Midnight Lover (27 page)

Except there was one thing wrong with that statement. She took a long sip and shivered as the rum seared its way down her throat and into her belly. In the eyes of the law—if not in the eyes of God—she was no longer Caroline Bennett; she was Caroline Bennett Reardon, and nothing on earth would change that.

Not so long as she wanted to keep all that was rightfully hers.

Music and laughter rang out from the Golden Dragon as a male voice boomed, "Drinks on the house for everybody!" Caroline sat down on her bed, legs curled beneath her, and drank some more rum. Jesse Reardon was probably over there, installed like a king in that velvet-and-satin room with the enormous bed that any decent God-fearing man would know had seen a lot of night-time visitors.

She could just imagine him, naked beneath the ruby-red sheets, puffing on one of his big fat cigars while Jade entertained him, doing she-dared-not-think-what.

He had barely waited for the ink to dry on their marriage certificate and the agreement before he bounded down the stairs of the Crazy Arrow and disappeared into the crowd of holiday celebrants leaving Caroline to pay the judge for his services. Why couldn't he have shared a glass of wine with the Fitzgeralds and Abby, and tried to put a veneer of respectability on this sham of a marriage, if only for a few minutes? Would it have been so difficult a task?

"Who needs you, Jesse Reardon," she said aloud, scrambling across the feather bed to pour herself another rum. She certainly didn't. Why, she—

She stopped, clutching her tumbler of spirits, at the sound of footsteps in the hallway outside her door. Please don't let it be Abby, determined to save Caroline from the horrors of rum and loneliness. She didn't believe she could cope with the girl's earnest concern tonight of all nights.

"Go away, Abby," she said in response to a knock.

"Open the door, Car-o-line."

She jumped at the sound of Jesse Reardon's voice, spilling rum on the coverlet. "Go away," she repeated, a bit less forcefully this time.

"I got somethin' for you, darlin'."

She leaped from the bed and ran to the door, making certain the lock was bolted. "Oh, I can just imagine what you have for me." More papers to sign, no doubt, papers that would systematically strip her of everything she owned.

"I got us a wedding dinner."

"I don't believe you," she said uncertainly, although her stomach rumbled in anticipation.

His laugh was low and delightfully enticing. "Chicken with biscuits and gravy."

"You're a cruel man, Jesse Reardon."

"Come on now, darlin'. Your wedding supper's gettin' cold."

Caroline unbolted the door and cautiously opened it a crack. "I don't see anything."

"You're a real suspicious gal, Car-o-line. Open up wide and I'll bring it on in."

It must be the rum, she thought, as she opened the door wide and stepped aside. Certainly she wouldn't have invited the devil himself into her room if she hadn't lowered her defenses by sipping the potent liquid.

Caroline clapped her hands together in delight as Reardon walked in, carrying a tray piled high with covered dishes. "You were telling the truth!"

He placed the tray atop her dresser and arched a dark brow. "I don't think I much like the surprise in your voice, darlin'."

Reardon lifted the silver lid from the largest platter and the aroma of succulent chicken tantalized her nostrils. A wave of dizziness washed over her and she gripped the doorframe for support. She hadn't realized how hungry she was; coupled with the rum, it was a potent combination.

"Where on earth did you find such wonderful food?" she asked, closing the door to her room.

"Aunt Sally's."

"Really, Mr. Reardon! I had the misfortune of dining at Aunt Sally's once and I doubt if the woman is capable of cooking anything that did not originate in a tin can."

"You got a mighty harsh opinion of the old gal."

"Just of her culinary skills." She stepped closer and the aroma intensified, causing her mouth to water. "This is not Aunt Sally's cooking," she declared. "Where did you get it?"

"I don't think you really want to know, darlin'."

"But I do, Mr. Reardon. If someone in Silver Spur is capable of such fine fare, I'd like to know so I can hire her away for the Crazy Arrow."

"Old Lucy cooked it up."

His eyes were twinkling a bit too brightly for Caroline's taste. "And who, pray tell, is Old Lucy?"

He gestured over his shoulder. "Cook at the Golden Dragon. Want to meet her?"

The memory of the mirrors and satin and flocked velvet wallpaper was still fresh and Caroline shook her head. "Thank you, no."

He shrugged and then, to her amazement, sat down on her bed, put his feet up on the coverlet and met her eyes. "Anytime, darlin'."

The rum again. Certainly she was imagining this terrible sight. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Reardon?"

"I said: anytime, darlin'."

"That's what I was afraid you said." She grabbed his feet and pulled. "Get up! Get off my bed this minute!"

He captured her hands in his. "Watch the spurs, Car-o-line. Don't want to cut up those pretty hands of yours."

Rum on an empty stomach had taken its toll and she tumbled onto the bed right next to him. "Let go of me this instant!"

"Just doin' this for your own good."

She lashed out with her foot and caught him in the shin.

"Damnation, gal! You gone crazy with hunger?"

"I'm furious, is what I am!" She struggled to her feet and smoothed the bodice of her gown with short, angry movements. "How dare you push your way into my room under the pretense of offering me dinner and then try to ravish me!"

"Ravish you? What in hell are you talkin' about."

She gestured toward the bed. "I think you know exactly what I mean, Mr. Reardon."

"I wanted you to serve up supper, gal, not yourself."

"A likely story, Mr. Reardon," she sniffed.

He swung his long legs over the side of the mattress and stood up. "Don't you think it's time you stopped callin' me mister, Car-o-line?"

"You're evading my question, Mr. Reardon. Will you not admit you came here intending to seduce me?"

He glanced toward the tray piled high with food. "It may not be real flattering, darlin', but I came here plannin' to feed you supper."

