Hooked (19 page)

“I
f your brother is half as good as you at casting, Miss Brooks, there is strong probability that he fairly won the contest last year,” Mr. Wilberforce commented as Meg flicked the fishing line over the water.

“No doubt about it, Mr. Wilberforce,” she replied without missing her stride.

“But
—if people wonder,” he went on, “if they talk, then don't you think there is a chance he
did
cheat?”

“No I do not.” Meg's elbow tensed with Mr. Wilberforce's last words and she missed her mark.

Not having been snapped back by a flick of her wrist, the fly floated on the downstream current. Meg barely looked at the fuzzy lure as she lowered her lashes to hide the hurt in her eyes. Suddenly, all the pleasure left her.

They'd been having a wonderful time. Why did he have to bring up Wayne? And in a manner that was defaming.

Yes,
people talked about her brother winning that prize money as if he hadn't honestly earned it. But he
had. And he'd done so with spectators in plain view. A person couldn't cheat when he had an audience, much less do anything to rig the contest. Meg had stood on the bank herself and watched him. She'd seen with her own eyes the number of brown trout he'd caught.

“Miss Brooks, I'm sorry if I said anything—”

“I'm sorry, too,” she broke in, unable to bear any attempt at an apology that would be feeble at best. Clearly he had his doubts about her brother's integrity, like so many others in town.

A fish struck her bait and fought to get away. Having been distracted, her hand wasn't properly connected with the simple click reel. Rather than the line letting out, Meg was pulled forward by a small jerk. Just enough to put her off balance, causing her to take a few steps, and end up in the softly lapping creek.

Gaining control of the reel, she looked down. She stood in three inches of water that soaked her skirt hem. Cold seeped into the leather soles of her shoes and her stockings quickly grew wet.

“Give me the fishing pole,” Mr. Wilberforce directed.

Meg did so and walked out of the creek. Her footsteps felt soggy as she made her way to the picnic blanket and sat down. The laces to her shoes lay in a wet knot and she began to work them free. She removed both, then in a discreet turn of her legs, she rolled down her stockings and slipped them off.

Sitting in a man's company with bare feet was a strong breach of etiquette, but Meg remembered the last time she'd sat too long with wet feet. Her toes had numbed and when she got home, she'd had to soak her feet in a warm foot bath to keep from sneezing. Ironically, she had also been with Mr. Wilberforce . . .

With a heavy sigh, she removed her straw hat and tossed it beside her. She was half-tempted to pull the pins from her hair. Her head ached at the scalp where the weight of her bun pulled. Disappointment wrapped around her as she settled back to observe Mr. Wilberforce reel in the line.

He managed to do a fair job, unhooking the fish, then coming toward her. Once at the blanket, he set the pole down.

Sincerity framed his mouth. “Miss Brooks, I wish you'd let me apologize.”

“There's no need.”

“Yes, there is.” He paused, glanced behind her, then: “Wait here.”

As if she were going anywhere.

Meg brought her knees to her chin and fanned the edge of her skirt up her calves a bit. Indecent. But right now, she didn't really care. She gazed down at her toes, watching an ant crawl on the edge of the cloth. Then her vision was filled with yellow. A floral explosion of yellow. A bouquet.

Yellow daisies.

“Allow me to apologize properly.” Mr. Wilberforce bent to one knee. “For you.”

Stunned, Meg barely moved. Then, hesitantly, she reached out for the flowers. “Thank you.”

“They should have been roses.”

Lifting her chin, she shook her head. “No. The daisies are perfect. I forgive you, Mr. Wilberforce.”

The bouquet was a sweet endearment. Meg brought the flowers to her nose and smelled. Light, barely a scent, but wonderful.

As she lowered her hand, one of the daisies fell from the bunch and Mr. Wilberforce picked it up by
the stem. He leaned toward her; she leaned back a little. The bouquet in her hand dropped softly beside her hat.

“I could give you a hundred roses, and none would be as pretty as you are today, Miss Brooks.”

Then he raised the yellow daisy to her jaw and caressed her with the buttery petals. Meg's neck relaxed; her eyes closed. The weight of her hair pulled and then she felt Mr. Wilberforce's fingers sliding the pins free.

