Behind a Lady's Smile (5 page)

He placed the key in her hand and gruffly said, “I ordered a bath for you. Just hang your broken leg over the edge so it doesn’t get wet, okay?” He hesitated a moment, his eyes dropping to the bundle she held clutched to her chest. “You know where everything goes?”

It took Genny a moment to catch his meaning; then she looked down at her purchases—and blushed. Even she knew it wasn’t proper for a man to mention, well, unmentionables. “I believe it will come back to me.”

 

Mitch watched her disappear behind the door and let out a long sigh. All the hair ruffling in the world, all the cute little nicknames he called her, wouldn’t stop her from being a woman. Though God knew he was trying. The only thing he had going for him was the fact he was fairly certain she had no idea how pretty she was.

Those nights on the trail, the long, torturous nights after they’d talked and talked, when she’d snuggle up beside him for warmth, had nearly undone him. He never would have suggested bringing her to Sacramento if he’d known halfway there he’d start thinking of her as a female. She was just so darn cheerful all the time, so full of life and light. He never had been one to stand a woman’s chatter, the nonstop blather of a female who talks and talks but never actually says anything.

His old sweetheart had been like that, talking, talking, until one night as she was droning on about how one friend was flirting with a man she oughtn’t and how that didn’t reflect well on her parents, he had an epiphany. Or rather, he had a daydream of stuffing her mouth full of his cravat. And that’s when he’d pictured his days in the years to come, the nights at the dinner table, those times when they wouldn’t be naked in bed with him taking his pleasure. When they weren’t in the bedroom, he’d still be with her, still have to listen to her. And that’s when he’d decided New York really wasn’t the place for him. He was heading west.

Genny, though, she was different. She didn’t talk just to hear her voice. When she talked, she was giving him little pieces of herself, enough to let him know she was scared to death of what awaited her in London, enough to know that selling her mother’s jewelry wasn’t as easy as she’d made it seem. The funny thing was, she didn’t realize what she was telling him; she never came right out and said it. It was just the things she said, like how she remembered looking at her mother and thinking she looked like a princess, with her pretty ear-bobs and her sparkling necklace.

Then, when they were done talking, the torture would begin. The night would inevitably get cool, the fire low, and as the hours passed, she’d get closer and closer until she was pressed up against him, her head nestled by his arm or his back or his side. Holy God, he deserved sainthood for keeping his hands off her, for never letting her know even a tiny bit how her soft, warm body pressed up against his was making him crazy. He never let her be in front of him, didn’t want her to feel just how much she was affecting him, didn’t want to be tempted to press even closer to relieve some of that terrible ache that had kept him awake.

And now he faced the wonderful prospect of imagining her in her bath, of hearing her sigh in ecstasy as she lowered herself into the warm water, of thinking how her breasts would look, slick with water and the fancy soap he’d bought for her.

The walls between the rooms were thin, thin enough so that he knew when she stood up from her bath, and he tried, God knew he tried, not to envision how she looked toweling herself dry. And then, blessed silence. She must be decent by now, was perhaps smiling at her reflection in the mirror, seeing how she looked dressed as she ought to be dressed.

Mitch had taken his own bath, a quick dip in tepid water to wash off the trail dust. His bath had cost fifty cents, hers, two dollars, a price determined by the size of the tub and the amount of water, no doubt. Still, he was clean and felt more human again. Funny how a man could get used to his own stink when he was on the trail long enough. When he was in Omaha, he bathed and shaved daily. He looked in the mirror, frowning at his beard, rubbing a hand over it. He rarely shaved on the trail, often returning to Omaha with an impressive beard that was perfect for the winter months.

But he was heading back to New York, where it would be hot and humid, and a beard might not be the best idea. Digging through his pack, he pulled out his shaving kit and set to work, first trimming, then shaving. He always enjoyed the moment when he finished and stepped back to see the stranger in the mirror.

He was turning his face this way and that, when a knock sounded on his door. He couldn’t help but smile, suspecting it was Genny on the other side. The two of them would look like very different people from the two who’d walked into the hotel.

