Betina Krahn (15 page)

“Who make plenty of profit as it is,” she responded firmly.

He caught his four-letter rebuttal before it escaped. Purging the blue from his thoughts, he glowered at her ladylike appearance and her privileged surroundings. For all her knowledge of railroads, her
experience
was sorely limited. She might have seen the mighty B&O laying track along an existing Maryland road or across gently rolling Tidewater countryside, but she had absolutely no idea what it took to build a railroad under less-than-civilized conditions.

“Tell me, Miss Wingate”—his voice carried a fierce edge—“how much profit does a man deserve when he sinks his life’s savings into land and equipment and works night and day to lay track … under a searing sun in summer and through life-threatening cold in winter … over loose, stony terrain that refuses to hold a proper grade or through hostile hills that make you chisel one out of a wall of granite … despite shortages of men and equipment and raids by Indians who don’t like what the Iron Horse does to their land and their buffalo … without proper sleep and decent food for weeks at a time … battling foul weather, black flies, and bad water … using
tools so cold your skin freezes to them … and steel so hot it burns your hands to blisters?” He halted long enough to draw breath and his voice lowered to a raw, mesmerizing vibration.

“Just how much profit compensates a man for pouring his guts and dreams out in a long steel ribbon that helps to bind a nation and build a country?”

The heat and conviction in his words left no doubt in Diamond’s mind that every image he conjured had been drawn from his personal experience. He wasn’t talking about just any railroad entrepreneur; he was talking about his own battles with stubborn nature, hostile populations and elements, and brutal working conditions. She thought of the rail construction she had seen and made herself imagine it a thousand miles from anywhere … crews of tough, independent men … impossible terrain … storms, shortages, and prolonged isolation.

The copper eyes poised above her suddenly seemed as clear as Baltic amber. Through them she glimpsed the workings of the inner man. He was the proud, stubborn, powerful sort of man who made big things like railroads happen … one of that unique breed who poured out their dreams along with their blood and sweat and souls into the steel ribbons of Progress that spanned a continent.

In that moment, she sensed that she had touched the essence of him, that she now knew him in ways she could spend a lifetime trying to describe.

“A man who pours his body and soul into building a railroad, who drives railroad crews with his own grit and determination, who braves both the elements and the odds … such a man doesn’t expect to be paid in mere coin.” She watched in dismay as her words struck sparks.

“Oh, no?” He gave an irritable laugh. “So you think the country’s builders ought to unselfishly spend their last dollar
for the greater good, do you? What about Cornelius Vanderbilt, Jay Gould, J. P. Morgan, and John Work Garrett and James J. Hill? Do you honestly think they would have lifted a finger toward building a railroad without the expectation of profit? It takes money to make money, Miss Wingate.” He leaned closer. “You of all people should know that. Progress is a very expensive commodity.”

A shiver raced up her spine as his words echoed down through every layer of her awareness, all the way to her well-guarded core. Warmth welled up unexpectedly in her, softening her posture and pooling in her eyes.

“My exact words on a number of occasions,” she said quietly, searching him. “This is a rare moment, Mr. McQuaid. We actually agree on something.”

Her softening momentarily disarmed him. He was primed for a battle royal and, instead, found himself facing no discernible opposition.

They agreed.

He was drawn to her eyes for confirmation and had the curious sensation of stepping into a rushing Montana stream. That warm, swirling blue drew the heat from his temper, leaving only a steamy, lingering glow of anticipation.

Suddenly the fact that they had come toe to toe and eye to eye while making their points took on an entirely different potential. His head filled with the faint scent of strawberries. Her scent. Every square inch of his skin was suddenly hot and tingling with awareness of her.

“And just what is it that we agree on? Progress or railroads or profit or … something else?”

She tilted her head up, maintaining the visual bridge between them, along which all sorts of breathtaking commerce was passing.

“Progress, Mr. McQuaid. I’m a great believer in progress.”

