuckles?”

Marisa found herself looking up against her will. The raw flesh of Brooks’s barked and skinned knuckles met her eye.

Patricia fastened a tight-lipped gaze on her son, but he gently tugged his hand free and picked up his cup.

The room became oppressive with the silence that hung over the trio. Just when Marisa thought she would scream from the unspoken strain in the room, Tilly entered.

“Mr. Cyril Dover has come to see Miss Marisa.”

“Cyril is here? He came here?” Brooks practically choked on the words. “The man has more damn brass than I gave him credit for,” he muttered. “I never would’ve thought he’d show his face—especially not
this
morning.”

“What?” Patricia frowned at her son. “Whatever are you talking about? I think Cyril is smitten with Marisa and I applaud his good sense.”

Brooks stared at his mother with his jaw slack. He clanked his cup into the delicate saucer with so much force, Marisa was sure it would crack. Then, he turned to the maid. “Tell him to wait,” he snapped.

“Yes, sir.” Tilly’s eyes were wide.

“Thank you, Tilly, that will be all,” Patricia said evenly. When the maid was gone she turned to her son. “Brooks, I don’t know what’s gotten into you but I will not tolerate you abusing my staff.”

“Abusing?” He shoved back his chair and stood up. “I didn’t say an abusive word!”

“You didn’t have to, with a face as dark as a thundercloud.
Now I am going upstairs to change for my meeting with the hospital charity committee. I want you to apologize to poor Tilly.” Patricia rose from her chair with all the dignity of a duchess. “I’ll see you later, Marisa.”

As soon as Patricia stepped into the foyer, where she could be heard speaking to Cyril, Brooks turned to glare at Marisa.

“What in the hell is
he
doing here?”

“Don’t use that
tone
with me!” Marisa hissed.

“Oh, so now I am using a
tone.
” Brooks inhaled two long breaths, then began again in a low, controlled voice. “Please tell me why Cyril Dover is here?”

“No.” Marisa tilted her chin upward in a gesture of open defiance. “I don’t have to answer you.”

“Well, you are damn well going to.” In the blink of an eye he was out of his chair and around the table. He hauled Marisa to her feet and glared into her face. “What are you doing?”

“I am keeping company with a
gentleman.
One who is not engaged to another woman.”

Brooks flinched as if she had slapped him. The tight grip he had on her shoulders eased and he stared into her eyes. She thought he was going to walk away, but without warning he captured her mouth with his.

Every bone in her body turned to hot butter. She sagged against his chest while the heady power of his kiss took her will. The world disappeared. Marisa could no longer hear Patricia and Cyril in conversation. She could no longer smell the coffee, or hear the birds singing in the garden.

Her entire being was centered on Brooks’s hot, possessive mouth as he invaded her, claimed and branded her with that kiss.

Then suddenly he released her and took one step away,
while she sank into the chair. “Take that with you while you are out with Cyril Dover.” And then he stalked out the French doors and disappeared into the garden.

Brooks paced the grounds while he tried to get his temper under control. He didn’t know what had gotten into him. Sneaking into Marisa’s bedroom was bad enough, but kissing her in his mother’s dining room—good God, he was going to pieces.

He raked his hand through his still-damp hair. He heard Marisa’s clear, sweet laughter and his gut twisted like a sidewinder.

He sat down on the stone bench near the flowery arbor. He looked at his knuckles with a certain amount of satisfaction. Marisa clearly wondered how he had barked his hand—he could see it in her eyes as she had stared at him.

What would she say if he told her that he had done it on Cyril’s too-handsome face?

He swallowed hard. In the back of his mind he could hear Clell’s laughter. Yep, he had it bad. As much as he wanted to deny it, he was in love.

He was in love with Missy O’Bannion.

An hour later Marisa bent her knees and dipped low enough to see her reflection in the gilt mirror in the foyer. Ellen and Miss Baldwin, the dressmaker, had instructed her on which frock to wear with each bonnet and set of gloves, but she was never sure the jaunty angle where the bow rested against her jaw was quite right. She untied it and retied it once again in a different position.

“You look lovely,” Cyril said from his position against the wall of the foyer. “I will be the envy of all the men in the park.”

“Yes, Miss O’Bannion, you do look especially
lovely.” Brooks’s voice made her start. She turned to find him watching her from the dining room. His eyes were like blue fire and the expression she saw in them made her shiver.

Marisa tilted her head to look at her escort. Light spilled through the arched transom and onto the parquet floor where Cyril stood. Tiny dust motes floated around the starched crease of his navy trousers and onto the white leather gaiters above his shoes. He was impeccably dressed, as usual, but there was something different about him. Marisa studied him carefully from under her bonnet There was a certain familiar sootiness to the skin around his left eye…

“Cyril, you’ve got a shiner!” Marisa blurted out. Then she clamped her gloved hand over her mouth, but it was too late.

Brooks sauntered into the foyer and smiled at Cyril. “Why Cyril, you do have a mouse beneath your eye. What have you been up to?”

Cyril stared at Brooks with an arched brow. When it was evident he had no intention of answering, Marisa turned and walked out to the waiting carriage.

The carriage rolled along a lane canopied by horse chestnut trees. The beautiful pinkish blossoms hung like ripe grapes overhead. Marisa sat on Cyril’s left side, while Brooks sat alone in the opposite seat. She had her hands folded in her lap, trying to ignore his constant scrutiny.

“I don’t know why
you
had to come along,” Marisa said to Brooks. She glanced at Cyril from under the brim of her bonnet. His swollen eye was beginning to take on rainbow hues. She was not fooled by his lie about running into a door.
They
had been up to something together—Brooks’s knuckles and Cyril’s eye were somehow connected, and she wondered if it had been literally.

“I feel responsible for you, for your reputation,” Brooks replied. “Cyril, I hope your, uh, accident running into that door does not give you too much discomfort.”

Cyril smiled broadly. “Not a bit of it. And this eye was not enough to keep me from visiting Marisa.”

A look passed between them, and if Marisa had been betting, she would have laid even odds that it was a silent challenge. She wondered what in blazes was going on.

“What would it take to keep you away, I wonder?” Brooks flexed his fingers, drawing Marisa’s attention to his skinned knuckles.

“It might be interesting for us to find out,” Cyril said happily.

Marisa frowned at both of them. As she sat there watching them she suddenly felt like a tattered old piece of leather being stretched between a couple of squabbling coyotes.

“Marisa?” Cyril’s voice interrupted her woolgathering.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” she murmured.

Cyril grasped her hand. Even through her thin lace gloves she could feel the smooth flesh of his palm. A man should have wide rough hands, callused hands. Strong hands a woman could trust to keep her safe. The kind of hands that had pulled her out of her chair this morning.

She found her gaze going beyond Cyril to Brooks. His expression was darker than Hades and his eyes blazed with…
jealousy?

The word popped into her head, but she discounted it. No, Brooks was not jealous. He liked to tease and belittle her and he liked to play with her emotions by kissing her until she lost all her good sense, but he didn’t care enough about her to be jealous.