He went to the door, then stopped, rehearsing in his head what he was going to say:
You look real nice, squirt, just like a girl
. Yes, that was perfect.

But when he opened the door, what he found on the other side stunned him, and he couldn’t utter the blasé words he’d planned. She’d piled all that beautiful blonde hair atop her head in an artless style that suited her far better than the girlish braids she’d worn since he’d met her. And the dress fit her the way it ought, hugging breasts that were surprisingly full and accenting a waist that curved in, making her female figure even more pronounced. Hell, he’d known she was a girl, he just hadn’t realized how
much
of one she was. He swallowed on a mouth gone dry.

“Well, look at you,” he said, stupidly.

She beamed him a smile as if he’d just told her she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

He gave a hard jerk of his head. “It suits you.”

“Thank you. It does feel a bit strange, but somehow not. And you, look how fine you look with your beard off. At first I thought I got the wrong room.”

He brought up a hand self-consciously and rubbed his hand across his clean-shaven jaw. “If we’re going to New York, I suppose I should look the part.”

“Do men not have beards in New York?”

It was questions like this that made him realize how little she knew of the world. “They do, but they’re a bit more neat and trim.”

“You look quite respectable,” Genny said, tilting her head.

It was a fight not to smile because just those words made him feel as if he was something special, something other than the son of an actress and a father he’d never met.

Mitch suddenly wanted to be in a room full of people, noisy, raucous people. And men. Men who drank whiskey, talked about horses and mules, and bet each other on how far they could spit a watermelon seed.

“Come on, let’s go show that jeweler your pretty dress and then go find a place to eat.”

 

Sacramento had two types of establishments—the ones that catered to bankers and the ones that catered to hard-working men. Mitch chose the latter. He was in no mood for polite company, for putting on airs, for making certain he was using the right fork. He’d been in those places, and they were fine, but he needed a place where no one would care if his boots were dusty or his jacket frayed. He hadn’t brought his dress clothes with him on the trail; that was one of the beauties of his summers. For a long moment, he felt a sharp twinge of regret. Did he really want to go home to New York, to a life where every day would be the same, where a stroll through Central Park would be the closest thing he found to the wild? He figured he could deliver Genny to her family and then go back to his old life if he wanted to. Or he could start his own studio and settle down. That’s what he’d planned all along. That’s why even when those girls in Omaha batted their eyes at him, he ignored them. He wasn’t about to drag a girl away from her family to New York. If he were perfectly honest, there were times he missed the city, missed the sounds and smells of the place. Hell, sometimes he even missed his mother.

When they entered French’s Saloon, Mitch sighed and grinned. Yes, this was exactly what he needed. He cast a worried look in Genny’s direction, knowing he was taking her to a place he oughtn’t. But she was grinning, her eyes sparkling with excitement. And it was still too early in the evening to bring out the hardcore drinkers and the fancy ladies who took their bills. The two of them would eat and leave, then get a good night’s rest before their long train trip back East.

 

Three hours later, Mitch looked up from his card table to make sure Genny was still fine. She’d been talking to another woman nearly the entire time, taking delicate sips from her teacup. He guessed she hadn’t talked to a female in years and seemed to be enjoying herself. God knew he was. He got to slouch and swear and throw back a couple of whiskeys, listen to ribald jokes and tell a few of his own. A fight at a table near the back nearly broke out, and Mitch immediately stood, ready to escort Genny out of the saloon if need be. But the men quickly settled down and a couple of light skirts swooped in to distract them, so Mitch relaxed. He was having fun after being cooped up with a female for so long. Even if Genny was pleasant company, even if she looked prettier and prettier every time he looked up.

It was near ten o’clock when Mitch decided to call it a night. He could tell Genny was starting to get sleepy and he figured he’d had enough of male company to last him until Omaha. When Genny saw him walking toward her, she stood up, a bit wobbly on her feet, and Mitch was instantly concerned. Of course she’d be exhausted. What had he been thinking of, keeping her out so late when they’d traveled so hard? And her still wearing that cast, which was no doubt heavy and uncomfortable.