“Bear,” he reminded her.

“Bear.” Her breath quickened. “And in the men who make progress happen.”

“Men who make progress.” A wicked grin curled one side of his mouth as it lowered toward hers. “Does that include me? Am I making progress?”

“Progress?” Her gaze sought his as she felt his breath bathing her lips. “I believe you’re one of the most
progressive
men I’ve ever met.”

Shameless hussy, some small prune-proper part of her whispered. But the pounding of her heart and the stark new sensitivity of her skin inured her to it.

He dragged his lips lightly across hers, back and forth, mesmerizing her with the “almost” of the kiss that was coming. If she raised her chin just a fraction of an inch, she would fulfill that luscious promise of contact, but she would also end this delectable suspension in time and desire. And it was so entrancing to hover just at the threshold of pleasure, experiencing new sensations of wonder and longing.

Then, with a soft rushing sound that might have been her breath escaping—or his—he ended the suspense and joined their mouths.

It was like being enveloped in a warm cloud, she thought. His lips were surprisingly soft and deliciously expressive against hers. Pleasure radiated through her, beginning at that delicious point of contact and spreading slowly down her throat and through her breast, just under her skin. His hand on the nape of her neck gently guided her closer and she tilted her head to fit her mouth more fully to his.

That soft, caressing motion, that endlessly pleasurable contact, was dizzying. She felt her world spinning, her breath shortening, and her knees going weak.

His free arm slid around her waist and pulled her
against him so that her breasts rested against his chest … that taut, hard-muscled, sun-bronzed expanse that lately had disrupted her sleep but enlivened her dreams. Her hands came up his sides and slid haltingly over him, savoring his hidden shape, relishing the private memory that guided her exploration.

Joy rose in her like a bright bubble. His mouth on hers was soft and hard … commanding and yet entreating … giving as well as taking pleasure.…

Voices and commotion from the front hall broke through her narrowing concentration. Hardwell and Hannah flashed into her mind, then Morgan, then the servants, then the people at the front gates.

He must have heard it, too, for he released her the instant she began to pull away and he jerked back in the same instant. She whirled, caught her balance, fixed her gaze on the door, and walked straight into the arm of the sofa.

“Ohhh.” The impact righted her vision and jolted her mental faculties back into operation. Her bare lips felt slightly swollen and unbearably conspicuous. Her cheeks were hot—probably crimson. Trembling noticeably, she paused to compose herself at the edge of the stairs, just out of sight of whoever was in the center hall.

The sound of her pet name being crowed at the top of a familiar male voice sent a wave of guilty recognition through her.

“Diaaamond Miiine! Where aaare you?”

She stepped out from behind the newel posts and there
in the middle of the entry stood none other than Paine Webster. He was dressed in evening clothes that clearly belonged to a bygone evening, his coat was rumpled, his collar stood open, his shirt was stained, and his tie was missing altogether. He stood with his feet well apart and his legs braced to keep him upright. Behind him, poor Jeffreys and one of the stable hands were trying valiantly to wrestle a huge streamer trunk through the open front doors.

“Paine?” She hurried toward him, but stopped several feet away as she encountered overpowering smells of drink and sweat and stale tobacco smoke.

“There you are!” His voice muted to a low roar at the sight of her. “My li’l Diamond mine. God—you look good enough to eat. Damn good thing we Webs-s-sters aren’t given to gout!” He lunged at her.

“Paine!” She tried to evade him, but even in his inebriated state he had reflexes like a cat. He grabbed her up by the waist and swung her around and around until they both nearly toppled over. She pushed back enough to get her feet on the ground and stop them, but he refused to release her.

“Diamond mine … you haven’t changed a bit.” Paine panted, staring at her with eyes that were dark-centered and struggling to focus. Holding her breath, she pushed back further.

