Turning his gaze to Cassandra, Luke decided that perhaps it wasn’t such a marvel, after all. She still sat there, chattering away, completely unaware of the undercurrents of tension around her, the shimmer of innocence in her eyes so obvious that only a blind man could fail to see it.
Before she caused a mutiny amongst his household staff, Luke opted to retreat. Remarking upon the hour, which was growing late, he directed Mrs. Whitmire to please see that Khristos got settled into a bedchamber on the first floor. Then he requested that a maid be sent to Cassandra’s room to attend her while she bathed.
Cassandra was still chattering to Pipps as Luke ushered her from the kitchen. “What a very nice man he is, once you get to know him,” she observed as Luke led her through the foyer. “One would never guess it, the way he scowls all the time. In fact, he reminds me a little of you.”
That brought Luke’s head around. “Of me? I don’t scowl all the time.”
“No,” she agreed, “but you do sometimes, and when you do, you look ever so fierce.”
“I do?”
“Very.” She lifted her gaze to his, the azure depths shimmering with warmth. “I’m not afraid, though.”
“Maybe you should be,” he told her in a voice that had gone oddly husky. “There are a lot of people in this town who would tell you I’m not a very nice man. They might even describe me as ruthless.”
As the words left his mouth, Luke wondered what had possessed him to say such a thing. Being candid about his faults had never been one of his trademarks, particularly not when being honest might weaken his hand. Cassandra, however, seemed not in the least unsettled by the revelation. Indeed, she apparently thought more highly of him for having confessed such a thing, if her radiant expression was any indication.
“Well, they’re wrong,” she said softly. “I know firsthand what kind of man you are, Luke Taggart, and there’s only one word to describe you.”
Luke was almost afraid to ask what that one word was. Her mouth curved in a particularly sweet way as she moved up the stairs with him.
“Wonderful,” she whispered. “Absolutely wonderful.”
This was becoming a habit, Luke thought later that night as he stalked along the hallway outside his and Cassandra’s bedchambers, silently counting his strides. What was worse, the thoughts going through his head had started to remind him of a phonograph when a cylinder got stuck. Tomorrow morning, I’ll lay down the law. Why did that have a familiar ring? I have rights, dammit, for which I’m paying dearly, and I’m going to exercise them. Now there was an original plan.
Raindrops struck the octagonal gable window at the end of the hall, lacerating his nerves like needles. He was furious with himself for being such a weakling, frustrated with Cassandra for confounding him so, and tired of wrestling with his conscience, which was quickly becoming a royal pain in the ass.
So what if the girl believed he was wonderful? If he had any brains, he’d use her naivete to his advantage. He did have rights, goddammit. Twenty-six thousand dollars’ worth, to be exact. So what the hell was he doing, wandering up and down the hall outside her rooms like a moonstruck lad? Was he out of his mind?
Yes. A raving lunatic, that was him. Any minute now, he was going to explode. The girl had him waffling as he never had before, decisive one moment, hesitant the next, until he wasn’t sure which way was up. He’d seen the maid leave Cassandra’s rooms well over an hour ago, and yet here he was, pacing up and down the hall.
In all his life, Luke had never wanted anything more than he’d wanted to join Cassandra in her bathing chamber. But instead of going in, he’d hovered outside her rooms, aching with frustration, yet hesitant to destroy her high opinion of him, until he’d missed his chance. Now she was undoubtedly asleep. Asleep, for Christ’s sake.
A picture filled his mind: pale, satiny skin flushed to a rosy glow by the steamy hot water. Soap bubbles flirting with pink nipples that were swollen with warmth and glistening with wetness. Sable hair gathered atop her head in loose curls, revealing the sensitive nape of her neck and the graceful slope of her gently rounded shoulders. A goddess in her bath, just waiting for him to claim what was his by right.
Even now, she lay in there, like a flawless pearl on a cushion of silk. Priceless and breathtakingly beautiful. Her skin, still moist from soaking in a hot tub and lightly scented with lavender, would be warm satin beneath his lips, a heady delight for him to kiss and taste and caress. He imagined pressing his body to hers, his throbbing hardness sinking slowly into a moist velvet sheath, passion-slick limbs entangled, breath coming quick and hard, hearts pounding with arousal.
