Authors: Kate Rothwell

Somebody Wonderful (4 page)

BOOK: Somebody Wonderful

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Chapter 2

The train heading to Chicago boasted a first-class Pullman Palace car adorned in bright blue velvet with heavy, carved mahogany furnishings. Two men sat at a table in the overheated compartment. Both smoked cigars, both were dressed in quiet, expensively tailored tweed suits.

Mr. Blenheim, the taller of the two, felt it his duty to read aloud notes to old Sir Kenneth, a short, stout Englishman. Blenheim ignored his employer’s inattention and read in his strong tenor voice, with an accent and inflection that had been nurtured at Eton and Cambridge.

He ended with, “And so I can only conclude The Westland mining contract is in good hands. Mr. Calverson hired a most respectable individual.”

“Eh? Westland? Useless property that. Waste of time.”

Blenheim did not bother to reply. Under the best of cicumstances, Sir Kenneth didn’t listen to the notes of any non-paleontological meeting. And just now, the old man had the light of potential discovery in his eyes. Traveling to the next dinosaur dig, he was lost to anything that lived or breathed less than 65 million years ago.

Still, Blenheim needed to know the answer to another question, even if it meant reaching forward and physically shaking the old bustard. “Sir Kenneth, I was wondering—when will Miss Timona be rejoining us?”

“Eh? Hand me that pencil, Blenheim.”

“Miss Timona, sir.”

“Miss . . . Oh. Last I saw her, she was going out to plan more photographs of buildings. She made some fine pictures of the last dig. Fine shots. Must say, she keeps stopping and hauling all that cumbersome equipment out. Damn nuisance. It’s become her obsession.”

No more than you have for lizards
, Blenheim thought, but did not say. He leaned back in the plush seat to pull his gold watch out of his waistcoat pocket. A few more hours to Cleveland.

Blenheim thought about the woman he privately referred to as his beloved. Miss Timona was damnably independent, but surely she was responsible enough not to allow Sir Kenneth out of New York alone.

Blenheim had been taken aback when he found the old man on his own.

Sir Kenneth at a dig, no one need worry. Sir Kenneth wandering one of his properties, again, not a problem. Only when he traveled did Sir Kenneth constitute a hazard to himself and mankind.

Blenheim smoothed back his already smooth blond hair as he pictured his reunion with the delectable Timona. It would be a touching scene, yes, but somewhat fraught with delicate difficulties. He would have to gently remind Miss Timona that he, Blenheim, could not be in two places at once. She knew he had to meet with the agents in Pennsylvania concerning her family’s affairs. He was not yet on familiar enough terms with her to berate her, but the gentle reminder should be enough. She would blush and laugh and perhaps make a pretty apology for not being on the train with her father.

And she would mention her photography only after she had listened to his account of his travels in America and after she asked a few intelligent questions about company business.

He would not worry about Miss Timona. Yet.

But what if she grew as impossibly single-minded as the old buffoon for whom he worked?

Blenheim admired her form and pretty, gamine face. He respected her lively intelligence. He adored her vast quantities of money. His own fair good looks and her darker beauty would, he hoped, combine to make attractive little Blenheims someday.

Yet there was only so much eccentricity a man could tolerate. Was it possible that as she grew older she would be more like the old man in front of him? He closed his eyes. Dreadful thought.

“Porter. Whisky and soda at once.”

The deferential porter rushed to obey. Only the whisky, and the thought that Timona might become more like Griffin, her decidedly clearheaded older brother, kept Blenheim cheerful.

Mick was having a wonderful dream. A lovely, soft woman floated in his arms. This was the kind of dream he did not want to wake from.

He woke up. A lovely, soft woman was in his arms.

She faced away from him and a vaguely familiar scent filled his nose. Maybe the scent lingered from a dream he’d forgotten, a haunting recollection of the country, a sunny meadow.

No. The fragrance came from the woman’s hair and skin. Half awake, he leaned forward into the sea of dark hair and sniffed.
A Dhia
, this put sweet clover to shame. He’d never drunk in anything as simply wonderful in his life.

Jesus.

Miss Whatever-her-name. Started with a “Cal.” He instantly inched away from her. But she moved right along with him. Her sweetly rounded rear end wiggled against him and she murmured a happy, sleepy noise. Saints, no wonder he was having one of those dreams when her bottom rubbed against him like that.

Daisy would skin him alive.

But then again, he argued with himself and the absent Daisy, a man did have needs. Daisy was a good girl and had made it very clear that she would submit to a man only if his ring was on her finger.

Daisy had also made it clear that what she didn’t know about would not harm her. She said as much in the park one day, when he tried to give her a kiss. She added something like men have needs virtuous women didn’t even know about.

It wasn’t entirely nonsense, he decided as he breathed in the little prostitute’s fragrance. He definitely had needs.

He’d test her a bit. If she jumped, acted skittish, he’d know she wasn’t ready to take on more men yet. He’d stop, right away. He hoped.

Of course he would stop. No point in patching up creatures if you only injured them yourself.

Some of her hair lay across her face, so he carefully pushed the strands back. The hair was as silky as he recalled from the night before. He leaned over her and pressed his face close to hers. Not quite a kiss, but he hovered close, nearly touching, breathing in her sweet meadow scent.

Mick had shared his bed with other people; at home he’d awakened with one of his younger brothers more often than not. But never in his life had he slept the night through with a woman in his bed.

Beyond his hunger for her, he was enchanted by the cozy warmth of her and sight of the flushed, vulnerable face asleep in the gray dawn light.