“You haven’t changed, either.” She had to turn her head to breathe something besides alcohol fumes. “It’s all right, Jeffreys.” She spotted the glowering butler. “I’ll see to Mr. Webster myself.” As Jeffreys and the stable hand withdrew, she realized Bear was standing by the staircase, looking as if he might intervene at any second. She worked to remove Paine’s hands from her person. “Please, Paine, I have company.”

The sense of what she said must have penetrated. He
looked up, spotted Bear’s formidable frame, and released her.

“Sorry, sweet th-thing … had no idea.” He pulled down his waistcoat and squared his shoulders, staggering toward Bear with his hand outstretched. “Look f-famil-i-ar, ol’ man. Have we met?” Bear hesitated, glancing at her, before taking it.

“Barton McQuaid,” he said.

“Paine Webs-ster. At your s-service.” Paine bowed so extravagantly over their joined hands that he was in danger of toppling over.

Diamond rushed to put her arm through his and steady him. “Why don’t we go into the drawing room and have a seat.” With a wince of apology in Bear’s direction, she steered Paine toward the drawing room. But halfway to the door he remembered something and reversed course, dragging her with him.

“Almos-st forgot. This is-s for you, Diamond mine.” He pulled her back to the trunk, fumbled with the latch, and finally threw back the lid.

Inside was fabric, a veritable king’s ransom in exotic and remarkable textiles. Embroidered satins, brocades, lush moirés, and sheer silk veiling. Most of it was cream or ivory, and she watched with mounting dread as he reached into the trunk and pulled out one bolt after another, holding them up to her and sending the sheer fabrics billowing and the heavier ones unrolling like a priceless carpet on the floor around her. By the time he reached the halfway point in the trunk, she knew exactly what was happening and tried to stop him.

“It’s all beautiful, Paine. But please”—she reached for his arm—“you’re in no condition—”

It was too late.

“For your wedding gown and trous-s-seau. Spent weeks
s-searching the markets of Singapore. Th’ finest s-silks money can buy. Nothing but the bes-st for my bride.”

He reeled to his feet and took her by the shoulders. His face was naked with need, but not the sort of need a man feels for a woman. This was a starved-child look, a boyish plea for approval and affection. Diamond’s distress at witnessing it must have been disastrously visible, for he quickly loosened his grip on her and resumed his devil-may-care manner.

“Talk makes me thirs-sty,” he declared, heading for the liquor cabinet in the drawing room.

She looked at the lush array of fabrics spread at her feet, at the back of the man who had brought them halfway around the world to her, then at the man who had only moments ago held her in his arms. Flushing with confusion, she headed for the drawing room and stopped just inside the door. Paine had invaded their little-used liquor cabinet and was pouring a huge tumbler of brandy.

“Have you had anything to eat?” she asked. “We just finished dinner and it would be no trouble to—”

“No, no … wouldn’t put you out. Not hungry, really. Just thirs-sty.” He flashed her a wicked grin and raised his glass in salute as he sauntered drunkenly to the sofa, perched on the arm, and slid down it to a seat.

“Have you been home lately? When was the last time you ate?”

“What day is-s-it?” he asked with an unfocused grin.

She decided to take the glass from him, but he read her intention, downed the rest in a few gulps, and surrendered it to her empty.

“So, who’s your friend over there—whas-s his name again?” Paine asked, squinting at Bear, who was leaning a shoulder against the door frame and glowering. “Anyone your future hus-sband should know about?”

“Paine Webster,” she said, glaring at him. “As soon as
you pass out, I’m going to scoop you up, pour you into your carriage, and send you straight home.”

“Heartles-s-s creature.” He grinned as he felt the numbing effect of the brandy creeping over him. “You’d never d-do that to me, sweetness. You love me too much.” When she forcefully folded her arms, he smiled. “Do me a favor, Diamond Mine. S-see my clothes are cleaned and p-pressed? Think what a shock it will be to th’ family to see me hauling home after a three-day b-bender, looking as neat as a new p-penny.” He smiled and closed his eyes as if relishing the image. His eyes didn’t reopen.