Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) (36 page)

The scar marring Aaron's otherwise perfect profile stood out like lightning on his thunderous brow.

"Then you confess you're a thief
and
a spy? What stellar credentials." He turned abruptly, narrowing his gaze at Silver. "My dear, you've been rather quiet. No righteous indignation on the good duke's behalf? No pious disbelief? I find that odd."

Dread rippled down her spine. "Well, I hardly know
what
to say, Aaron. You seem to have made up your mind."

"Indeed?" The look he gave her was as sharp as splintered glass. "Pray don't tell me you turned down my suit out of some misguided affection for this fugitive?"

"'Misguided' is no longer Silver's state of mind," Rafe interjected snidely. "Otherwise, she would still be carrying a torch for you."

"I see."

Silver squirmed, biting back her protest. She wished Rafe hadn't said that. She wished he'd had the good sense to let her soothe Aaron's pride.

The lengthening silence stretched her nerves almost beyond enduring. But Aaron wasn't beaten. She knew his look, his smile. She watched uneasily as he pulled a sterling cigarette case from his coat.

With all the time, all the nonchalance in the world, he flicked a broken smoke into the pond. An inexplicable chill crept over her, seeming to rise from the water. She was reminded of her ride through the pine stumps, when she'd thought something unnatural was stalking her.

"My, this is an awkward situation," Aaron drawled, at last selecting his cigarette. He struck a match.

Despite the absence of wind, it blew out.

"I propose. The jealous lover eavesdrops..."

He struck a second match. It, too, blew out.

He frowned.

So did Silver. She was stunned to think she'd seen the sneer of an Indian shaman in that last micro-second of match flame

"You might have told me, Silver, that you'd developed your mother's taste for riffraff," he jeered, reaching for a third match. "And speaking of your father, I wonder what Max would say if he knew his daughter was fornicating—with an outlaw—under his very own roof. Or perhaps more to the point—" the match flared triumphantly between his thumb and forefinger this time "—I wonder what a federal marshal would say."

Silver's heart knelled in his maleficent silence. Rafe glowered. Before either of them could speak, though, the match exploded like a miniature firecracker. Flames engulfed Aaron's cuff, and he yelped, staggering backwards. Silver gaped. Before she could even think to help him, his forearm was ablaze, and he was frantically beating it out against the stone wall.

Smoke curled from the tatters of his sleeve. His hand was raw and blistered. Cursing vehemently, he clutched his wounds beneath his arm, his eyes wild, his chest heaving.

She gaped as he rounded on her.

Rafe, fortunately, had the presence of mind to step between them. "My," he told Aaron blandly, "how apropos that you should smolder like a rotted carcass. An eternity of the same no doubt waits for you in the hereafter."

"Is that a threat, Jones?"

"I don't waste time on threats, Townsend."

Aaron's healthy fist clenched, and he shook, clearly struggling for self-control. Silver could hear his teeth grinding from nearly ten feet away.

"I suggest, Silver," he said in a low, dangerous voice, "that you reconsider your decision not to marry me. It might prove most detrimental to your friend."

Eyes as black as a tomb stabbed into hers. She recoiled.

"Spare us the melodrama, Townsend," Rafe bit out acidly. "No one's applauding. Simply make your exit, stage left."

Aaron's features contorted, noxious with malice. The threat that crackled between the two rivals was visceral, made even more savage by its absence of sound.

Abruptly, Aaron turned. To Silver's queasy relief, he stalked off the bridge into the garden.

Tremors wracked her whole body. Weakly, she leaned against the bridge. God help her. God help
Rafe.
Aaron made no idle threats.

She pushed herself away from the railing. Too agitated to stand still, yet too apprehensive to follow the path where Aaron might be lurking, she hurried toward the screened pavilion. She didn't see Rafe fall into step beside her.

