Rivals (37 page)

“Nor have you looked so handsome.” She flirted with him openly now—if discreetly.

“If you were the only woman to think so, I would forever be content.” Deliberately he inserted a seriousness into his manner, then observed the quick breath she drew before she melted closer to him.

He said no more as he gazed into her eyes and guided her steps through the last few measures of the song. When the music stopped, an immediate flurry of voices rose to fill the silence. He was slow to lead her off the floor, then halted at the edge of it and let his glance sweep the ballroom, decorated with garlands of holiday greenery trimmed with red velvet bows.

“Do you remember what I said to you that evening at Morgan's Walk?” He continued without allowing her an opportunity to respond. “After seeing you here in this setting, I am more convinced than ever that you don't belong in the Territory.” He held up a hand to stave off the comment she was about to make. “It's true, Ann. You're a precious jewel wasted in that nothingness, hidden by that dulling red dust. But, here, tonight, the fullness of your luster and sparkling brilliance shines for all to see and admire. This is where you should be, always—in a setting like this, with chandeliers glittering and violins playing.”

“I wish it could be so.” She attempted to mask the hint of longing in her voice. “But Morgan's Walk is my husband's home…and mine.” Belatedly she linked herself to the man whose name she now carried.

“So?” Jackson shrugged. “Let it remain your home—your wilderness retreat. There's no reason you have to spend every day of your life there. Your husband can—as many others have done—install a manager to run the place for him. Or better yet, leave his brother, Christopher, in charge while the two of you travel. That's what I would do if I was in your husband's place.”

“You and I are so very much alike, Jackson,” she declared wistfully, then grimaced prettily in regret. “I only wish Kell thought as we do. But he would never consider leaving Morgan's Walk for any length of time. He loves that place.” A bitterness crept into her low voice as she averted her glance, a shimmer of tears in her eyes. “Certainly more than he loves me.”

“Ann—”

Her head swung back, a rare defiance glittering in her eyes. “Morgan's Walk is far from here and much too boring a topic. Dance with me, Jackson.”

Again he took her into his arms and swept her onto the floor, secretly smiling in satisfaction. Yes, it was all going perfectly.

Close to midnight, they joined the throng of departing guests leaving the ball. Sometime during the evening, it had begun to snow. A mantle of white covered the ground while more soft, fat flakes fell as they made their way through the snow to the hired carriage and Jackson assisted her inside, then climbed in himself and spread the fur robe over the skirt of her evening cloak.

As the carriage pulled away from the mansion still ablaze with light, the trilling voices of other departing guests faded into the stillness of the snowy night. Despite the crunch of the carriage wheels in the fallen snow and the jingle of the team's harness bells, a magical, hushed quality permeated the air. Ann could almost believe they were the only two people in the world.

Bundled warmly in her evening cloak of black satin, its hood and cape trimmed with black marten fur to match the muff she carried, Ann leaned forward to gaze out the carriage window, her breath rising in wispy puffs of vapor. “Look, Jackson. See how white the snowflakes appear against the black of the night. Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

“I know of only one thing that rivals it.”

She turned her head and discovered he was right there, looking out her side of the carriage, his face only inches from hers. She was intantly conscious of the rapid palpitations of her heart…and the thready rush of excitement she felt as his gaze moved over her face.

“What's that?” she asked, fully aware a compliment was coming—and aware, too, that she had invited it.

“The pure white of your skin against the velvet dark of your hair, it's perfection.” His voice was as soft as a caress.

Yet there was perfection, too, in the noble straightness of his nose, the rise of his cheekbones, and the sculptured slant of his jaw. Secretly she thrilled to the intimate messages his eyes so frequently sent her. He made her feel things she shouldn't. She was a married woman. Yet, looking at the well-shaped line of his mouth, she understood why the apple had looked so very tempting.

“Ann.” That was all he said—just her name. But how many times had he said it just that way and made her feel that she was the most desirable woman on earth? Wicked thoughts she had. Wicked, wicked, wicked thoughts. But, oh, they felt so good.

