To Desire a Scoundrel: A Christmas Seduction (Novella) (Southern Heat) Page 4

  Anger flared in Tanner’s belly. Nothing had ever helped him forget her. “She doesn’t need your damn horse. She’s fine. More than fine. Crawford-what’s-it sees to that.”

  “Tan, she didn’t look fine. She looked frantic. Blood on her dress, her hair tangled. Grass, leaves stuck in it. I don’t know what happened today. I won’t ask. But, somehow, you have this all mixed up. I think she cares. More than you believe she does. More than I believed she did. Charlie...oh, never mind.”

  Tanner stared across rolling hills awash in silver moonlight, his heart racing. Still cared? Could it be possible?

  Dammit, was it possible he still cared?

  No. Oh, no. The only women he cared about were women like Doris, who didn’t have the power to rip a man’s heart from his chest. Besides, Kat loved this Crawford person. Hell, she was probably planning her wedding while Tanner stood in some bucolic yard mooning over her.

  “Pain confuses memories, Tan. And, believe me, time will not lift a finger to correct the mistakes. You have to do that yourself.”

  Tanner shrugged. “Confused or not, memories are part of the past, and I don’t want any part of the past.” Flashing amber eyes and cinnamon-scented skin. Damp sheets and teasing smiles. Unreserved laughter and genuine friendship.

  The anguish, the deafening despair, he felt when he realized he lost her. “Huh-uh. No thanks.”

  “If you believe that, Tan,” Adam said, his skepticism evident.

  “Don’t you worry, I believe it.”

  Except, his heart was not so sure.

  Chapter Three

  A fierce gust ripped across the Chase’s porch, loosening Kate’s chignon and slinging strands of hair into her face. She slammed her ruched silk bonnet atop her head. When her mother arrived after closing the millinery, she would take one look at Kate, click her tongue in that bothersome way, and insist her daughter recoil the lopsided lump of hair into some semblance of order. Then she would follow Kate to the nearest mirror to make sure she obeyed.

  Kate took a deep breath and lifted her hand, troubled to note that her fingers quivered. Strangely enough, no elaborate knocker graced the door, just a trailing ivy wreath. She knocked gently. Her mother had mentioned, on more than one occasion, the lack of pretense surrounding the wealthiest couple in Edgemont.

  Kate considered this praise; her mother did not.

  She squared her shoulders, reclaimed the basket, and veiled her trembling hands in the folds of flannel overlapping the edges.

  Calm down, Kate, you can do this.

  Can I? Can I endure an evening watching every woman over twelve and under eighty disintegrate when Tanner’s gaze lands on them? Can I forget he kissed me? Can I—

  “Kate? Kate?”

  Kate shook herself and glanced up to find the door had opened. She smiled at Charlotte Chase through her embarrassment. “Charlotte, hello.”

  “I’m so glad you’re here.” Charlotte beckoned her inside the house, then kicked the door closed with her heel, the swirl of black atop her head flying in all directions. “And call me Charlie, please. No one, outside of your mother and the reverend, call me Charlotte.”

  “Charlie, yes, of course, I remember.”

  Employing little ceremony, Charlie bounced on her toes, plucked Kate’s shawl from her shoulders, and flung the wrap on the hall tree’s highest hook. Helplessly, Kate’s gaze jumped from her hostesses’ tattered sweater to the trousers hugging her lean hips. Charlie caught the look and emitted a laugh more suited to a sailor than a woman whose chin barely reached Kate’s bosom.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll change into an appropriate gown for the party. I think you may be a little early, or heavens, I’m a little late. Can you imagine the reception I would receive from your mother wearing this?” Charlie’s eyes widened as her hand flew to her mouth. She took a step forward. “Hellfire, I didn’t leave her on the porch, did I?”

  Kate released her own indecorous laugh. “No, she had to close the shop.”

  “Good. Oh, no, did I just say that out loud?” A blush worked its way across her cheeks.

  Kate waved her off. “Believe me. I understand. I love my mother, but she is a rather staunch defender of appropriate feminine conduct. If it makes you feel any better, she’s quite disappointed by my refusal to act like a brainless ninny, when the tactic would work so much better for me. The old adage about attracting more flies with honey has been a common theme in our discussions of late.”