She shouldn't let him.

But his fingertips massaged as they slipped hairpins loose; the nape of her neck tingled and she sighed. Her hair tumbled down her shoulders and her back, in what was probably a wave of copper—made more coppery by the high sunshine.

“I've wanted to see your hair like this again. Ever since that first time in my room,” he drawled close to her ear.

Meg's eyes opened slowly. His face was mere inches from hers, the daisy still in his hand, only now sliding over the side of her neck. A question came to mind; though she didn't want to know the answer if it was contrary, she asked anyway. “You don't find the color too . . . too red?”

“No. I like it.” His breath tickled her cheek. “And I like you.”

He cupped her face in his wide hand, and touched his mouth to hers. The kiss ebbed through her, stirring her response. Shyly, her hand rose to his shoulder and rested on the softness of his shirt. Beneath her palm, the hard cords of muscle flexed beneath her touch.

The kiss changed, growing deeper. As if he were urging her to explore him. Meg moved up the tendons of
his neck and buried her hand in his thick jet hair. Silkiness teased her fingers. He smelled like coconut soap and spicy aftershave of exotic fragrance. The combination was heady; an intoxicating mix that made her want to lay back and kiss Vernon Wilberforce forever.

As he sifted his fingers through her hair, she held on to a shiver of pleasure when he stroked the nape of her neck. Then he traced the fullness of her lips with his tongue. She grew still. Startled. This was going beyond a simple kiss. A flirting kiss. A divine kiss.

This was sinful.

But Meg Brooks didn't really care. Not with the way he made her feel. This was too heavenly to describe.

Whether it was her idea or his, Meg found herself laying on the picnic cloth with her skirt caught on her knees and her legs bare. Mr. Wilberforce laid beside her, kissing her softly on the mouth. He ran his hand along the side of her waist, then downward across her hip where the gathers of her skirt bunched together. Then farther to her knee and bare leg. Gently, he grazed his fingertips over her skin; the light skim of his hand brought out gooseflesh.

Much to her regret, he broke their kiss to gaze into her face.

With a crooked smile, he teased, “Miss Brooks, I believe you've lost something again.”

He'd found her out. She supposed there wasn't much chance of fooling him. After all, the thin layer of skirt didn't do much to disguise the fact she was missing something beneath it.

“I haven't
actually lost
my petticoat. It . . .” Words failed her. Even though he'd already seen her in this very predicament before, it didn't make things any more easy to explain.

A woman whose underwear habitually fell off wasn't a woman to be admired—not to mention, that being without it once was perhaps acceptable, twice, she looked like a floozy. “You see, I had a bit of an—”

“Accident,” he finished for her, capping her words with a delightful kiss to her mouth.

She sighed against him.
He didn't care
. How could he when he kissed her like this?

They kissed for an endless entity in time. Meg grew overwhelmed. This was the single most passionate moment of her life and she was poised on the edge of something undefinable.

It was a mad moment.

A moment that would have been her undoing if Mr. Wilberforce hadn't suddenly stopped.

Staring into his scowling face, she asked, “What is it, Mr. Wilberforce?”

Exhaling, he closed his eyes, as if burdened. “I wish you wouldn't call me that.”

“Your name?”

“Mr. Wilberforce.”

Meg's breath hitched in her throat and caught on her lips as she said in a quiet voice, “Would you rather I call you Vernon?”

“I'd rather we . . . but we can't, so I think we should go back to town, Miss Brooks.”

Then he sat up and raked his fingers through his hair, leaving his palms at his temple and his head in his hands.

“Do you have a headache, Mr. Wil—” She cut the name short.

“No, Miss Brooks. Just a pang of conscience in more ways than one.”

Conscience?
He meant scruples, surely.

Meg blushed, suddenly embarrassed. She shouldn't have let him kiss her for as long as she had. Or kiss her the
way
that he had. He'd had to be the one to put a stop to things and now it
did
look like she was a . . .

“Yes, it's been a long afternoon, a lovely afternoon,” Meg said, “but I have to get to home and I'm sure you have to . . . do something, too.”

