Lips That Touch Mine (46 page)

He started. The quicker he played her song,
the sooner he could make her sing:

I once had a lover with gorgeous blond hair, but the
lady was so—

Claire's stocking-clad foot landed on the
piano bench right beside him. Boyd banged to a stop and stared at
her.

"What's the matter?" she asked, standing with
her foot planted on the edge of the bench, her skirt hiked clear to
her naked thigh. "I'm just going to take off my stockings."

The lacy edges of her drawers peeped out at
him. "Let me give you a hand." He smoothed his palms up her shin,
but she gave his knuckles a playful whack.

"Start over at the beginning."

"With your ankle?"

She smiled. "With my song."

He'd rather pull her pretty wedding dress off
her gorgeous body and ravish her, but he dutifully fingered the
keys. "You're a cold woman," he said, his gaze glued to her slender
legs.

She smiled and slipped her delicate fingers
under the white lace edge of her fancy stocking, then slowly slid
it down her long leg. "Start singing, Mr. Grayson."

I once had a lover with gorgeous blond—

She leaned forward and dropped her stocking
in his lap, her cleavage nearly brushing his lips.

But the lady was...um, something

"Ornery," she said, near his ear. "Start
over."

"You're joking."

"Not even a little." She jerked her thumb
toward the keys. "Play my song through without a mistake, and we
can go upstairs."

"Is this some sort of challenge?"

"You teased me earlier with that little piece
of art. It's my turn to tease you with a bit of my own art. Unless
you don't have the nerve to watch."

Laughter burst from him and echoed through
the saloon. "By all means, darling, show me what you've got."

"Start the song."

Now that he knew her game, he was more than
willing to play. He made it through the first verse without a hitch
as she slipped her other stocking off. Then he started the second
verse.

She taunted and teased,

while I begged and...sweet Savior!

Her skirt hit the floor.

but the lady, hum, hum...

and I don't remember a word.

She burst into laughter, her eyes sparkling
with triumph. "'The lady didn't dare, so I called her Cold
Claire'," she said, supplying his missing lyrics.

This lady did dare, and it was shattering his
concentration. He closed his eyes and banged down on the keys,
determined to finish the damned song, then carry his luscious bride
upstairs to bed.

He made it to the third verse when her hand
stroked the inside of his thigh. He slammed his fingers down on the
keys so hard, the sound vibrated the window panes.

She knelt at his side, gazing up at him with
a sultry half-smile that fired his blood. Her petticoats were gone,
and the only thing covering her creamy skin was her lacy drawers
and corset. "Did I distract you, darling?"

God, he loved her sense of humor.

She stroked his thigh again. "I was just
going to ask you to unlace my corset."

How far would she go if he kept making
mistakes?

"I can move away if I'm bothering you."

He brushed his knuckles over the swell of her
breasts. "I like you here."

"Will you unlace me before you start my song
again?"

"Of course, darling. Anything for you." He
freed her from the grip of her corset, then willed himself to put
his hands back on the keys.

"You're not singing," she whispered, nibbling
his earlobe with her sweet lips.

I once had a lover,

She sat back on her heels, gripped the bottom
of her chemise, and pulled it over her head.

with gorgeous—

Breasts. Oh, God.

She moaned and stroked her palms up over her
full bare breasts. "It feels lovely to be free of that corset."

"The hell with this."

Boyd slammed the piano lid and swept her into
his arms. Her laughter rang through the room as he whirled her in a
circle.

He kissed her, loving her, needing her more
than air.

Finally she broke away panting. "Take me to
bed."

"Every night for the rest of our lives," he
said, carrying her toward the stairs. She snagged the open wine
bottle as they passed the billiard table and took a drink.

He grinned. "I can't offer you a castle,
Claire."

"I don't need one."

"The prince may have a bad day slaying
dragons on occasion."

"The princess will have her own dragons to
slay," she said.

His body burned. His heart beat with
happiness. He took her upstairs to their bedroom, eager to love her
and give her pleasure and make her his wife.

Sailor leapt to his feet at the foot of their
bed, and greeted them with a happy bark that made Claire flinch in
Boyd's arms.