  “Yes, she tried pushing that tactic, as you call it, on me when I first met Adam. I didn’t listen, either.” Charlie leaned over the basket and flipped the flannel aside. “Oh, gingerbread, a pecan tea cake. What are these?” She pulled a wrapped ball out, brought it to her nose and sniffed.

  “My mother calls them Secrets. Bon-bons with a note inside. A parlor game they played when she was a girl. A suitable parlor game.”

  Charlie walked backward a step, flipping the ball from one hand to the other. “Parlor games! I hadn’t even considered. And your mother did, bless her heart. She believes I can’t organize a real party, and I guess she’s right. I’m treating this like an indoor picnic, and imagine, she wanted to lend me her china.” She winked and turned, her laughter echoing down the hallway.

  Kate followed close behind, her kid leather boots creating a whisper of sound compared to Charlie’s brogans. Halting at the first open doorway, Kate peeked through the arch. Empty. She released a breath. One room down. Her goal: the kitchen, where she hoped to hide for the evening.

  Her gaze skipped from the rug to the beam ceiling. At the back of the room, a fire blazed in a hearth of tan and black stone. Unusual. Part parlor, part den, furnished with a mixture of furniture and colorful bric-a-brac. Silver sconces bathed the room in warm light—the golden streaks gleaming off polished wood. Kate walked forward, her face appearing in the bullseye mirror hanging above the mantle. She squinted, frowned. Pale skin, bonnet crooked. She pinched her cheeks, yanked the bonnet from her head and smoothed her hair. Took a deep breath, yet her heart continued to skip.

  Why in the world should she care if a man who had once been her lover resided in this house, right this very minute? One would guess that this situation occurred all the time. Polite society frowned upon such things, but a little frowning didn’t keep them from happening. She was as sure of that as she was of the strip of sunlight spilling over her boot.

  Actually, she didn’t need sunlight, she was proof.

  Kate stared hard at her reflection, seeing his face, not her own.

  Her summer with Tanner had been a devilish, captivating period. The only time God had thrown a boulder in her path and she had chosen to climb instead of retracing her steps. Although the boulder had disintegrated halfway up, and she’d landed, quite painfully, on her rump.

  Afterward, she searched for something, someone, to heal her shattered heart. Searched for a thread of happiness. She had looked, assessed, analyzed. At every party, on every street corner, even during preaching, she had appraised men. Looking for the rare jewel, clear facets, and a perfect cut. A jewel to ease her heartache. They were all wrong, every one of them. Too tall, too short. Too skinny, too stupid. Wrong hair color, wrong eye color. Voice too deep, voice too high. A kaleidoscope of dissatisfaction. Vexation alone had encouraged her to accept Crawford’s offer of friendship.

  Marriage offer or no, friendship it remained.

  She tilting her chin and pressed her lips together, forcing a smile. The reflection seemed to project confidence, because her trembling hands and knees were out of sight. She would like to make Tanner suffer this time.

  Desiring a scoundrel had made her life hell.

  She turned, smugly determined, to find the scoundrel watching her from the doorway.

  Kate’s gaze locked with Tanner’s. His eyes were pale, subdued. No teasing light, no wicked sparkle.

  They stood for a long moment, simply staring. She swayed, just a bit in his direction. Kate. She fisted her hands and squeezed hard.
br />   His lips parted, his throat worked. The lock of hair he so despised flopped against his brow. He brushed it back and glanced at his feet. Scuffing his boot along the floor, he fisted his hands by his side. The injured one a much looser fist.

  He looked healthier. Color had returned, in part, to his face. Shadows lurked, but not deep ones like before. The promise of a beard darkened his cheeks and chin. A pristine bandage circled his arm; she could see it peeking from a crisp cuff. He’d disposed of the absurd sling. Definitely his clothing this time as well. A checked waistcoat and dark cutaway coat topped a chest she remembered well. Gray trousers braided in black set off a pair of long legs crossed at the ankle.

  She had almost forgotten how splendidly packaged he was when he wanted to be.

  Tanner smiled, slow and easy. “Like what you see?”

  Kate plucked her basket from the table and looped her arm through the handle. “Just thinking that you’re looking well, Mr. Barkley. New clothing. Interesting for a man who brought no trunks with him. As you said, you do work quickly.”

