Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) (31 page)

And how disturbing that she was starting to care about
him
, when the only thing he was good for was a heaping dose of misery.

"If you want your sympathy appreciated, Silver, don't waste it on bastards."

"You're not the only bastard in this room," she retorted quietly. "The only difference between us is that my papa was able to do the right thing by my mama. And he did."

He winced at the empathy in her tone. He hadn't meant his illegitimacy literally, but he supposed it was too late to prevaricate. Fiona had already spilled the beans.

"You can't believe everything you hear from the Fairgates, Silver."

"I gathered that, but..." She cleared her throat, raising her voice above the rebounding cue. "I think, maybe, this case is an exception. I mean, Fred
is
in Marshal Hawthorne's jail. I sent Jimmy to scout for information, and he told me Fred was charged with assault and something called 'willful destruction of property.' Apparently, while Fred was brawling at the Red Lion Saloon, he threw a couple of deputies out the window and busted a half dozen chairs and tables, none of which he can pay for.

"So in addition to his five-hundred-dollar fine for assault, he's looking at thirty-five hundred dollars in property damage, all of which Fiona has to raise by sundown tomorrow."

"I sent Fred and Fiona fifteen thousand dollars two weeks ago," Rafe said acidly, "when I thought Fiona was dying of some lung plague. They should have more than enough money to pay for Fred's fines."

She blinked wide-eyed at him. "Y-you sent them fifteen thousand dollars?"

"That's right." He decided not to confess that fifteen thousand dollars had been part of his poker earnings from the high-stakes game Max had been running the night of his engagement party. "And if you're thinking I might have stolen a couple of your sterling what-nots to melt down, then let me ease your mind. Every penny was legitimately earned."

"I believe you."

He hardened his jaw in self-loathing. "I can't imagine why."

"For heaven's sake, Rafe." She made an exasperated noise. "I am not the enemy here. I had thought we'd come to... well, I had hoped we'd reached a better understanding. I know how attached you've become to Papa. And I haven't failed to notice that... that you've grown fond of Celestia, too. It only stands to reason you don't think much of me, considering what I hired you to do.

"In fact, the only thing you may like about me at all is my money, but"—her voice caught, vibrating on a suspicious tremor—"I can help you and Fred. I mean, I
want
to help you," she amended hastily.

He muttered an oath. He'd really done it, hadn't he? He'd made her fall for him or rather, for his playacting. If he hadn't held her one week ago as she'd sobbed, if he hadn't realized how wrong he'd been to think her callous and conniving, he might have toasted his success. But tonight, seeing the glimmer of caring in her gaze...

He hastily averted his eyes. He had to get the hell out of Aspen. He had to get out of Silver's life before she threw away her second chance on a respectable man like Aaron Townsend.

"Silver," he said more gently, "you shouldn't get involved."

"I've been involved ever since I kept your secret at the Mining Exchange. Fred's too." When he stiffened, she added hastily, "That's why I, uh, took the liberty of wiring Dr. Bertram in Leadville. He's an old friend of Papa's, and he was able to confirm that Amy was badly beaten. She... she might not walk again, Rafe."

His gut roiled at the news. Dammit. The last time he'd seen Amy, she'd been in pigtails.
Little, laughing Amy with the big blue eyes..
.. At four years old, she'd reminded him so poignantly of Sera.

His chest constricting from an all-too-familiar pain, he sat heavily on the table, twisting the stick in his fists until they burned. He hoped the chafing would help him stave off the same overwhelming sense of loss that had left him weeping at his mother's graveside.

Had Fred really been on a vigilante mission to avenge Amy? Or was Amy's tragedy a coincidence Fred had used because he'd gotten drunk and belligerent and now needed bail?

In his heart of hearts, Rafe wanted to believe some spark of altruism burned in the breast of the man who had once been like a father to him. He could still remember how Fred had saved him, and his first month's earnings, from the whore who'd tried to roll him; how Fred had interceded when his youthful wisecracks had angered the wrong gunslinger. But Rafe could also remember all the times when Fred had lied to him. And tonight, crushed by Fred's latest deception, Rafe felt as if his father were dead to him.