"Silver?" His voice was a compassionate murmur as she fumbled, unseeing, with the latch. When his hand touched hers, gently opening the door, she blinked dumbly at those supple fingers, so like—and yet unlike—Aaron's. It occurred to her that if she yielded to Aaron's blackmail, she'd have to let him come to her bed. But how could she bear his touch, knowing what he'd done to Amy? How could she even pretend affection for a man who'd nearly raped her; a man who had quite possibly murdered his brother and the congressional candidate who'd been his rival?

Then again, how could she not pretend, if Rafe's freedom—or even his life—were at stake?

She raised beseeching eyes to Rafe's. Guilt crisscrossed his features. He withdrew, dropping his arm to his side, and the disappointment she felt nearly crushed her.

"Rafe, I—"

"I should go. And get Max. You're safe now, Silver."

"No!"

He hesitated, and she swallowed. How could she possibly be safe with Benson in the house? How could anyone be?

As if to verify her fears, she remembered Benson's argument with his bruised acquaintance. No doubt that man
had
been Aaron. No doubt he hadn't wanted her asking questions about Fred's fistprints on his jaw, so he'd waited until he'd healed before playing the repentant suitor!

God. Just how long had Benson been working for Aaron, anyway? Since he'd first arrived in Aspen three years ago, seeking her out for employment?

"Rafe please. It's not safe. Benson's been spying for Aaron, and... and I don't want you to go."

"I'm not afraid of Benson," he murmured.

"I know, but..."
Maybe you should be.
She bit her tongue on the words. She'd learned that challenging Rafe only made him more determined to do precisely what he shouldn't. "I don't want to be alone."

His gaze flickered behind her, and his chest rose and held. She guessed his thoughts: that the pavilion was a lovers' paradise, with its fragrant arbor of laurels and honeysuckle, its plumply cushioned chaise longue, and its breathtaking view of mountains bathed in moonglow.

"Are you sure?" he asked huskily.

She nodded, forcing her feet to move, to take the first step into Aphrodite's lair. She thought she heard him sigh. And then the door swung closed behind him with a soft click.

Goose bumps sprinkled her spine to her toes. She was alone with him. It wasn't the first time, and yet it was different somehow beneath the enchantment of the moon and the whispery soughing of the mountain laurels.

He stood etched in pewter shadow, his eyes glittering like some hungry jungle cat's behind his properly civilized mask. He kept his distance, and yet his very presence was a primal calling. It seemed to draw those subtle, screened walls closer around her.

A thrill gusted through her to feel herself so caged. She wanted to forget her fears. She wanted to trust again the way she'd trusted a lifetime ago, before Aaron's harsh lesson had stripped her of every heartfelt desire to be loved.

"What are we going to do?" she said anxiously.

His smile was mirthless. "If you mean about Townsend, then I can tell you what
I'd
do. I'd lock myself in the Pitkin County Jail before I'd
ever
let you stoop to that bastard's blackmail."

"That is not an option," she countered hastily, horrified he'd even suggest such a thing.

"You're right," he said more gently. "Because it's not going to come to that."

She swayed, raised a shaking hand to her forehead. She wished she had his confidence. But then, he didn't know Aaron like she did. Had she lost her mind, strolling with him in the garden?

"Thank you," she blurted out. "For coming after me. It was stupid of me to come here alone. With Aaron, I mean," she added hastily, feeling her cheeks start to burn. Lord, did she stammer like this in Philadelphia? "I knew he was dangerous."

"Did you?"

She bit her lip and nodded, wishing she could read the mind behind those perfectly unreadable features. "Please don't think the worst. I was trying to put the past behind me. Coming here was a sort of... of test to see if I could feel safe again."

She gulped a breath, nervously twisting the edges of her shawl. Speaking the truth, the full truth, was even harder than she'd thought it would be.

"I've been afraid of Aaron for a long time," she confessed, forcing the words out, syllable by reluctant syllable. "Papa doesn't know, and I'd hoped he'd never find out because of what I did. Aaron's not entirely to blame, you see. I... uh, encouraged him. I was in love with him then. And I thought he loved me. We used to steal away at night, to the garden. I thought I could trust him and that we would marry. But he got impatient and—" Her voice broke.