Then she opened her eyes and smiled. No shock, no backing away. A large smile. Just like the small one he’d seen the night before, but with gleaming white teeth added to the knowing look. He felt a trifle let down. He didn’t want her to act entirely shy and foolish, but somehow, he wished she didn’t look so sly.

“Good morning, Mr. McCann,” she whispered and twisted towards him. “Are you about to kiss me? I should like that.”

Not what you’d call a worldly remark, he reflected. He leaned forward and obliged her. Did prostitutes kiss? This one didn’t even seem to know how. Her mouth was too tight, lips all stiffly puckered.

“Come on now,” he whispered. “Don’t give me a smack like you do your da.” He glided a finger over her lips to smooth them. “Soften them, like so.”

He leaned towards her again, and she seemed to have learned the lesson remarkably quickly. Her mouth was velvet and succulent. A few minutes later, when he slipped his tongue between her lips, she opened for him. And pushed her whole body towards him.

“Ah, much better, much,” he murmured. He reclaimed her clean-tasting, sleep-warmed mouth as he ran his hands over some of the best curves it had been his privilege to touch. Her skin matched her scent: delicate, rare. And ster than anything he’d imagined. His own body shouted in silent, yearning joy, more than ready for a good, long drink of woman after a drought.

His head pounded with blood—since the moment he’d first caught the scent of her, he’d felt as if he’d suddenly begun to produce far too much blood.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “I want you something fierce.”

“Jaysus,” she imitated softly.

They whispered as if a third person lay in the room. Someone they must not disturb. Daisy, perhaps.

Mick felt another twinge of guilt. He’d only met Daisy a month ago, but already had vague ideas of a future with her.

Miss Cal-whatever whispered hesitantly, “Yes. It is quite all right. I mean, this is different, isn’t it. This is not at all the same as yesterday. Um. So it would be a good thing to do, wouldn’t it?”

“Oh, no, no.” He felt as if his heart would break. He’d grown too cynical. Despite the too-sly smile, despite her sins, she was a fellow human and perhaps as lonely as he often felt.

“No, no? As in you don’t want to now?”

He grinned at her. “No, no. As in this must be different from those men or I will shoot meself.”

Her face emptied of all smile and she suddenly looked blank, almost afraid. “Jaysus,” she whispered. “You have the loveliest smile I have ever seen in my life, Michael McCann.”

His was gripped by another qualm at her words. And she seemed too intent as she examined him. He could feel her warm breath coming fast on his face, as if she panted. How those mossy green eyes stared at him. He couldn’t make out their odd color in the pale dawn, but he could see they were serious. Would she somehow latch on to him after they made love?

It was one thing to adopt a kitten. But this one would require more than an occasional bit of fish. He had to smile at the ridiculous thought of this woman hanging around his door. For one, she was too cool a customer. She obviously took care of herself, as well as a harebrained old father.

Calverson. That was her name.

Her accent was not like the working-class English he’d met in New York. Her scent, her looks were so alien to him—the thought struck him that she might come from money. But she was far too worldly to be a pampered rich girl. Likely she worked at one of the better bordellos, and had been taught to speak like a lady.

Then she chased away all thought when she lowered her thick dark lashes over the greeny eyes and leaned towards him, with her lips slightly parted. Maybe some other man could say no to that invitation. Mick would sprout wings and fly first. He pushed his mouth on to hers, and slipped his hands up under the shirt she wore. Oh, Lord. Her breasts were warm and fuller than he expected. He gently rubbed the pads of his thumbs across their tips. The soft noise she made between a sigh and groan could have come from his own throat the way it yanked at him.

He pulled her against him. She wedged her leg, still clad in the filthy britches, over his hip, and he hummed his approval as he slid his hand over her leg to her behind. With both hands he cupped the sweet curves of her bottom and pressed against her, hard, rhythmically. She gasped, a soft moan that might have been pleasure.

Or surprise, or dismay.

Gentle. He fought the urgent drive to shove down her britches, and shove into her as soon as humanly possible.

One last try at sanity. He’d come up for air. And introduce the invisible person haunting the room.

Artificially, of course, but he didn’t know how else to do it. He said, surprised at the huskiness of his voice, “You are so pretty. Just as pretty as Daisy.”

She reacted as he thought she might. She pulled away.

He had to suck a deep breath and remind himself not to go after the tantalizing body that now lay several inches away.

“Daisy. Oh. And she is?”

“Daisy Graves. A girl I know. I’m seeing her this afternoon.”

“Are you, are you engaged to her?” He heard caution in her voice and knew he was right to mention Daisy. The woman, despite her fallen state, did have some thought of him beyond a good, friendly bout of sex.

“Not exactly. But there is an understanding, I think.”

“That you are engaged?”

“Something like.” Not really, but perhaps eventually.

She lightly kissed his cheek, a more pleasant reaction than he might expect. But, oh, blast, perhaps a dismissal. “Will you tell her anything about this?” she asked.

He almost laughed at the idea. “She would not want to know. If you understand me.”

“No. I don’t think I do, Mr. McCann.” She did not sound offended, but actually confused.

Hell. He wasn’t certain he understood either. And this woman’s warm self so close meant he was having trouble breathing properly, let alone thinking. But he’d try. “A man has needs.”

“But what about Daisy Graves?”

“She would not have the same needs.”

Miss Calverson shook her head, her loose hair shushed softly against the pillow. “Maybe not yet, she doesn’t. She will. I did not think I had those particular needs either.”

“What changed?”

“I met you,” she said, casual as can be.

Uh-oh. What the hell did that mean? Mick, even in a full blown, painful state of desire, understood he truly had to pull back.

He would remind her about the line. That would be enough to make her either feel ashamed or see red fury.

BOOK: Somebody Wonderful

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