Читать книгу His Substitute Bride - Elizabeth Lane - Страница 10

Quint cursed his faulty judgment. He should’ve known better than to tell Annie what was happening with Rutledge. Now she waited for his answer, her mouth determinedly set, her velvet eyes pleading.

The sight of that face was enough to turn his resolve to warm putty. Right then he would have given her almost anything—except the one thing she wanted.

“No. I can’t leave here,” he said.

“Quint—”

“Don’t push this, Annie. You know I can’t, and you know why.”

She stood, her eyes flashing defiance. “You mean you won’t. And, yes, I do know why. It’s because you’re a man, with more silly male pride than brains. You’d rather be stabbed in some dark alley than walk away and save your own life!”

Rising, Quint opened his mouth to argue, but she stopped him with the touch of a finger to his lips.

“Be still and listen. If Rutledge is as smart as you say he is, he’ll find a way to get you without taking the blame. You’ll end up as dead as that poor woman. And for what? You said yourself that the whole city government is rotten. You can’t fix it by yourself.”

“Maybe not. But if I can rouse enough people to action, it might make a difference. That’s my job. I can’t just turn tail and run.”

Annie gazed up at him in despair. His eyes had gone flinty. A muscle twitched along his tightly clenched jaw. The man had closed his ears to reason. He seemed determined to get himself murdered.

“Don’t be so blasted noble!” she argued. “Think of the people who care about you—people who’d be devastated to lose you. Clara. Judd and Hannah. Even me…”

“Even you?” The mischief had crept back into his eyes. “Why, little Annie, I didn’t know you cared. Maybe I should give this some thought.”

“Stop making fun of me!” It was all she could do to keep from slapping the smirk off his face. “Yes, I do care, you big, arrogant, smart-mouthed oaf! You’ve been my knight in shining armor since I was old enough to tell boys from girls. Even when you were Hannah’s beau, I kept you on a pedestal for years. You were my hero, Quint Seavers, and I won’t stand back and watch you throw your life away on this…this…”

Her throat went tight, choking off her words. Merciful heaven, what had she just said to him?

Quint was gazing down at her, his eyes glinting amber with reflected flame. Annie’s heart lurched as he thumbed her chin upward, bent toward her and captured her mouth with his own.

His lips were velvet and honey, possessing her from the very first touch. As the kiss deepened, Annie went molten in his arms, her blood racing, her skin on fire through the soft cashmere. Her body arched against his. Her hands raked his hair as she kissed him with a ferocity she’d never known she possessed—kissed him with all the dreams and pentup longing of years. When his tongue glided into her mouth she was startled, but only for the space of a heartbeat. Then she opened to him, gasping as each probing thrust ignited fire bursts in her blood. His strong fingers kneaded her ribs, thumbs tracing the sensitive borders of her breasts.

Her heart was pounding like an Indian drum. She wanted more—his hands on her skin, everywhere, legs tangling, hips pressing close, his splendid body filling hers. He was making her want more, she realized. Quint was an expert seducer who knew exactly what he was doing. He didn’t love her. He’d made her no promises. He was only taking advantage of a vulnerable moment—taking advantage of her.

Alarm bells shrilled in her head as she tore herself away from him. “Enough.” She spat out the word. “I’m not your plaything, Quint. I have feelings, even pride. I deserve better than this.”

He stepped back, his mouth damp and swollen, his hair tumbling in his eyes. “I didn’t know you had so much fire in you, little Annie,” he drawled.

She glowered at him, her fury mounting. “There’s something I haven’t told you. Frank Robinson has asked me to marry him. He’ll be meeting my train in Dutchman’s Creek, waiting for the answer I promised to give him.” Annie drew herself up. “My answer is going to be yes.”

Quint stared at her as if she’d slapped him. “Frank Robinson? That prissy old fart who owns the hotel?”

Annie spun away and stalked into the unlit guest room. Before closing the door a final time, she stripped off Quint’s cashmere bathrobe, wadded it in her hands and flung it out into the hall.

The latch clicked softly into place. In the silence that followed, Quint walked forward and bent down, gathering up the robe. Annie’s scent, mingled with the spicy fragrance of his own soap, rose from its folds. The warmth of her skin still clung to the rich fabric.