"Silver." He moved closer, his voice throbbing with concern. "You don't have to tell me anything, if it's too painful—"

"Yes." She drew a shuddering breath. "Yes, I do. Don't you see? All these years, I've kept his secret. By keeping silent, I've given him a sort of power over me. But I'm not willing to live in fear anymore, Rafe. He's a horrible, cruel, and
dangerous
man. And the only way to stop him from hurting me—or anyone else—is to speak the truth. Even if... even if I have to go to jail."

"Jail?"
He looked as incredulous as he sounded. "Silver, if you're trying to tell me Townsend forced himself on you—"

"No," she said weakly. "I stopped him. The garden wall had crumbled a bit, and when he threw me to the ground, there was a brick nearby. I asked him to stop. I begged him to, but he ripped open my bodice. I couldn't break free. I grabbed for the brick and..."

She trembled, hating herself for the weakness, but unable to quash the rush of fear the memories spawned. "I hit him. It was awful. Blood was everywhere." She wiped shaking hands on her skirts. "When he fell beside me, I thought I'd killed him. Or at the very least, blinded him. That's why he has that gash above his left temple.

"I guess I was lucky," she whispered hoarsely. "He wasn't seriously hurt, but I was mortified by what I'd done. It never occurred to me I wasn't to blame. When he regained consciousness, he told the doctor he'd been attacked by ruffians. He told me privately if I ever tried to disprove his story, he'd have me locked in the state penitentiary for attempted murder."

Rafe battled an all-consuming rage. If anyone was going to a penitentiary, it would be him—for breaking Townsend's neck with his bare hands. "Silver, for God's sake, you were acting in self-defense."

"I know, but who would have believed me? He was a powerful man. And Papa was poorer than dirt back then. So... I left town. After five years passed, I didn't think I was important enough for Aaron to come looking for me. But now he knows Papa has money, and..."

A sob bubbled past her lips.

"Sweetheart, don't," he murmured as she covered her mouth with her hand. "Townsend's not going to hurt you or Max. I won't let him."

He gathered her to his heart, the old futility gnawing at his innards. Silver needed protecting. Just like his mother had needed protecting. He didn't want to fail Silver the way he'd failed his mother, but what could he do? A conniving, cold-blooded bastard like Townsend wouldn't consider a penniless flimflam artist any more of a threat than Max.

"Townsend can't force you to marry him, Silver," he soothed, hoping the bastard's logic was as sound as his own. "Not if your father has any say in the matter. And Townsend wouldn't dare put you through the humiliation of a trial. He doesn't want your story going public any more than you do. He has too much to lose."

"That's not what I'm afraid of," she whispered raggedly, her breath warm and moist against the hollow of his throat. "I'm afraid he'll hurt you."

He hugged her tighter. "That's not going to happen," he said firmly.

"But you don't understand! People who stand in Aaron's way seem to... to have fatal accidents. Like his brother!"

An icy premonition bit into Rafe's bones. Still, years of playacting enabled him to keep the uneasiness from his voice. "You needn't worry about me, darling. Townsend's not playing with a law-abiding innocent this time. If he wants an express ticket to hell, I'll be only too happy to see he gets it."

"No! Rafe, please don't challenge him to a gunfight—"

He plucked her bloodless hand from his shirt front and pressed a kiss into her palm. "High-noon showdowns aren't my style, sweetheart. No, I rather like outsmarting the Townsends of the world—and watching them hang themselves with their own greed."

She averted her eyes. "Well, I can't say he doesn't deserve it. And more. It's just that..." She sighed, a long, poignant spiral of sound that reverberated to the bottom of his soul. "It's just that he's so violent. He scares me, Rafe. What he's capable of scares me. And I don't want to be afraid anymore: of him, of walks in the garden, of... of the consequences."

He rubbed her chilly fingers between his hands. "I know," he said softly.