  His face colored; a muscle in his jaw jumped. “Drop the Mr. Barkley, will you?”

  “So sorry, but I’m not willing to drop anything.”

  He unlocked his ankles and stepped wide, blocking her escape. In her mind, she pictured his mocking smile and tried to recreate the expression on her face.

  The ploy must have worked, because his bottom lip curled, the way it did when he fought a rush of anger. “I wanted to apologize, dammit. For the other day.” He flipped his coattail back and shoved his hand in his pocket. “I...um, the thing I said about the—”

  “The harlot, Mr. Barkley.”

  No reply, only a narrowing of his eyes.

  “I thought so.”

  A white rim appeared around his mouth. “Yes, that.”

  “That?”

  “You know what I mean. String me up if it makes you feel better. I’m sorry is all.”

  “Why apologize for speaking truthfully?” She pinched a silk fingertip and slid her glove from her hand. With effort, she expunged the disquieting picture of Tanner in another woman’s arms. My, he assumed imagining that would make her feel better? Harlot or queen, neither scenario made Kate feel anything but queasy. She tipped her head and forced a smile. “Funny, I didn’t think you had it in you. To tell the truth, I mean.”

  “It wasn’t the truth.”

  “Then, there is no harlot.”

  “Well, no—”

  “She didn’t call you Cowboy or some such nonsense?”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed; a rosy circle bloomed on each cheek. “Well, not like that, no.”

  Kate pinch-removed the other glove. “Oh. You mean you did not, or” —she glanced down, then up, meeting his crystal blue gaze— “you could not.”

  “I couldn’t,” he said between clenched teeth.

  “Interesting.” She shrugged. “I suppose.”

  “Isn’t that exactly how you remember me, Kat? As an inferior lover.”

  She flicked the glove against her palm and locked her smile in place. All the while, her stomach muscles tapped beneath her boned corset. “There have been so many since then, I’m not sure I can accurately recall,” she heard herself say.

  Tanner ripped his hand from his pocket and stepped forward. Kate stepped back. And back again, into a table, the edge jamming into her spine. Closing in, he cupped her face in his palms, his fingers sliding into her hair.

  Either she trembled or he did, she wasn’t sure which.

  “How many, Kat? How many men have known you like I knew you?”

  “Lovers—lovers are easy to come by, Mr. Barkley.” She prayed he could not hear the wild beat of her heart. “Surely you, of all people, are not surprised by that.”

  He searched her face, analyzing her expression. He leaned in, his breath cuffing her cheek. Tobacco and mint, scents that brought to mind every glorious, painful memory. “You’re lying. I can see it. So, I’ll call your bluff. Lovers are easy to come by, sweet, but I don’t think you speak from experience.”

  She pressed back with no success, stuck between hard wood and firm muscle. “How dare you question me when you’ve had a different flavor on your arm every time I’ve—” Easy, Kate. She dropped her gaze to the flawlessly knotted Byron resting in the hollow of his throat. Don’t let him into your mind. Take a deep breath and say something dreadful to get him away from you. She tried, but all that came out was: “You indiscriminate, presumptuous boor. How dare you.”

  “I do dare, Kat. Because, like it or not, I know you.” He shook her, causing her chignon to loosen and send hair tumbling past her shoulders. “I know the taste of your lips, what the inside of your mouth feels like, how arousing your teeth scraping against my tongue is. I know how soft the hair on the inside of your thighs is, that you like your feet tickled and your fingers sucked, that you’re afraid of spiders, but not snakes. I know you’ll eat vanilla ice cream but refuse strawberry every time. I know you play a tough game of chess but throw a ball like a girl, can swim like a fish but hate fishing. I know the color your hair turns in the summer and the way your cheeks pink and freckle in the sun. I know what your face looks like, dreamy and lost, when you tighten around me. I know what color your eyes turn when you go over the edge. And you should know the same things about me, damn you. Ask yourself the same question. How dare you believe what you have believed for two years.” His voice broke, his fingers digging into her skin.

  Dear God, she thought, astounded, bewildered—stunned. She squeezed her hands into fists, snaring wool and silk between her fingers. Should she know him that well? Did she know him that well? She couldn’t think, couldn’t make her mind complete the circle. Not when remembering hurt this much.