“Mish, are we ready for beddy?”

His brows snapped together and he gave the woman she’d been sitting with a hard look before picking up the teacup that sat in front of Genny. He gave it a suspicious sniff and jerked his head back. Whiskey. Good God, she was drunk.

“Before you get on your high horse, she only had two,” the woman said.

“Three,” Genny said happily.

“Is it my fault your sister can’t hold her whiskey?”

Close up, Mitch realized the woman Genny had been talking to wore a bit more makeup than was necessary and clothes that were far cheaper than they’d appeared from where he’d been sitting. She took his stare for interest and her demeanor changed subtly.

“You don’t look at all tired to me. Why don’t you tuck your sister in and come on back here.”

He gave her a tight smile. “No thank you, ma’am. We have an early start in the morning and need a good night’s rest.”

“We’re going to England,” Genny said, pointing with a flourish in a random direction.

“Your loss,” the woman said good-naturedly, before narrowing her eyes. “Hey, why don’t
you
have one of them fancy accents?”

“Different mothers,” Mitch said without missing a beat.

Genny nodded a bit sloppily. “That explains it,” she said.

“I see,” the woman said, and Mitch had a feeling she just might see a little too well. “Good night, Genny. It was nice talking to you.”

When the woman sauntered away, Genny looked comically sad. “Minnie was so nice. She was the nicest woman I’ve ever met.” Then she looked at Mitch, peering up at him as if she’d never seen him before. “You know? Minnie was right! You
are
handsome. She said you were and I told her I’d never given it a thought and she said that was because you were my brother.” She paused and leaned in, whispering, “You’re not my brother.”

“I know I’m not your brother, Genny,” Mitch said, slightly annoyed at the way he was noticing things about her that he wished he didn’t notice. Like how soft her lips were and how damned kissable they looked about now. Like the way her dress hugged her body. Maybe they shouldn’t have gotten her a dress. She’d been fine with that oversized shirt and pants. At least then it was a lot easier to keep his eyes where they belonged. Genny looked positively adorable at that moment, and drunk or not, if a woman calls a man handsome, it does something to his gut. “Come on, let’s get you back to the hotel and in bed.”

“Minnie told me all sorts of things,” Genny said as she turned, swaying a bit, and walked toward the saloon door. “I feel funny.”

“You’re drunk.”

Genny put a hand over her mouth and giggled. “I know. Drunk as a skunk.” She said it nearly proudly.

Mitch took her arm and led her out the door and onto the boardwalk, already thinking about how awful Genny was going to feel in the morning. It was a lesson best learned early, that too much drink was never a good thing.

“You know what, Mish?” She laughed. “I keep calling you Mish. You know what?”

“What?”

“You have a magic pole.”

Mitch nearly tripped. “I do, do I.”

“Yes. All men do. Minnie said you were handsome and she wanted to ride your magic pole.” She started giggling again, and Mitch prayed Genny hadn’t a clue what a “magic pole” was.

Genny stopped and looked up at Mitch, and whispered, “She meant your man part.”

Mitch let out a sharp laugh. “Yes, I know.”

When her unfocused gaze drifted down in the direction of his “man part,” Mitch grabbed her arm and marched toward their hotel.

“Where’s the fire?” Genny said, sounding annoyed.

Mitch ignored her, not uttering another word until they were standing outside her room. While he dug her key out of his pocket, she stood silently, leaning up against the wall, humming some tune she’d likely heard that night.

“Mitch?”

He slipped the key in the door. “What?”

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

He gave her a quick look. At the moment, even with her green eyes glazed with whiskey and her hair slightly askew, she looked more than pretty. “Sure.”

“Did you think Minnie was pretty?”

“No.”

“I think she was,” Genny said a bit wistfully.

He pushed the door open and Genny heaved herself off the wall to walk into the room. She fell onto her bed, face first. “Tired,” she said, the word muffled by the blankets.