She wanted to be kissed. He saw it in the tension of her, the motionlessness. The signal was always the same whether given by the most proper of ladies or the most pocked and painted of whores. All women were at the mercy of the same signals. Most men expected a difference, but Jackson Stuart knew better.

Her lips felt cool beneath his, chilled by winter's breath. As he went about warming them, he felt her hesitation and that vague, never completely formed impulse to turn away, but she stayed with the kiss. Soon she was reaching into it, bending like a supple willow, her lips all eager and soft. He pressed the advantage, taking her beyond herself, taking her farther than she wanted to go, until she broke away suddenly heavy, her gloved fingers clutching at the front of his coat, her face averted from him.

“No.” Her faint protest was near a moan. “You mustn't—we mustn't.”

“I know.” He sought her temple, grazing his lips over it. Satisfaction, smooth as the best whiskey, ran through him at the swiftly indrawn breath she took. “That's what I've been telling myself for days now, but it doesn't change the way I feel.” He continued to brush his mouth over her, speaking all the words against her skin and feeling the faint tremors of longing. “Ann, you must know—you must have guessed—that I came to Kansas City because you were here. I wanted to see you again, talk to you—if only for a moment. I couldn't believe my luck when you said your husband was away. But was it luck, Ann?”

“I don't know,” she whispered.

“Neither do I. I only know that I've fallen in love with you.”

“No.”

He ignored her faint protest, his hands tightening to check her feeble attempt to pull away from him. “It's true. I love the look of you and the glow of your smile. I love the fragrance of your skin and the perfume of your hair. I love the sound of my name on your lips and the beat of your heart next to mine. I love the feel of you and, yes, the taste of you. Ann, my sweet, my darling.”

There was such agony, such aching intensity in his voice that she was enthralled by it. These last days he had flirted with her often and said bold things, but she never dreamed she had inspired such a depth of love. The discovery was heady and thrilling, just as his kiss had been. She turned her head slightly, letting him find her lips again, no longer frightened by the desire that had flamed within her, now welcoming the forbidden feelings and the excitement of them.

His mouth was all over her lips, not like the last time with a tenderly persuasive ardor, but with hunger—tasting, eating, devouring until she felt wholly consumed by his kiss. But what a delicious feeling it was—so beyond her experience, leaving her completely bereft of thought and breath, her heart pounding until she was quite weak.

When he lifted his mouth from hers, she sagged against him and rested her head against his shoulder, limp with feeling and aware that it had never been like this with Kell—never. The band of his arms remained tight around her, keeping her close until his restless, kneading hands moved over her shoulders and back, alternately pressing and caressing.

“What am I to do, Ann?” he murmured, his lips brushing the elaborate coil of her dark hair. “I can't bear the thought of letting you go back to Morgan's Walk. I know how miserable and lonely you are there. Yet, how can I ask you to come away with me when I have nothing to offer?” A groan of despair came from his throat. “When I think of the fortunes that have passed through my hands at the gaming tables, I curse myself for not realizing the day would come when I'd meet an enchanting creature like you. What money I have is enough for me, but not enough to lavish you with the beautiful gowns, the jewels, the furs you deserve to have—or to take you to all the beautiful places you deserve to go. I would give anything to have your husband's wealth—anything but my heart, for you already have that. Ann, Ann.” He murmured her name in husky urgency as he lifted her head, cupping her cheek in his hand and gazing at her. Her face had a dreamy sensuousness, her lips parted, eyes heavy. He'd won her over. “What a fool Morgan is. What a fool.”

“I wish—” She was afraid to say the rest, afraid to admit she had chosen wrong when she married Kell. He loved her, and, in his way, he had been good to her. It was selfish of her to want the life Jackson had described—and it was sinful of her to enjoy his kisses, but, oh, she did. She did.

“I wish it, too, my love,” he declared. “But I can't ask you to leave your husband when I can offer you so little. But—if I should find a way—tell me that I have cause to hope.”

“You do, yes.” She couldn't deny it.

Again she was swept away by his kisses, carried off by their languorous heat that produced such feverish longings. All too soon the carriage stopped in front of her father's house. One more time they kissed within the shadows of the closed carriage, then Jackson walked her to the door and bid her a proper goodnight.