Then a tiny, fuzzy-headed kitten popped up
off their pillow, and Claire's mouth and eyes rounded.

"Meet Sergeant," he said. "Your wedding
present, and the newest member of our family."

"Oh, Boyd..."

Boyd knew he would never forget the tender
look in Claire's eyes or her beautiful face illuminated by joy. She
hugged his neck. "Sergeant is darling."

Sailor gave a petulant bark and nudged her
bare side with his cold nose. Claire gasped, then reached down to
pet him. "No need to feel jealous. I have more than enough love for
all of you." She turned her beautiful blue eyes to Boyd and pressed
a tender kiss to his mouth. "Thank you. I'm overflowing with love
and happiness."

So was Boyd, but he was too absorbed in
watching Claire dribble burgundy wine down her ivory cleavage. It
pooled in her navel in a purple pool he wanted to lick dry.

She grinned at him. "Care for a drink, Mr.
Grayson?"

"God, Claire...He kissed her wine-flavored
mouth, her full breasts, then he hefted her up in his arms to kiss
her navel.

She laughed and squirmed away from his
tongue. "That tickles. "

Boyd moved toward the bed, but Sailor wasn't
about to be ignored. The mutt wheezed with such excitement, his
entire rump wagged. The kitten leapt off the pillow and batted his
tiny white paws at Sailor's swinging tail. Sailor nudged the kitten
away with his nose, sending Sergeant tumbling across the fluffy
quilt. Sergeant was tiny but determined and he came back swiping
his paws at Sailor's whipcord tail.

Claire's laughter rang through the bedroom,
and the empty place that had been in Boyd's chest for so long
overflowed with happiness. He'd reclaimed his art. He'd found
love.

He had Sailor and Sergeant—and Claire;
beautiful, loving and courageous Claire with her amazing sense
humor. They were his family, his life, his treasure.

~END~

Preview Duke Grayson’s story

Fredonia, New York

June 1879

The tangy scent of soaps and spices made Duke
sneeze as he entered Brown & Shepherd’s store. His breath
hissed out, and he clapped a hand over his aching shoulder.

Wayne Archer looked up from the package of
medicine he was delivering to the store owner, Agatha Brown. The
stocky apothecary propped his fists on the counter and eyed Duke
with suspicion. “Are you ill, Sheriff?”

“Morning, Archer.” Duke ignored the man’s
question. Archer didn’t care about Duke’s health. He wanted to get
elected sheriff in November. Six men were running for the position
against Duke, who had been the sheriff of Chautauqua County since
he was twenty-three years old. Five of the seven candidates could
handle the position. Duke was one of them. Wayne Archer wasn’t.

Duke stepped away from the soaps and spices
and greeted Agatha Brown, a kind, elderly widow he’d known since he
was a boy.

“You’re too late for licorice sticks,” she
said. “I sold the last one yesterday afternoon to your niece,
Rebecca.”

“That qualifies as a crime, Mrs. Brown.” He’d
been buying or begging licorice sticks from her since he was old
enough to ask for them, and he was still one of her best
customers.

“My next shipment will arrive tomorrow. Will
that keep me out of jail?”

“This time,” he said sternly.

Her laugh lit her eyes and transformed her
somber demeanor into that of a softer, more youthful-looking woman.
Agatha Brown was six years older than Duke’s mother, and could make
some man a good companion, but Duke suspected she would choose to
remain a widow. He’d been a boy when her husband died, and he
barely remembered the man, but Agatha had never forgotten him. She
seemed content to live with his memory and to run their store on
Main Street in the Village of Fredonia.

“What are you looking for?” she asked.

“Something to relieve a headache.” His
nagging shoulder pain was bringing it on, but the last thing he
would do was announce that fact to Archer. Which was why he wasn’t
buying the powder in Archer’s apothecary: Archer would use the
information to sway the voters.

Mrs. Brown pointed to the opposite wall of
the store. “Top shelf on the left.”