Fed up, Luke strode decisively to her door and grasped the brass handle. He was going in, dammit. The devil take her luminous blue eyes. He just wouldn’t look into them. Women’s bodies had been his playground for nearly eighteen years. He knew where to touch Cassandra, how to use his hands and mouth to inflame her senses. He could have her trembling with need and begging him for it in ten minutes, maybe less. Afterward, he’d be happy, and she’d be—shattered.
He stood there with his hand clenched over the brass, his body straining, his mind clamoring with arguments, none of which seemed to make sense anymore. Cassandra. She’d turned out to be everything she’d promised to be when he first saw her, magical and warm and infectiously funny. He wanted her more now than he had in the beginning. Needed her more. Yet he knew if he satisfied that need, she’d never be quite the same again.
If he went into that room, she’d be a little fallen angel who’d lost her wings and halo by the time he finished with her. Never again would she look at him as though he’d single-handedly hung the moon. With one hard thrust of his body, he would bring her face to face with his world, where ugly toads outnumbered princes, and innocent young girls were fair game to lecherous, conscienceless men.
Luke relaxed his hold on the door handle and closed his eyes. Wonderful, absolutely wonderful.
With a low groan, he turned and planted his back against the door. Nobody had ever believed in him the way she did. Nobody. For as long as he could remember, he’d always been a lesser being, a whore’s bastard as a child, a ruthless bastard as an adult. Years ago, he’d ceased to care and had begun watching out for himself. Luke Taggart, always number one, and to hell with everybody else. He’d chased a dream of striking it rich; then the dream had come true. The whore’s bastard had suddenly had the world at his feet, and he’d been kicking it in the proverbial teeth ever since.
He curled his hands into throbbing fists, a vision of Cassandra’s face drifting through his mind. Those eyes. Damn those beautiful eyes of hers. So blue. So luminous and expressive. When she looked at him, she made him feel fine and brave and noble and kind. Not a whore’s bastard, but a hero. And he liked the feeling. He liked it a lot. Which was the whole goddamned problem.
The image she had of him was like candy being dangled before a baby. He wanted to reach out and grab it and never let go. To feed off of it like a starving man. Only her vision of him was a lie, dammit—a lie that existed only inside her head. A huge, goddamned lie that not even he, the master of deceit, would be able to pull off. Sooner or later, she was going to see him for what he actually was. If he didn’t do something himself to destroy the image she had of him, which would be a miracle, then her father would enlighten her the moment he got out of jail.
Hauling in a deep breath, then slowly exhaling, Luke stared into the shadows that clung to the vaulted ceiling above the foyer. That was his reality—shadows that always hovered, waiting to envelop him. A darkness in his soul that had been growing like a cancer all his life and had reached gargantuan proportions these last few months. When he’d seen Cassandra, she’d seemed like a beam of sunlight to him.
She’d brought the sunshine into his home, into his life. And now that he’d gotten a taste of having her with him, now that he knew how it felt to see her smile light up the gloom, he couldn’t bear the thought of losing her.
That left
him with few options. Knowing that it was only a matter of time until she discovered what a rotten, ruthless bastard he actually was, he had to bind her to him somehow, and the only way he knew to do that was the same way he’d originally planned—by holding her to the letter of their contract.
It was late tonight, and he knew she was exhausted after working so hard to strip the wax from the stairs. But come tomorrow night, no more waffling. She would share his bed. With a little luck, their coupling might even result in her getting pregnant, which would give him even more leverage over her. The long and short of it was, he couldn’t let her go, not now.
Holding a shattered, fallen angel in his arms was better than no angel at all.
THIRTEEN
At precisely eight-fifteen the next morning, Luke descended the long flight of freshly waxed stairs to the first floor. Sunlight filled the downstairs with a lemony cheer. Blending with the not-unpleasant odor of wax was the tempting aroma of freshly brewed coffee and a variety of breakfast foods, the most tantalizing of which were eggs, fried bacon, and bread still hot from the oven.
