Lawman (15 page)

It also cast more light than she wanted on
her own behavior.

This went beyond mere strategizing, Megan
realized with chagrin. She sat only two gestures short of propping
her chin in her hand and sighing over the man like a girl just out
of short skirts! What was the matter with her, mooning over the
appearance of an uncompromising, icicle-hearted lawman like agent
Winter?

Really she wanted to speak to him, Megan
told herself. Maybe she'd even gloat a little longer over her
success at keeping her father's whereabouts hidden. But almost
against her will, the caressing path he made on his cup captured
her attention instead...and held it transfixed.

Given the striking contrast between
Gabriel's big, blunt-fingered hand and the fragile teacup, she
should have expected him to break it. Especially in his thunderous
state of mind. But it only took another slow circuit of his fingers
to convince her he would not.

Surely a touch as gentle as his could never
bring the danger she expected.

Like he had in the office at Kearney station
when touching the books and lamps and furnishings arrayed there,
Gabriel seemed to absorb the essence of the cup in his hand. His
innate curiosity piqued hers. It made her yearn to experience
everything as deeply as he seemed to, to gather up life by
handfuls. To
know
, as closely and deeply as her fingers and
feelings and mind would allow.

Suddenly, the spinster's life she'd resigned
herself to seemed painfully empty. Wrung of its vibrancy, it lacked
texture and awareness and warmth, all things she hadn't known she
needed.

Until now.

As though the sensations that touched
Gabriel could affect her as well, Megan imagined the feel of his
cup's smooth porcelain surface in her hand. She imagined the press
of her fingertips against its unyielding delicacy, savored the
warmth of the brew inside. She inhaled as though experiencing the
tang of the tea's aroma, licked her lips as though tasting its
subtle green flavor.

Her mouth actually watered, so real did the
sensations seem. When Gabriel lifted the cup to his lips, she
sensed his anticipation of the goodness to come...and when he
drank, she felt the hot slide of his mouth as though it truly had
covered her own.

She shivered. Sweet heaven, what was
happening to her?

Gabriel noticed. He paused with his cup in
mid-descent, and settled his dark gaze on her. "Cold?"

Mutely, she shook her head. Had her
dressmaker's shop deed depended on it, Megan couldn't have
described the emotions racing through her. Excitement jumbled with
terror would almost suffice, but for the sense of heady discovery
she felt, too. Was this what her mother had experienced, on the
long-ago day when she'd left them for good?

If it was, for the first time, Megan could
almost begin to understand. How did a person begin to fight
emotions like these? Her thoughts were all atangle, and her stomach
pitched with excitement far too strong to simply ignore. All she
knew for sure was that cold had nothing to do with the way she'd
shivered just now.

"No, I'm not cold," she croaked, fighting to
show him a lighthearted smile. "My sense of impending victory is
keeping me warm as toast."

"Touché." Gabriel raised his cup in a
mocking salute, then smiled over its rim as he drank again.

She looked away. The last thing she wanted
was to find herself bewitched anew, fascinated by the pucker of his
lips as he prepared to sip, or charmed by the obvious pleasure he
took in tasting. The last thing she needed was another flight of
fancy, or the study of his fingers, his touch, his sensitivities
that went with it.

Drat! He'd done it to her again, Megan
realized. Without even drawing her gaze to his, Gabriel had somehow
kept her attention as fully as if he had.

She balled her fists in her lap, filled with
frustration and no small measure of confusion. The effect he had on
her was almost enough to make her wish Gabriel would come up with
it straight, and steal another kiss outright.

Like he had back at their hotel room.

Lord, you taste sweet
, he'd said
between one kiss and the next.
So sweet
. And she'd believed
him, too. Now, remembrance of his whispered words made her shiver
still harder.

His cup clattered into its saucer. "You are
cold."

Baldly said, his words somehow managed to
convey caring and exasperation, all in the same breath. Gabriel
half-rose in his seat and shrugged out of his suit coat, then
leaned over her chair to spread its protection over her
shoulders.