“Thank you.” The pine floorboards sounded
hollow beneath his boot heels as he wove his way past a rack of
ready-made clothing. Heavily laden shelves sagged beneath tins of
food, and wooden bins overflowed with everything from shovels and
rakes to bolts of fabric. Brown & Shepherd’s carried anything a
man or woman could need.

But as Duke surveyed the medicines, he felt a
sharp poke in his ribs.

“Grayson.” Archer scowled at him. “For being
a sheriff, you’re sadly unobservant.” He jerked his chin toward a
boy who was examining a lady’s comb and brush set. “That young man
is attempting to fill his pockets.”

The boy took a fancy lady’s brush from the
oak box and slipped it inside his shirt. Duke’s heart sank. He
hated this part of his job. The boy cast a furtive glance at Mrs.
Brown, who was dusting trinkets, then ducked outside.

Duke ignored Archer’s snide look, and quietly
followed the boy. A few paces outside the store, he brought his
hand down on the boy’s thin shoulder. “Hold up, young man.”

The boy yelped and spun to face him. The
movement jerked Duke’s arm and sent a hot spear of pain into his
shoulder socket. Damnation! His shoulder was so torn up he couldn’t
even detain a child.

The skinny, long-limbed youth stared at him,
dark eyes wide with fear as they locked on the silver sheriff’s
badge pinned to Duke’s leather vest.

“I’m Sheriff Grayson,” Duke said. “You didn’t
pay for that hair brush you’re hiding under your shirt.”

The boy’s gaze darted to either side, as if
he were deciding whether or not to run.

“I’d rather not handcuff you, but I will if
you try to run off on me.”

“I’ll put it back,” the boy said, his voice
cracking into a fear-filled falsetto.

“Looks like you could use the brush.”

The boy lowered his eyes and raked bony
fingers through his mop of brown hair. “It’s not for me.”

“Are you stealing it for your girl?”

“I don’t have a girl.”

“For your mother then?”

“No, sir.”

Duke rubbed his aching shoulder, damning the
nagging pain that had made his life miserable for the past
month.

The boy’s Adam’s apple dipped on a nervous
swallow. “Are you taking me to jail?”

Jail wouldn’t teach him anything of value.
“I’m taking you home so I can talk to your father.”

“I don’t have a father.”

No surprise there, Duke thought, but checked
his unfair judgment. “We’ll talk to your mother then.”

“My mother’s dead.” The boy’s voice was so
heavy with grief that Duke’s chest tightened in sympathy.

“How are you getting along without
parents?”

“I’ve got Faith.”

“You’ll need more than faith and those light
fingers to get by, son. Where are you sleeping?”

The boy turned away. “At home.”

Duke gripped the boy’s shoulder and spun him
back around to face him. “I’m sorry about your parents and whatever
troubles you’re having, but when I ask you a question I expect a
straight answer.”

“I gave you one, sir.” The boy pointed toward
Water Street. “I live at the old Colburn place with my older sister
Faith and our aunts. We moved in three weeks ago.”

Duke had heard that somebody bought the mill,
but he hadn’t stopped to officially welcome the owners to town yet.
“Is your sister planning to reopen the grist mill?” he asked,
believing it impossible for a woman to do so.

“No, sir.” The boy squinted as a bright flood
of June sunshine washed across the plank and brick buildings on
Main Street. “She’s a healer. So are my aunts.”

“Healers?”

“Yes, sir. They grow herbs and mix tonics and
salves that help people.”

The warning twinge that tightened Duke’s gut
was as unwelcome as Archer’s earlier probing. He did not need
another problem right now, not with the election coming up, not
while his wretched shoulder was making his life hell.

The boy pulled the hair brush from beneath
his shirt and handed it over. “I’d like to return this. I don’t
want my sister to know what I did.”

His earnest plea moved Duke, but being soft
on the boy wouldn’t serve the young man. “You should have
considered that before you walked out of the store without paying
for it. Come on,” he said, nudging him down Main Street. “Let’s see
if your sister can heal your bent for stealing.”

“Sir, my sister is . . . she’ll . . . I’d
rather go to jail than tell her what I did.”

That was the point in taking the boy home
with the stolen item. Shame would be more effective than fear to
keep him from repeating the act.