He lifted it to his face, inhaling deeply. Little Annie. Lord, what a woman she’d become! First she’d set him aflame with her sweet mouth. Then she’d put him in his place with a bullet to the heart.

Marry Frank Robinson? Hellfire, that would be like hitching a blooded filly to a mule. Not that Frank was all that bad. But he was nearing forty, and to Quint’s way of thinking, he was about as exciting as clabbered milk.

Still, Annie had grown up in a poor immigrant family. A share of her earnings went to help her widowed mother and younger siblings. The stability of a man like Frank Robinson would certainly have some appeal.

But after tasting her passion, Quint couldn’t imagine that would be enough for her. The very thought of his beautiful, hot-blooded Annie in bed with that old—

Quint shoved the thought aside. She wasn’t his Annie, and he’d been way out of line tonight. In fact, without much effort, he’d managed to make a complete ass of himself.

Tomorrow, he vowed, he would work his way back into her good graces. That would include making some rules and following them.

1 He would apologize, on his knees if necessary.

2 He would not lay an unbrotherly hand on the lady for the duration of her visit.

3 He would not call Frank Robinson a prissy old fart or anything else of that nature.

4 While they were together, he would table the issue of Josiah Rutledge and devote himself to having a good time with Clara.

Etching the rules into memory, Quint staggered off to bed. He’d scarcely slept in the past twenty-four hours, and he was punchy with weariness. Tomorrow he would be at work by 7:00 a.m. to draft his next column and look into what the police had done about Virginia Poole’s murder. By 10:00 a.m. he’d be back here to take Clara and Annie to Golden Gate Park. Right now what he needed was a few hours between the sheets.

Too bad he couldn’t ask Annie to share them.

Annie awoke to bright morning sunlight. Clara’s place in the bed was empty. The enticing aromas of bacon and fresh coffee drifted through the open doorway of the guest room.

Flinging her wrapper over her nightgown, she pattered into the kitchen. Quint had mentioned he was going to work early. She could only hope he hadn’t changed his mind. After last night’s blistering encounter, his was the last face she wanted to see.

Clara was at the kitchen counter with Chao. Still clad in her nightgown, she was perched on a stool, happily engaged in helping him prepare breakfast.

“We’re making an omelet, Aunt Annie.” Her dark eyes sparkled with excitement. “Chao let me break the eggs and put in the salt and pepper.”

Chao gave Annie a good-natured grin. The middle-aged man, who still wore the traditional queue, was using a fork to beat the eggs to an airy froth. If the omelet was half as good as his lamb stew, it was bound to be heavenly.

“Now some butter in the pan,” he instructed his eager assistant. “This much, little bit, on your knife.” He demonstrated the distance with two fingers. “Then we let it melt.”

“Has Quint gone?” Annie’s tongue felt as dry as old shoe leather. Maybe she’d drunk more wine than she remembered.

“Uncle Quint went to work.” Clara scraped a dab of butter into the frying pan. “When he comes back we’re going to ride on a trolley car, all the way to where the ocean is. Can I wear my white pinafore today?”

“If you’ll do your best to keep it clean. And you’ll need your straw hat, as well. We don’t want you getting a sunburn.”

The omelet was so light it practically floated out of the pan. Annie enjoyed her share of it at the kitchen table, with bacon, a hot buttered biscuit, orange juice and fresh coffee. A saltwater breeze drifted into the room as Chao opened a window, carrying the sounds of morning traffic from the streets below—the clang of a passing trolley, the clamor of auto horns, the cries of street vendors and the clatter of shod hooves on pavement.

Finishing her breakfast, Annie leaned over the sill. Outside, the awakening city seemed to pulse with life and vitality. So many people, so many divergent lives. So much excitement. No wonder Quint seemed to love this place.

Speaking of Quint…The thought of facing him again made Annie’s stomach clench. She’d behaved like a fool last night, first flinging herself at him, then lashing out in blind fury. But the reason for her anger had been sound. Quint didn’t love her, never had and never would. He’d seized an opportunity, that was all, and she’d been weak enough to allow it.

Well, it wasn’t going to happen again. She’d made sure of that last night. Now that Quint knew she was as good as engaged, he’d be honor bound to behave himself.