"Rafe." Silver moved closer, closer than she had ever willingly dared, and touched his knee. "I have a sense that you don't like to talk about things that bother you. Maybe you prefer it that way. Or maybe you've just never had anyone who'd listen. Please believe me, I haven't come here to judge you."

He drew a shuddering breath, acutely aware of the warmth of her palm against his thigh. Did she have any idea how that innocent caress affected him? It was like the promise of water to a man dying of thirst.

"Leave it alone," he rasped. "We all get what we deserve."

"According to Jedidiah?"

He flinched at her reminder. "For God's sake, Silver, can't you see what I am? A liar, a failure, a fraud."

"Is that what you believe? Is that what Jedidiah
made
you believe?"

His chest heaved. "It's true. I'll ruin you the way I ruined my mother."

"Rafe," she said more quietly, wrapping her hand around his fist. "You are not responsible for your mother's adultery. Jedidiah poisoned your mind. He made you believe in a God as petty as he was. But the God I believe in would never blame you or me for something that happened between our parents long before we took the first breath of life. Can't you see how small, cruel and
human
that kind of blame would be?"

Rafe's throat swelled. Silver's rationale held an undeniable appeal. Was it true that Jedidiah, the man whom all of Blue Thunder had relied on to interpret scripture, might have been wrong? That he'd poisoned the minds of innocents?

Rafe didn't like giving the bastard that much credit. Still, recognizing Jedidiah's power over him was far less abhorrent than believing he didn't have the chance, much less the right, to redeem himself.

"You seem to have given a lot of thought to salvation," he said bitterly.

"Well, I like to think mistakes are part of being human," she said, her cheeks growing steadily pinker. "Otherwise, no one would ever get to heaven. Least of all, me.

"Rafe..." Her voice trailed off as if she was choosing her next words. "I believe Fred's and Fiona's story."

His smile was mirthless. "Of course you do. They're unparalleled liars."

"But I have proof Amy was hurt. And Jimmy confirmed Fred was arrested for attacking some well-dressed high roller at the Red Lion."

He shook his head despairingly. "Don't try so hard to acquit them. They'll just make a sucker out of you, too."

She fidgeted. For a moment, he thought she might insist on proving her point. Instead, she frowned, staring at his boots.

"I had thought you might at least want to investigate the matter. For Amy's sake."

He scowled, not liking the way she used guilt as her tool. It reminded him too much of Fiona. "Amy's got an older male cousin and Uncle Fred. She doesn't need me wading into the fray. Besides, I'm no damned hero."

"You could try to be," she whispered.

He muttered an oath. Pushing away from her, he stalked to the far side of the table. "There you go again, forgetting what I am."

"I'm not sure
what
you are, Rafe. I thought I did—once. I'm glad to say I was wrong then. I don't want to believe I'm wrong now. And I don't think Fiona wants to believe she's wrong, either. She was in tears when you left her this morning. No matter what she might have said or done, I think, deep down, she loves you, like a mother loves a son."

The old hurt burned its way up his throat. "Like a
son
?" Slamming his stick on the table, he started to pace in wild, agitated movements.

"No mother," he ground out, "would lie in bed, pretending she had consumption, when she knew how devastating the news would be to her son. No mother would pretend she was dying and ask her son for money if
love
were her motivation."

He spun to face her, his fists clenched, his chest searing. "Everything Fred and Fiona do is calculated to make a profit, Silver.
Everything.
That's why they took me into the troupe. That's why they tried to lure me back. Don't you see?" he choked. "They only care about the money I'll earn them. Money's all I've ever been to them."

To his mortification, his voice broke. He swayed, gripping the table, fighting the grief threatening to unman him. There was nothing he could do to hide the raw emotion contorting his face; there was nothing he could do but be who and what he was. And in that moment, when he was his lowest, most pathetic self, Silver's arms wrapped around his waist.