Sitting up as well, Meg stood. Without a word, she went to the thicket of willows to retrieve her petticoat with the plan of discreetly tucking in her skirt folds while Mr. Wilberforce took his fishing pole apart. When his back was turned, she would put the underwear in the picnic hamper. No point in waving it like a flag—even though he already knew she wasn't wearing it.

When she went behind the trees, she looked at the ground. The green grass and stalks of columbine. The orbs of cottonwood seeds that had floated and landed here and there in white, spiky puffs. It was a wooded scene. An undisturbed one.

Because the petticoat of pristine white with the ruffled and ribboned hem was
gone.

Looking around the area, she told herself she must not have left it where she thought. But after circling around the thicket twice, she had to accept the conclusion it had vanished.

Seemingly into thin air.

Distressed, Meg went back to the blue-checked cloth and sat down.

“What's the matter?” Mr. Wilberforce asked while putting his fishing pole into its case.

“Nothing.” She wouldn't dare tell him.

Her gaze on his broad back as he turned to put his tackle box in order, she
wanted
to tell him. Tell him everything that was in her heart. How she felt about him. How he made her feel. Petticoats were such an insignificant thing when compared to the gamut of emotions rocketing within her.

But she couldn't speak. She feared his response. This was happening too quickly. Not even she understood it.

Meg reached for her stockings without bothering to ring them out. The clammy wet wool stuck to her skin as she rolled each stocking up her leg.

Maybe she'd catch a cold.

Because the ailment that was threatening her right at this instant was far worse. She could be love sick.

And if Mr. Wilberforce didn't catch it, too, Meg would have to put the bedcovers over her head and wish for pneumonia.

*  *  *

“Mr. Wilberforce,” Mrs. Rothman greeted from behind the hotel's check desk. “Did you have any luck today?”

Gage fought back a smile.
Luck?
He'd been lucky enough to kiss Meg, but he'd been unlucky at keeping his emotions below the surface. Dangerous turf to be on. Ground he rarely walked. The harder he tried to ignore what was happening, the more he realized how much trouble he could be in.

He cared about Meg Brooks.

She wasn't just the sister of a man who could be a liar and a cheat, and he didn't like deceiving her. She was a woman with a range of emotions and feelings. She'd shown him many during the time they spent together. But if he let that get in the way, then he
might as well quit writing. Because plain facts were: Sentimentality didn't have a place in journalism.

At least not the kinds of stories Gage wrote.

He had to keep up the ruse. He had to remain focused on why he was in town and what he had to do. If he didn't, Gage might as well tell his editor he was through.

With his fishing pole in one hand and his tackle box in the other, he strode toward the older woman and replied, “Indeed I did, Mrs. Rothman,” in his false and lilting tone. “I was lucky to watch your granddaughter cast and reel in fish. She's quite the champion.”

“I could have told you that.”

“I'm sure you could have,” he responded. “I enjoyed her company today. She is a pleasure.”

Mrs. Rothman looked at him, her eyes studying. “Do you really find her a pleasure?”

Gage stopped, puzzled. “What exactly do you mean?”

“Her speech, her actions, her manners. She's not really herself.”

“I believe she is with me, Mrs. Rothman.” Gage leaned his elbow on the counter and relaxed a moment. “She told me about the luggage cart.”

“Really?” One gray brow lifted. “I'm delighted to hear that. I do like the unpredictable Meg better. She certainly didn't get that trait from Iris.”

“I take it Iris is your daughter-in-law.”

With a merry twinkle in her eyes, she laughed. “How did you know Iris was my daughter-in-law, Mr. Wilberforce?”

“I remember how my own grandmother referred to my mother. It was her tone of voice.”

Mrs. Rothman's smile softened. “Is your grandmother still with us?”

“Sadly, no.”

Gage traveled down a rocky road all of a sudden. Talking about his personal life opened him to discovery. Yet, he was reluctant to let the subject go. He'd been endeared to his grandmother. They'd often corresponded with one another until she'd passed away when he was in college. He'd taken her for granted until now when Mrs. Rothman reminded him of her. How much he missed sparring with his grandmother and reading the wizened wit in her letters.