Was she as good as engaged? Annie gazed at the thready clouds that drifted above the city skyline. Her memory struggled to bring Frank’s long, narrow face into focus. Were his pale eyes blue or hazel? Was that slightly off-colored tooth on the left or right side of his mouth? Even after a few days, she could barely remember. But never mind. She would make her final decision on the train back to Colorado. Right now, she was in San Francisco, maybe for the only time in her life, and she meant to enjoy every minute of it.

By the time Annie had washed, dressed, pinned up her hair and readied Clara for the day, it was nearly 9:00 a.m. While Chao entertained the little girl with a game of dominoes, Annie sat down at Quint’s desk and used his typewriter to compose a letter to Hannah and Judd. The machine was new and fascinating. But since she could only type by hunting and pecking, every word was a labor. She managed a few sentences about the train trip and their plans for the day, but little more.

Of course she didn’t mention her concern for Quint’s safety. The last thing Hannah needed right now was more worries. This trip with Clara had, in part, been scheduled to give her more rest while Rosa, the housekeeper, looked after three-year-old Daniel. At five weeks from full term, Annie’s sister could still lose the baby by going into premature labor.

Quint arrived precisely at 10:00 a.m., just as Annie was addressing the letter. Eyes twinkling, arms laden with pink and yellow roses, he burst through the door like a one-man parade. “For you, mademoiselle!” He presented the miniature pink bouquet to a bedazzled Clara, then turned to Annie.

“With my deepest apologies,” he muttered, thrusting the wrapped cluster of twelve yellow roses into her hands. They were fresh and beautiful, enhanced with ferns and beaded with morning dew.

“You’re shameless, Quint Seavers!” Annie hissed.

“Yes, I know. Will you forgive me for last night?”

Annie rolled her eyes. “Last night never happened. Agreed?”

His dimples deepened irresistibly. “Agreed. And just to seal the bargain I have an added enticement.” He reached into his vest and drew out a plain white envelope. “Two tickets for the opera tomorrow night. For you and me. Chao’s already agreed to stay here with Clara.”

“The Metropolitan Opera?” Annie had seen the posters on the street. The fabled New York company was on tour and playing in San Francisco this week. She’d always dreamed of seeing an opera. But protests were already flocking into her head like black crows. The tickets must have cost Quint a small fortune. And how could she go when she had nothing appropriate to wear?

“Caruso will be here on the seventeenth for their production of Carmen,” Quint said. “That show’s been sold out for weeks. But before he arrives, they’ll be performing something called The Queen of Sheba. That one’s almost sold out, too, but I called in some favors and got us two of the last box seats.” He frowned, noticing her hesitation. “Is something wrong?”

She shook her head. “No, it’s a wonderful gesture, Quint. But I know the opera will be a big society event. How can I sit in a box, surrounded by all those elegant women with their jewels and their fancy gowns? You might fit right in, but I don’t even own an evening dress.”

“Then wear whatever you have. You’ll look fine.”

Fine. Annie sighed. She’d hoped for a little commiseration, or even a compliment, however insincere. But men just didn’t understand. She would go, certainly. This might be her one lifetime chance to see an opera. But she would feel like a leghorn chicken dropped into a pen full of glittering peacocks.

Chao had come with vases for the flowers. Clara handed him her little bouquet, then ran to Quint to tug at his coat. “Can we go now? I want to ride in the trolley car!”

Quint rumpled her curls. “We’ll go when your aunt Annie says she’s ready.”

“I’ll just get our straw hats and my reticule,” Annie said. “Will we need coats?”

“The day’s warming, but the breeze off the water can be brisk. Light jackets should do you fine.”

Surrendering the roses to Chao, Annie hurried into the guest room to get the things she’d left on the bed. An image glimpsed in the dresser mirror showed a young woman simply dressed in a highnecked white blouse and khaki walking skirt, her cinched waist marked by a wide leather belt. Her hair was pulled back and twisted into a practical bun that would hold up in a stiff breeze. Her only adornments were tiny pearl ear studs and a simple brooch at her throat.

Sensible, practical Annie. Well, she was who she was. But just once it would be nice to play Cinderella and go to the ball with the handsome prince. Maybe then she could be content with the life that awaited her back in Dutchman’s Creek.

“Come on, Aunt Annie, we’re ready to go!” Clara bounded into the room to tug at her skirt. Annie fixed the straw hat on her niece’s head, tying the strings under her chin. Then she secured her own hat with a pin, picked up her reticule and the jackets, and let Clara lead her back to the entry where Quint stood waiting. The day’s grand adventure was about to begin.