He shuddered. Had he the strength, or perhaps the self-discipline, he would have pushed her away as he'd pushed away so many others, thinking they'd despise him for his weakness. Never had he met anyone who cared about the real Raphael Jones. Never had he dreamed he might be worth some genuine affection.

But Silver pressed nearer. She defied every moral convention to let the softness of her cheek rest against the stubble of his jaw, and the timid thumping of her heart beat against his chest. It was almost more than he could bear, the solace of her arms.

Reason fled before the guttural sound that welled up in his throat. Before he could recall how undeserving he was, before he could think how crude his surge of primal longing, he pulled her mouth to his, devouring the sweetness that trembled open to appease him.

Only he wasn't appeased. Three weeks of waiting, of wanting—not to mention the last eight hours of simmering jealousy—were unleashed in that tumult of feeling. Damning Aaron Townsend, Rafe kissed her the way he'd been craving her kisses, hungrily, passionately, relentlessly.

He dug his fingers into her hair; he arched her spine back; gripped her buttocks and flattened her hips against his, reveling in the heat that spread like a prairie fire between his thighs and hers. He didn't buss her cheek like a Wilbur Chumley or peck her knuckles like some Shakespearean gallant. His kiss was pure Raphael Jones, smoking, scintillating, and sinful enough to make the angels blush.

He might have lost himself completely in that sensual feast, baring her breasts, suckling her nipples, hoisting her, petticoats to sit astride him on the table. But she trembled in his arms. He recognized the taste of tears on his tongue, and they weren't his. Like a splash of cold water, he remembered the fear she'd tried so valiantly to disguise in the parlor. Cursing himself, he tore his mouth free. His loins were throbbing and his breath was sawing when he dropped his forehead to her shoulder.

"Silver, I'm sorry," he gasped. "Honey, I'm sorry."

Hushing her, he held her to his heart, molding her shrinking length to his as if the very thing she most feared could somehow end her quivers. "I've stopped," he said hoarsely, cursing himself again as he tucked her head beneath his chin. "It's over now. You're safe. I swear."

The fist gripping his sleeve slowly, shakily unfurled. He wasn't sure in that moment who shuddered with more relief, him or Silver.

I have to get away from here. I'm no good for her.

She loosed a tremulous sigh, the tension in her body ebbing. When she shyly dropped her head to his chest, he filled his senses with the springtime scent of her; he marveled at the softness of her hair and the velvety crescent of her lashes. She was a rare beauty, he reflected poignantly, his arms jealously folding her closer. How could he have thought otherwise? With her lips red and moist from his kisses, her color a rosy pink from his ardor, she looked more inviting, more alive than the porcelain princess he'd admired so cynically at the Mining Exchange... and taunted so mercilessly at Max's engagement party.

But for all her flesh-and-blood femininity, the Silver he held was still more fragile than resilient. He didn't know why a lover's embrace should unnerve her; he didn't know why she shrank from his caress as if his hand were a kerosene torch spitting flame. All he knew was her flawless cheek had been marred by the single, crystalline track of a tear.

A tear
he
had caused.

His insides writhed with the knowledge that he'd repaid her compassion with lust.

Face it, Jones, you're not Maximillian Nichols. You're not even Aaron Townsend. You'll never be worthy of the fierce, committed, all-consuming love Silver is capable of.

He burned with a soul-deep shame.

For her own good, he had to leave Silver behind.
Tonight.

Silver squeezed her eyes closed, letting the steady thrumming of Rafe's heart mend her splintered nerves. She hadn't meant to grow skittish; she hadn't
wanted
to. She cursed the memory that, insidiously, had reared its ugly head and robbed her of Rafe's love.

When she'd seen his tears, when she'd heard his pain, she'd wanted nothing more than to end his torment. For the first time in years, she'd yielded to instinct rather than alarm. She'd held him, stroked him, kissed him, offering the comfort she'd so desperately longed for that awful night five years ago when she'd run panic-stricken and confused from the man she thought she'd killed. The man she thought she
loved.