Nevertheless, Luke felt sure he also smelled wet dog, even though he’d taken a bath after rising and donned fresh clothing. The foul smell seemed to have permeated everything in his bedchamber, including the clothes in his wardrobe.
And little wonder…he’d no sooner drifted to sleep last night than Khristos and Lycodomes had once again invaded his bed. The boy had been frightened, he’d told Luke, of all the things in the huge house that went bump and creak in the dark. When Luke had inquired as to why the child chose him as his protector instead of Cassandra, Khristos had haltingly explained that Cassandra was a puny girl, not much bigger than Khristos himself, while Luke was big enough and strong enough to keep away the haunts. Since Luke hadn’t been able to think of a logical argument for that, he’d resigned himself to spending another night abed with his eight-year-old houseguest and the stinking mongrel.
To Luke’s dismay, Khristos had repaid his generosity by regaling him with yet another of Cassandra’s fanciful bedtime stories, once again about a charming young man who rescued a lovely damsel, then carried her off into the sunset to live with him in marital bliss, happily ever after. Luke knew better. Bliss was just another word for sex, a hard truth Luke intended to set before Cassandra posthaste. In about ten minutes, to be precise.
As Luke crossed the foyer, he found himself following a trail of muddy paw prints that led over the burgundy tile to the kitchen door at the rear of the house. Along one wall, there was a smear of mud where the huge beast had evidently lain down after coming in wet and muddy from outdoors. Damn, but his house was beginning to look like a dog kennel. Worse, it was starting to smell like one.
Today, Luke vowed. This very morning he would speak to his man of affairs. The instant he got to his office. By sundown Lycodomes would be out of his house for good. Gone, and good riddance. Because Cassandra loved the mongrel so much, Luke would order his man to find the dog a good home—somewhere far away from Black Jack, preferably—but there his magnanimity ended.
Cassandra would be distressed for a few days, of course, but she’d get over it. Perhaps, Luke mused, he would buy her a kitten to replace the mongrel. Or possibly even a very small dog. Something she could lavish her affection on, that wouldn’t completely destroy his home.
When Luke reached the open doorway of the breakfast room, he paused on the threshold to admire the lovely sight that greeted him. Cassandra sat alone at the table. To his amusement, she seemed to be fascinated by his rose-patterned, gilt-edged china and was holding a delicately made teacup up to the light, turning it slowly to admire the intricately painted flowers. Luke supposed that everything in his house seemed impossibly luxurious to her.
Everything but the wildly expensive wardrobe he’d purchased for her, that is. This morning, beneath his blasted and ever-present shirt, she wore a lovely yellow day dress, the color of which rivaled the sunlight pouring in through the white lace curtains. Indeed, she resembled a creation made of sunlight, with the beams glistening in the artless sable curls piled atop her head and the pale yellow walls around her reflecting the warm glow.
Leaning a shoulder against the door frame, he took a moment to study her. Soon, he promised himself, he would have to relent and take her to the dressmaker, whose orders to create a custom-made wardrobe for her were temporarily on hold. Cassandra obviously wasn’t going to wear any of the revealing gowns he’d bought her without a shirt over them, and he was becoming heartily sick of being denied the pleasure of admiring her lovely shape. Even in a modestly designed dress, he’d be able to see the swell of her breasts, the indentation of her waist, and the tempting flare of her hips.
A sardonic smile curved his firm mouth. A nun? Every time he pictured this girl swathed from head to toe in black wool with rosary beads dangling from her waist, he wanted to laugh. She was absolutely unsuited for the role, far too enamored with material things, for one, and too exquisitely lovely, for another. She’d been made for a male’s carnal enjoyment, every curve of her body begging to be possessed. She’d see a narrow, hard cot in a nun’s cell over his dead body.
“Good morning,” he said softly.