They swung aboard the crowded trolley and managed to find a seat. As the car swayed along the rails, Quint cast furtive glances at Annie. Her color was high, her face glowing. Back in Colorado, she’d been nothing more than Hannah’s kid sister. He’d scarcely given her a second look. Now, with every minute they spent together, the attraction grew more compelling.

They’d agreed to forget last night’s searing kiss. But for Quint that was easier said than done. In the past twelve hours, he’d relived that kiss a hundred times—not just the kiss, but everything beyond. He’d imagined sliding the robe off her shoulders and stroking the satiny skin beneath, then easing down to cup the ripe moons of her breasts in his hands and kiss the nipples into swollen nubs; then…

But Lord, what was he thinking? Here he was, seated on a trolley with two innocent females, one a precious child, the other a lady who would skewer him with her hatpin if she knew what was going on in his mind. Their transfer stop on Fulton was coming up in a few blocks, and if he didn’t keep a sharp eye out they’d end up at the fish market instead of the park.

His three hours at work that morning had been frustrating. There’d been no mention of Virginia Poole in any of the papers. That meant he couldn’t afford to show his hand by looking into her death himself. His knowledge of the murder and his presence at the scene would make him a prime suspect, ripe for framing. Rutledge could have paid the police to keep quiet for that very reason. The poor woman’s body was probably on the bottom of the bay by now, her flat cleared out and ready to let.

But what had happened to the letter? In all likelihood it was lost. But as long as Rutledge suspected otherwise, there might be a chance of trapping him.

Quint’s new column would appear on page two of this morning’s Chronicle. He’d written it yesterday, in the hope that it might persuade Rutledge to replace the missing funds before certain knowledge came to light. The implication was pure bluff, but Rutledge didn’t know that. Maybe, just maybe, the man would rise to the bait.

Quint had weighed the wisdom of showing the column to Annie. But in the spirit of enjoying the day, he’d decided against it. She’d be bound to worry and would surely lecture him about the risk. Then he would have to argue with her, and the whole outing could be spoiled.

That Annie cared enough to fret over him was something to be pondered. But he had a dangerous task to complete. This was no time for more distractions.

At Fulton Street they caught the trolley that would take them to Golden Gate Park—a vast wonderland of woods, lawns, gardens and cultural amusements, rivaled only by the great parks of New York and Chicago. Laid out in the 1870s on a stretch of barren dunes, it had become the pride of San Francisco. Today the sky was glorious, and Clara was in high spirits. She laughed and chattered all the way, her brown eyes sparkling like sunlit sarsaparilla. He’d be a fool to let his worries keep him from enjoying her, Quint reminded himself. Time passed swiftly. Little girls grew up. And this precious day would never come again.

He swung his daughter off the crowded trolley, and they strolled through the gateway of the park. Quint held Clara’s left hand, Annie her right. Anyone watching might have taken them for a young family—father, mother and child. Quint found the notion oddly comfortable. But then, Annie was a comfortable sort of woman—except when she was wrapped in his cashmere robe, her skin dewy with moisture, her gray eyes lit with reflected flame. Last night the sight of her, the scent and feel of her in his arms had driven him wild. Even today, with Clara as a chaperone, it was all he could do to keep from reaching out to touch her waist, her shoulder, her hair.

“I want to see the ocean!” Clara tugged at his hand. “Where is it?”

“The ocean’s way at the other end of the park,” Quint said. “If we go there first, we’ll be too tired for other things. But we’ll work our way in that direction and see it before we go home.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Quint gave her hand a squeeze. “First, how would you like to see a real live grizzly bear? His name is Monarch.”

As they turned onto the narrow path, Annie dropped behind to give other walkers room to pass. This was Quint’s time with Clara, she reminded herself. She was only along to play nanny for the trip.

Would Quint have kissed a woman he thought of as the nanny?

She gave herself a mental slap. Playing these games would only exasperate her. The truth was, Quint Seavers would probably kiss any attractive female who’d give him the time of day. Was that the kind of man she wanted?