  She was a fool. After everything, a fool, to feel anything for this man.

  Tanner tilted his head as awareness lit his face. His gaze found hers, held. His throat worked as he swallowed; his hands slid lower, closing around her elbows. Painful pressure. He opened his mouth, his teeth white, his skin flushed. “Princess,” he said, his voice constricted, raw, as if he’d pinched the word between a crack in a cinder block. His head lowered, the scent of soap and man blocking everything except that…one…word.

  Princess.

  First one glove, then the other, tumbled to the floor. Kate raised her arms, rammed her palms flat against his chest, and shoved him back. He stumbled enough to allow her to pass.

  Princess.

  The smell of burnt sugar assaulted Kate as she dashed into the kitchen. She paused, fighting tears. Turning in a slow circle, she stared at the destruction. Flour and cinnamon were sprinkled upon the countertops like snow with a good portion of dirt thrown in. A rolling pin had been halted from its topple to the floor by a dribbling butter mold.

  Charlie stood among the chaos, a bit soiled, but otherwise calm. She inched a knife across the counter with the tip of her finger, as if she didn’t want to touch it. “Are you any good in a kitchen?”

  Kate picked up the knife, ready to prepare a five-course meal if the activity would banish the dread consuming her.

  “I lost the recipe, you see, and I’m quite sure I can’t go it without one.”

  “Perhaps, that is, I may be able to help.”

  The kitchen door creaked; a board in the floor snapped. “Charlie, I thought you might—you might need this.” Tanner stood in the doorway, Kate’s basket dwarfed in his hand. Deep groves etched his mouth, and his skin stretched taut across his cheeks. For a brief moment, a scorching blue hell burned her from across the room. Then, with a sudden, rapid blink, the heat died out.

  “Kate, your hand!”

  Kate glanced at the glossy bubble spurting from a gash on her finger. Come to think of it, she had felt a sharp prick about the time Tanner intruded. She flexed her hand, a line of blood coursing down her palm. For some reason, the situation struck her as funny, and she laughed.

  Before she had time to think or speak, he appeared by her sid
e. Lifting the knife from her grasp, he wrapped a handkerchief around her finger, his coattail slapping her waist, his breath stealing into her. “Hold this. Tight. Until the bleeding stops. Don’t release the pressure.” Kate brushed his hand aside. Her blood was staining the cloth and the monogram in the corner. TSB. She skimmed her thumb across the letters. Tanner Sloane Barkley. Funny, she had never seen one of his handkerchiefs before.

  Certainly would have raised questions he could not afford to answer.

  “Are you all right?” Charlie asked.

  “I’m fine,” she said, a growing circle staining the cloth as she pressed harder. Her control nearly depleted, she grasped at the last, wishing Tanner did not stand so close that she could see the neat tucks in his trousers, the braid edging the legs.

  “Kat.” A gentle whisper for her ears only.

  She shook her head, focusing on the sliver of apple touching his boot. “Go. Please, leave me alone. Please.”

  A sound, somewhere between a groan and a sigh, rumbled low in his throat. He rocked back on his heels, dropped his hand by his side, and curled his fingers into a fist.

  Why did he have to smell so good?

  So damned familiar.

  Bulky, black boots appeared beside Tanner’s and squashed the apple sliver to bits. Charlie said, “Go on. I’ll take care of this. A dab of my famous, foul Indian ointment, as my dear husband calls it, and she’ll be good as new. Although she will stink. Go help Adam with the Christmas tree. Remember, moist sand in the bucket. And try not to break any branches.”

  The first tear trickled down Kate’s face. Hurry, she silently begged.

  “Go on, Tanner, scat. Adam’s probably tearing his hair out by now.”

  “Fine.” He slapped the door wide, his footfalls echoing down the hallway. The door rocked with disintegrating creaks, finally expiring like a spent breath.

  Kate swiped her hand beneath her eyes and whispered a silent prayer for the force of nature that was Charlie Chase.

  “Men.” Charlie peeled the cloth from Kate’s finger and dabbed at a smudge of blood. “Not bad. Probably won’t even scar, if you’re worried. My miracle salve will fix this up just fine. No need for tears.”