Too surprised at his kindness to move, Megan
let him tuck his coat around her. Wide-eyed, she watched as his
face, slightly roughened with a half-day's growth of beard, neared
hers. His chest loomed in her vision, bringing with it an
intriguing mixture of scents...leather and sharp creosote, castile
soap and warm skin. Now clad above the waist in only his fine white
broadcloth shirt, vest, and necktie, Gabriel suddenly seemed
infinitely kinder. Impossibly intimate.

And far less threatening than she figured an
avowed enemy ought to seem. In amazement, Megan felt his hands move
gently over and around her, smoothing his expensive navy wool coat
over her shoulders and then following the line of its empty sleeves
down the length of her arms.

Her thanks whispered from her on a shaky
breath. She caught herself staring agog at Gabriel as he seated
himself opposite her again, and realized she must look exactly like
the witless female so many of her stage station customers first
assumed her to be. Surely she was stronger than this!

He's your enemy, Megan reminded herself.
There is too much at stake to let your common sense go
wandering.

As though he'd somehow read her thoughts,
Gabriel's mouth quirked upward. "You're welcome."

The cad. He'd probably planned to rattle her
like this, all along. She had to do something to regain the upper
hand.

"My goodness, agent Winter. You
are
a
fine loser. And here I'd thought you were still brooding over Hop
Kee," she said. She gave a mock-sympathetic cluck of her tongue. "I
could have told you he wouldn't betray my father. Especially not to
a stranger."

"It's not a betrayal to tell the truth." His
gaze pinned her, overly bright and filled with all the
determination of a born brawler. "And Kee doesn't know I'm a
stranger."

"Pshaw. It sticks out on you like rusty pins
on a dress pattern. Anyone can see you don't belong here."

"Not if you don't help clear their vision
for them. Your hints about my occupation couldn't have been any
bolder."

"Nor could the lies you told to hide
it."

Not that he seemed so very bothered by the
fact, Megan thought. Woo her, indeed! Did he think she was
simple-minded? No man but Gabriel had ever called her desirable,
and he was the last person whose opinion she'd believe in.

Across from her, Gabriel finished his tea in
one long swallow, then sat back in his chair with the watchfulness
he seemed to have been born with. It was unnerving to have such
concentrated attention focused all on her.

"I'm many things, Miss Megan," he said, "but
a liar isn't one of them."

His slow smile suggested a good many of
those things he claimed were sinful in nature—or at the least, too
wicked to be discussed in mixed company. Against all reason,
curiosity rose inside her, hot and strong. What secrets had lent
him that edge of danger he carried?

Whatever they were, they were no concern of
hers, she reminded herself staunchly. Once she'd cleared her
father's name, gotten back the money to buy the Webster's
mercantile building for her own, and started in on her wondrous new
life, Gabriel Winter would be nothing but a memory.

"If you were a liar, you wouldn't be likely
to honestly admit it," she pointed out. "So I don't see how I can
ever believe you."

"Perhaps you can't."

"Of course I can't."

But she wanted to
, Megan realized
with a start. She wanted to believe him, wanted an excuse not to
think the worst of agent Winter and his misguided investigation
into her father's life. If she weren't careful, next she'd find
herself utterly chased from the path she'd laid for herself—no
father, no dressmaker's shop, no refuge meant to keep her safe.

No dreams.

"You're wasting your breath to even discuss
my believing in you," she went on. "I would be a fool if I did. You
told me so yourself."

"Did I?" His lips twisted. With an
expression too weary for the few years he must claim, Gabriel said,
"I must have mistaken that starry-eyed faith of yours for the
damned miracle you think it is."

In confusion, Megan stared at him. Was the
Pinkerton man asking her to believe in him? There was no way she
could, not as long as he insisted on claiming her father's
guilt—and with no proof to put behind it, either.

At least none that he would agree to show
her.

Still, her heart had softened, enough that
she recognized the wanting in his voice. And her understanding of
him had strengthened, powerfully enough that Megan acted on the
impulse she felt to soothe him.

Boldly, she reached her hand across the
table toward Gabriel. Keeping her palm up, she lay her hand atop
the tablecloth and crooked her fingers in invitation, asking him
without words to put his hand in hers.