Frank Robinson had courted her faithfully for more than a year. Granted, Frank wasn’t as exciting as Quint. But he wouldn’t go around kissing every woman who came within his reach. He wouldn’t leave his poor sweetheart with child to go gallivanting after gold and adventure. And he certainly wouldn’t be so reckless as to challenge a crooked politician who’d already shown himself capable of murder!

Annie blinked away a tear of frustration. It was time she faced the truth. Quint wasn’t husband material. He was already married—to Hannah’s memory and to his freewheeling existence in this glittering town. If he ever did take a wife, the last woman he’d choose would be a drab little country mouse from Dutchman’s Creek, Colorado.

“Look, Aunt Annie!” Clara darted back to tug at Annie’s skirt. “Over there in that big cage! It’s a bear!”

“Oh, my goodness!” Annie had glimpsed bears in the wild, and once she’d seen a dead one on a wagon. But she’d never been close to a live grizzly. Surrounded by thick iron bars that curved inward at the top, the shaggy brown creature was huge, with little pig eyes, a massive snout and paws that would span a dinner plate. According to the information plaque, the creature had been caught full-grown in 1889 for exhibition as a symbol of the park. Now Monarch was getting old and fat, but the years had not dimmed his majesty. In every way, the grizzly was a spectacular animal.

“Hello, Monarch!” Clara bounced up and down, waving. The bear yawned, showing a pink cavern of a mouth lined with jagged yellow teeth. Clara’s eyes widened.

“He’s probably thinking what a nice little snack you’d make,” Quint teased.

“He can’t get out, can he, Uncle Quint?”

“Don’t worry. Those bars are too strong for him. Besides, if he did get out, I’d wrestle him to the ground and save you!”

Clara giggled. “You’re silly! Isn’t he silly, Aunt Annie?”

“He’s a very silly man,” Annie agreed, but she sensed the undertone of truth in Quint’s words. If any danger threatened his little girl he would protect her with his life.

In the meadow beyond the bear cage, herds of deer grazed behind an eight-foot wire fence. There were elk and moose, as well, and, in a separate enclosure, some kangaroos, an ostrichlike emu and a pair of zebras. In the children’s area there were sheep, goats and piglets, which Clara was allowed to feed and pet. When one baby goat sucked on her finger she squealed with delight.

They strolled through a fairy-tale Victorian greenhouse teeming with ferns, shrubs, vines and flowers from all over the world. Annie was fascinated, but Clara kept racing ahead, eager for the next surprise Quint had promised her.

How like him she was, Annie thought. Restless and brimming with curiosity, unable to resist the call of the mysterious something around the bend. They were two of a kind.

As they left the greenhouse, Quint scooped Clara into his arms. “Close your eyes now,” he ordered her. “Promise me you won’t open them until I say so.”

Clara squeezed her eyes shut. “What if I peek?”

“Then the surprise will be spoiled, and it won’t be as much fun. Promise me you won’t look. Do it now, before we take another step.”

“I promise.” She buried her face against the shoulder of his jacket.

“That’s my girl. It’ll only be for a minute or two.”

Above the dark curls, Quint’s eyes met Annie’s. The tenderness she glimpsed there was so real that it made her throat ache. Clara was far too young to understand the secret of her parentage. For now—and maybe for always—Quint’s fatherly love would remain locked away like a hoard of gold coins that could only be parceled out in small amounts. That was the price he’d paid for leaving Hannah.

The path meandered downhill through stands of willow and towering Monterrey cypress. Tangerine butterflies, lost in mating, fluttered against the emerald foliage. Through the trees, Annie glimpsed a children’s playground with swings, slides and seesaws. Surrounding the sandy play area was a wide band of concrete where older children and adults circled on roller skates.

Clara squirmed in Quint’s arms. “I hear music! Can I look now?”

“Not yet.” Quint chuckled mysteriously. “Hang on, we’re almost there.”

Annie could hear the music, too, a blaring, pumping rendition of what she recognized as the “Blue Danube.” By the time they stepped into the cleared area and she saw the flash of swirling color, she’d already guessed what Quint’s surprise would be. Clara would be ecstatic when she saw it.

“When I count to three, you can look,” Quint said. “Ready? One…two…three!”

Clara opened her eyes, blinked and stared. Her mouth rounded in a little O of amazement.