She swayed toward him, not wanting him to go, but he stayed her with a smile and a promise. “Till tomorrow.”

“Yes, tomorrow,” she whispered, and watched him walk away amid a swirl of falling snowflakes. In that instant, she was convinced there was no feeling stronger than the sweet ache of love.

The next two days were the happiest Ann had ever known, filled with secret looks, whispered words of love, and stolen kisses—and every moment heightened by the risk of discovery. But that only served to make the rest that much more exhilarating. Truly it was an enchanted world.

But on the morning of the third day, the spell was broken—shattered—sending Ann into a thousand scattered pieces. Distraught, she hurried down the hotel corridor, checking the room numbers on the doors and constantly glancing over her shoulder, fearing that she might be seen—or worse, recognized, despite the veiling net of her hat. At the door marked twenty-two, she paused and looked down the hallway once more, then rapped lightly and quickly.

“Just a moment,” came the muffled but impatient reply, the voice unmistakably Jackson's.

She waited anxiously outside the door, the seconds ticking by with interminable slowness before she heard the approach of his footsteps. She leaned toward the door in nervous eagerness as it swung open.

“Yes, what is it?” The instant he saw her, Jackson Stuart halted in the middle of pulling on his white linen shirt. “Ann?!”

He sounded as shocked at seeing her as she felt at seeing him in a state of partial undress. She stared at the smattering of dark chest hairs, then turned her head away, hot with embarrassment at the prurient thoughts that raced through her mind.

“I—I shouldn't have come.” She made a halfhearted move as if to leave, but he stopped her, catching at her arm and drawing her back.

“Don't go. Come inside before someone happens by.”

She didn't resist when he pulled her into his room and closed the door. The front of his shirt swung together, hiding his naked chest, but she continued to keep her eyes downcast, her heart pounding like a mad thing.

His hands gripped her arms near the elbows, just below the exaggerated pouf of her coat's velvet sleeves. “Ann, you're trembling. What is it? What's wrong?” He bent his head to look under the brim of her hat and through the screen of its black veil to her face.

“I—I didn't know what to do.” She hesitated, then pulled the folded telegram out of her muff. “This came early this morning. It's from my husband.” He released her to take the telegram, a stillness coming over him. She didn't wait for him to read the message. “He arrives on the afternoon train.” The raw feeling of desperation that she'd managed to hold in check thus far now broke from her. “I had to let you know. I couldn't let you come to take me to the Willets' reception and find Kell there. I had to see you. I had to—”

“I know,” he said, stopping the rush of words.

She looked up, her gaze clinging to his. “I won't be able to see you anymore, Jackson.”

He smiled lazily, unable to believe she was actually here in his hotel room. Although why he doubted his luck, he didn't know, considering the way he'd bucked the tiger last night and walked away from the faro table a big winner.

“What time does his train get in?”

“It's scheduled to arrive at two-ten this afternoon.”

“Then we have three hours.” He tossed the telegram onto the floor, then loosened her veil and rolled it over the brim of her hat. “Let's not waste them with words, Ann.”

The hat soon went the way of the telegram, to be followed shortly by the muff and the long velvet coat. Dispensing with her dress of striped changeable silk was easy, too, as long as his lips stayed close enough to smother the beginnings of any vague protest.

She felt drunk with his kisses, a dreamy looseness taking over all her limbs. She clung to him for support, letting the arm hooked around her tightly corseted waist take all her weight and thrilling to the feel of his muscled flesh beneath the linen of his shirt.

As he continued to shower her eyes, cheeks, and lips with kisses, his fingers moved to the lace-trimmed throat of her high corset cover. When the top button sprang free at his touch, Ann caught back a breath, aware that his deft fingers had already moved on to the next. She had never been assisted out of her clothes by anyone except her personal maid. Not even Kell had taken such liberties. At finishing school, she'd been taught that a woman of gentility didn't expose her private areas to a man, not even her husband. Voluminous nightgowns with long sleeves and high necks satisfied the need for modesty in the marriage bed, however awkward and cumbersome they sometimes proved to be.