"Can you not be honest for once in your life?"

"You want the truth?" He advanced toward her.

She nodded, taking a step backward. "It would be a most refreshing change."

"I got to thinkin' about it and, this being a holiday and all, figured we should celebrate our wedding."

"Wedding?" she asked with a sharp laugh. "We didn't marry, Mr. Reardon, not really. All we did was sign some papers and go on about our business. Certainly nothing we should celebrate." Liar! she thought. You were just sniffling into your glass of rum with loneliness that the occasion had come and gone with so little fanfare.

His hands slid up her arms and came to rest possessively on her shoulders, holding her fast against the edge of the bed. "Independence Day," he said, lowering his head toward hers. "Whole damn country's celebratin'. Why shouldn't we?"

Why shouldn't they, indeed? The room was dark, save for the weak flicker of light from the gas lamp on the wall near the rocking chair and the warmth of his breath against her cheek was both thrilling and comforting—although, for the life of her, Caroline could not figure out how two such different emotions could co-exist.

But, they did and as Jesse Reardon moved his hands lightly across her shoulders and stroked her back, she felt herself swept up into his strong arms and gently placed upon the mattress. How easily her body melted into the softness of the feather bed, eased by rum and the seductive promise of his touch.

"This isn't right," she murmured as he pressed his lips against the hollow of her throat. "We shouldn't—"

"Quiet, darlin'." His words vibrated sweetly against her skin then faded away as those words became kisses. The neckline of her dress dipped below her collarbone and his mouth found and claimed each inch of hot and tender skin exposed.

She lay beneath him, arms at her sides, her limbs so heavy she felt she would be pinned there forever, captive to the sweet swell of sensation flooding through her body.

Deftly he unpinned her hair and the heavy tresses drifted across the pillows. He smelled sharp and clean, of leather and spice and pure male strength and desire sprang to life inside her belly, full-blown and dangerous and frighteningly out of control.

This simply couldn't be and she had to tell him so.

"Stop," she said, turning her head away from his kisses. "Please..."

He ignored her and, cradling her face between his large hands, he brought his lips to hers, his mouth open and hot and hungry.

"No!" The word went from her mouth to his, more thought than sound, and she brought her hands up between them, pushing against his chest. Again he ignored her, pinning her to the bed with the weight of his body, her hands captured like helpless birds between them. "Please, no..."

But he seemed not to hear her as his hands stroked her back and hips and then teased the undercurve of her breasts. "...sweet...so soft and sweet and good..." Words of love, dark and secret and perilous, surrounded her, imprisoned her, curled inside her ear, threatening to become part of her.

She struggled to find her footing on the quickly shifting terrain. "We can't—" Dear God, but his hands were hot and knowing... "It isn't right—"

Those knowing hands found the mother of pearl buttons that Abby had done up only a few hours ago and she felt the sudden rush of night air against her bare skin. "It couldn't be more right, Car-o-line. Don't you remember? This is our weddin' night."

She'd tried so hard to pretend it didn't matter, to pretend the wedding was no more than an insurance policy meant to protect the things she owned. But it seemed she'd inherited more than her father's wanderlust and thirst for adventure; she had inherited his romantic nature, as well.

Suddenly all the feelings she'd kept at bay since her father died broke free of her control, and to her utter humiliation, Caroline burst into tears.

#

Jesse Reardon was normally quick on the trigger but Caroline had caught him unawares. He'd been drowning in the flowery smell of her golden hair. His body had been on fire for her, burning hotter than he'd ever known it to, but the flames went out the second he saw her tears.

"What the hell—?"

"This isn't a wedding night," she cried, kicking at him wildly as he quickly rolled just beyond reach.

"Whoa, darlin'!" He rubbed his knee where the tip of her kid slipper had caught him. "This ain't exactly a friendly way to treat your new husband, now is it?" He'd always known fillies were a mite skittish but this gal put them all to shame.

Tears coursed down her cheeks as she glared at him, all fuss and fury. "You're not my husband, Mr. Reardon. You're nothing but a monster who would take a simple business arrangement and twist it to suit his own base, animalistic needs."

"There you go again, Car-o-line, using all those fancy words you don't need. You stood before the judge willingly, didn't you?"

She nodded, tears still streaming.

"Nobody twisted your arm when you said 'I do,' did they?"

"No," she said. "Not literally."

"Judge Fitzgerald blessed our union."

She sniffled. "Well, yes, but—"

He opened his arms wide and moved toward her. "Like it or not, darlin', we're married and this is our weddin' night."

For all her womanly tears she was still the same hot-headed gal he'd first met that day the stage rolled into town and she ducked away from him and moved toward the window. "Where's my white dress, Jesse Reardon? Where's the church with all the flowers?" She points to her bare left hand. "Married women have wedding rings, Jesse. Where's mine?"

"You had a ring." He was sure he remembered slipping a band on her finger that evening. "Where'd it go?"

"You fool! I can see how much attention you paid, no matter how much you claim this wedding meant to you. That ring belonged to Abby."

"So where is it?"

"Back where it belongs, on a chain around Abby's neck."

That flood of tears started up again and to Jesse's dismay, he found himself wanting to brush them away. Caroline Bennett was a strong woman—after all, what other woman would ever have stood up to a man like him? Hell, few enough men had that kind of gall. To see her reduced to tears bothered him more than it had any business to. Her slender arms were wrapped around her chest and with her blue eyes wide and her delicate chin trembling, she made him almost wish things were different between them, that he could take her in his arms and offer her comfort—if he only knew how.

Turning, he rummaged through the top drawer of her nightstand until he found what he was looking for. "Here," he said, handing her a linen handkerchief. "Wipe your eyes."