The carousel was a showpiece. Not only were there horses, but lions, bears, tigers, camels, zebras and swans. They were painted in every hue of the rainbow with glass eyes and gilded trappings. They glided up and down on brass poles as the huge machine revolved beneath its gleaming metal-capped dome, piping out music that sang of circuses and sugar floss and children’s laughter.

Savoring her surprise, Quint lowered Clara to the sandy ground. “So which animal do you want to ride?”

Her eyes danced. “Can I ride them all?”

He grinned. “Not at the same time. Choose the one you want to ride first. Then we’ll see about another.”

“Will you and Aunt Annie ride, too?”

“Certainly we will. First we have to buy tickets. Come on.”

While Quint waited in line at the ticket booth, Annie and Clara watched the turning carousel. As it slowed to a stop, the little girl tugged at Annie’s skirt and pointed. “That red horse! That’s the one I want!”

The horse was riderless for the moment. While Quint rushed up with the tickets, Annie leaped onto the platform and seized the bridle, saving the seat until Quint could clamber after her with Clara. He gave her a wink and a boyish grin. “Good catch, lady,” he muttered, lifting the little girl onto the saddle.

In the next moment they began to move. Quint swung onto the black steed that loped alongside Clara’s. Annie scrambled for a sidesaddle perch on the charging lion behind them. With music blaring and mounts pumping, they were off.

Clara hung on to the brass pole, her laughter floating back to Annie’s ears. Quint glanced over his shoulder. “Uh-oh,” he said. “I think that lion back there is following us. Come on, let’s ride!” He leaned forward over the black horse’s neck. Clara followed his example as Annie growled and roared behind them. The little girl shrieked with delight, laughing so hard that Annie feared she might wet her bloomers.

All too soon the carousel slowed and halted. “I want to ride the lion now,” Clara said. “You can ride my red horse, Aunt Annie.”

“Are you sure you can handle a lion?” Quint hoisted her onto the golden back. “They can get pretty wild, you know.”

Clara gave him a serious look. “I can ride it fine, Uncle Quint. It’s only a pretend lion, you know.”

Annie had to bite her cheeks to keep from laughing at the expression on Quint’s face—first startled, then beaming with fatherly pride. She gave him a smile as he caught her waist and swung her onto the vermilion-painted horse. His hands lingered for an instant as she settled into place. His eyes held hers, triggering a rush of warmth to her cheeks. Then the carousel began to move. Quint remounted and the new chase was on, with Clara roaring and snarling behind them.

By the time the ride ended, Annie was feeling queasy. “You two take another turn if you want,” she told Quint. “I need my feet on solid earth. I’ll wait for you on those benches by the playground.”

While Quint and Clara debated which animal to ride next, Annie tottered over to an empty bench and sank onto the seat. She’d had a problem with motion sickness since she was a little girl. She should have known better than to take that second ride. But it had been so glorious, flying along next to Quint, seeing the boyish merriment in his eyes and the flash of his smile. The memory would stay with her until she forced herself to forget.

Taking deep breaths, she waited for her stomach to settle. On the whirling carousel she caught glimpses of Clara astride a zebra and Quint mounted on a bear. Even the sight made her feel dizzy. Turning away, she glanced around for a distraction.

On the bench beside her, someone had left a neatly refolded newspaper. Annie could see enough of the masthead to recognize it as the San Francisco Chronicle—Quint’s paper. Curious, she picked it up, opened it to the front page.

The headline story was about a fire in a working-class neighborhood south of Market Street. Ignited by a fallen kerosene lamp, the blaze had consumed two boardinghouses and a dry goods store before the fire department managed to get it under control. An elderly man had perished in the flames.

Annie remembered what Quint had told her about the shortage of water for fighting fires. This time the firemen had stopped the blaze from spreading. Without water the fire would have been unstoppable. Hundreds of people could have died. Many more would have lost their homes and possessions.

She was beginning to understand what drove Quint’s crusade against Josiah Rutledge.

Her eyes skimmed the rest of the page. Enrico Caruso, the world’s greatest opera singer, had arrived in town and was staying at the Palace Hotel. Mayor Schmitz had announced some new political appointments. A courtroom fight had broken out over a libel suit, resulting in several arrests. Annie turned the page.

There it was at the top of the editorial section—Quint’s new column. With more interest now, she smoothed the page and began to read.

With each line, fear tightened its cold fingers around her throat.