She gave a startled jump and turned slightly on the chair to fasten surprised blue eyes on him. A radiant smile curved her temptingly full mouth as she carefully returned the cup to its saucer. “Oh, Luke! Good morning! I’ve been waiting for you.”
He strode slowly into the room. The sideboard to his right was laden with food, which made him wonder why she hadn’t helped herself. “You should have gone ahead without me. Sometimes of a morning, I take coffee in my suite and enjoy my solitude while I read the paper.”
She lifted a shoulder, which looked amazingly small within the generous folds of his silk shirt. “With all those little candles burning under the serving dishes, nothing is likely to get cold.”
Luke reached her chair and bent to press a kiss on her forehead. “Those are called ‘warmers,’” he explained. Reaching to the opposite end of the table, he grabbed his plate. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Let’s dish up. Then we’ll visit over breakfast.”
She got her plate and followed him to the sideboard, velvet and silk whispering around her like a sensual promise. “Have you ever wondered why we pronounce it ‘breakfast’?” she asked. “The word was derived way back in the olden days, you know, because people considered the stretch of time between evening and morning meals a fast, and when they finally ate, they were breaking it.”
A self-educated man, Luke had had enough trouble learning to spell without investigating word origins. “Really?” He considered for a moment. “It makes sense, I guess. Let’s break our fast then, why don’t we?”
He piled creamy scrambled eggs, crisp bacon, and fried diced potatoes onto his plate while Cassandra took samples of the less traditional fare: eggs slathered in a French cheese sauce, stuffed mushrooms, fruit custard, and buttery croissants. She glanced at his plate, then plopped a spoonful of mushrooms beside his potatoes.
“Don’t be boring.”
Boring? Luke prided himself on trying everything at least once, sometimes twice, perverted sexual exploits notwithstanding. Yet he laughed in spite of himself. If there was one thing he could count on from Cassandra, it was that she never seemed intimidated by him. “I’ve never managed to acquire a rich man’s palate. Cook keeps trying to tempt me, but—” He shrugged. “When I grew up, if I was lucky enough to eat, I had plain food, and I still lean heavily toward the ordinary at mealtime.”
Shadows crept into her lovely eyes. “You went hungry? When you were a boy, I mean?”
Luke hadn’t intended to divulge that morsel of information. He felt heat creeping up his neck. “I told you I once lived in the mining district, and to me, the shack I rented there was a pretty fancy place. Before living in the mining district, I guess you might say I saw some very lean times.”
“You did go hungry,” she summarized. r />
“Sometimes.” Uncomfortable with the pity that shone in her gaze, Luke grabbed a piece of toast and returned to the table, where he busied himself pouring them each a cup of coffee. “Don’t feel sorry for me, Cassandra. As you can see, I survived quite nicely.”
She took her place opposite him, her luminous eyes still aching with sympathy. “It can’t have been easy. When I imagine Khristos going hungry—well, it nearly breaks my heart.”
Still intensely uneasy, Luke swallowed a mouthful of egg. He resembled her little brother about as much as a stone resembled a pussy-willow catkin. He snorted at the very idea.
“Do I look like I went hungry?” he challenged, narrowing his gaze.
A twinkle of laughter crept into her eyes. “I suppose not. You’re rather large, and—” Her gaze dropped to his shoulders, then to his chest, and a becoming flush colored her cheeks. “Well, there is quite a lot of you, here and there.”
Here and there, there was quite a lot of her as well. Luke studiously avoided looking at the twin mounds of luscious female flesh that filled out the front of his shirt. It was enough to know she wasn’t physically unaffected by him, that the sizzling attraction he felt for her with his every waking breath and sometimes in his sleep was reciprocated. “Cassandra, we have to have another talk. About your duties here.”
Her face fell and she fixed her gaze on a mushroom, which she chased around her plate with the wrong fork. Luke felt the corners of his mouth trying to curve upward and relentlessly tamped down the smile. “Cassandra, the smaller fork placed to the outside is for salad and stuff. You use the larger one for your main course.”
A little frown drew her delicately arched eyebrows together. “Really?” She glanced at the sideboard. “There isn’t any salad.”