Only his eyebrows moved in response. Their
derisive tilt could hardly be called encouraging.

She did her best to talk straight through
that dratted cynicism of his, all the same. After all, that was
what she'd come here to do in the first place. Megan Kearney didn't
quit—not even when faced with a dog-stubborn, double-dipped,
suspicious rascal like Gabriel Winter.

"The miracle you want is there for the
taking," she said. "All you have to do is reach for it. It's just
like turning your face to the sunlight, or listening to a cactus
wren sing. It's just like touching somebody. Like touching me."

All she wanted was for him to see things the
way she did. To accept that the inexplicable did exist, and his
Pinkerton bosses might have been wrong in sending him here to hunt
down her father. All she wanted was a single touch, a single reason
to believe he might not be as cold-hearted as he seemed.

All she intended was to show him what she'd
brought him here to see, and to set the stage for doing it
properly.

Megan reached her hand further, wiggling her
fingers in invitation. "It's all right," she urged. "It won't hurt
you to touch me, you know. You're certainly not made of spun sugar,
to melt away if I hold you too tight."

His gaze lifted, velvety and blue as a sky
after sunset. Something powerful moved within its depths, something
needful and aching. What had she done, what had she said, to bring
about such intensity as that?

Megan searched her memory, and recalled
nothing. All the same, his lingering look persisted, filled with a
meaning she couldn't decipher. She could have lost herself in
Gabriel's eyes, could have held his gaze forever...if not for
knowing she had other goals to accomplish, and far too little time
to achieve them with.

Why wouldn't he take her hand?

"I haven't any shackles hidden away in my
pockets," she teased, lowering her voice still further. "Any
seamstress worth her salt knows they're not in fashion this
year."

His husky laughter brought a smile to her
face as well. He seemed a different man when he smiled, a gentler
man.

"Then I'm hopelessly outmoded," Gabriel
said. "I never leave home without mine."

Wonderful
, a part of her jibed. He'd
be forever ready to lock up her father in irons and take him
away.

"I'd say a man so well-fortified has no
reason to fear holding my poor tired hand." Megan waggled her
fingers in blatant appeal. "Wouldn't you agree?"

He stared as though she'd lost her mind, to
be baiting him so. Maybe she had. But once committed to a course of
action, she decided she could hardly turn back.

If a simple human touch couldn't reach him,
then perhaps social logic could.

"You're making a public spectacle of me,
I'll have you know." It was only as she said it that she realized
how prophetic her words might be, and her heart sank at the
thought. Nevertheless, she plunged onward: "By morning, the gossips
will be all aflutter with tales of how poor Megan Kearney threw
herself at a man's head, and was so cruelly rebuffed in the
end."

"Megan...."

Why did he hesitate? At this rate, she'd
sooner charm herself than coax Gabriel to take her hand.

"What?" she asked, rather reasonably, she
thought.

"I'm not one of your damned beaus," he
finally blurted, "to be charmed and petted and coaxed into doing
what you want."

As if she'd had beaus to begin with. Why did
he persist in speaking as though she had—and dozens of them, at
that? Aloud, Megan said, "I don't see why not."

He scowled harder. "I do. And the fact that
you
don't is all the more reason why I ought to."

"You're talking in riddles."

It wasn't like she meant to make some sort
of untoward advance to him. This had nothing to do with wanting to
feel his fingers brush against her skin. Nothing to do with wanting
the thrilling contact of his hand clasping hers. Nothing whatsoever
to do with needing to return some of the battling spirit to his
soul or adding that aggravating cockiness back to his smile.

No, indeed.

This had to do with forcing a little
humanity into that mean-spirited Pinkerton armor he shielded
himself with, and making sure he'd recognize the truth about her
father's innocence when she showed it to him later.

Gabriel reached for his flat-brimmed black
hat and held it at his chest, ready to put it on. "I'm not holding
your hand any more than I'm going to jump onto this table and sing
'Yankee Doodle.' Show me what you brought me here to see. Or we're
leaving."