The Marrying Kind (8 page)

No longer feigning a firm stand or the sudden harshness in his voice, Donovan muttered, "I'd really appreciate it if you wouldn't call me 'William.'"

"That's fine with me," she snapped, apparently unimpressed by his candor. "You remind me more of a 'Billy-boy' anyway, or maybe even, 'Willy the weasel'."

"Don't call me 'Billy.'" Those were the nicknames assigned to Donovan whenever his mother had a new "William" around. "And don't ever call me 'Willy.'"

"That's fine with me, too, because you're nothing but a no-good bastard who doesn't deserve to have a name at all."

She struck pay dirt there, calling him by the only
sobriquet
which truly fit him. "That's correct, Miss Justice." He struck an injured pose and flattened his palm across his heart. "I am, through no fault of my own, of course, a bastard."

"Don't try to play on my sympathies, you lying sack of garbage." There wasn't so much as a pinch of remorse in her voice. "Especially after all the lies you told me and the promises you made as...
Mother of God.
You even slept in my house—in one of my
beds."

"Now, Libby..." She was on the move again, the circle around him, tighter. Back on the defense, Donovan tracked her movements. "Having me stay at your home was your idea, not mine. I never asked you to put me up."

"You did so, and you did it by lying to me about who you were. Do you
think
for one minute that I, as a lone woman," she bore down on him, her cheeks shiny with bright red splotches, "would have opened my home, much less one of my bedrooms, to a no-good, stinking polecat like
you—Willy?"

"Don't
call me Willy," Donovan shook his finger in her face. "And stop trying to blame me for everything. I tried to tell you that I wasn't Andrew Savage when I first walked into your newspaper office, but you wouldn't let me."

"That's it." Libby snapped her wrists at him as if throwing garbage onto the compost heap. "I've heard all the lies from you I intend to." With that, she turned and started up Sacramento Street.

Donovan watched her stiff-backed retreat, sorely tempted to just let her stumble around the hills of San Francisco until she calmed down enough to listen to reason. But something inside wouldn't let him—culpability, for one thing. Even though he thought she was overreacting in the extreme, he also felt a certain amount of sympathy, or something close to it. A tough little cookie, she reminded him a little of the sister he'd fabricated for himself as a child. Although Libby had been raised under circumstances completely different than he'd had—by a mother, with a real live father and brother, to boot—he sensed that she was a maverick, like he was. A bit of a loner.

With a heavy sigh, Donovan took off after her and continued to plead his case. "I know how this must sound to you now," he said to her still rigid back. "But once you'd gotten the wrong impression about who I was, it just seemed easier to go along with you."

Libby glanced over her shoulder to deliver her remarks, but never slowed her stride. "I'll just bet it did, you greasy-tongued jackass."

"I only meant to help you, all along. I never meant to cheat you out of anything or hurt you. I don't see why you should be so damned mad."

"Really? Then you're the one who needs glasses, not me."

Donovan threw his hands up in exasperation, but continued to follow her, defending himself and explaining why he'd done what he'd done, all the way back to his house. Surprisingly enough, Libby managed to find Jackson Street without any help from him—and on foot, no less, instead of by taking the cable railway as they had on the way to Savage Publishing. When they reached the walkway which led to his modest home, Libby was still berating him, no longer over her shoulder, but right to his face.

"...and I don't believe a word you've said, because there's no way a
stupid plan like that could have worked, much less helped me."

"It was working just fine," he insisted, opening the door for her. Gesturing dramatically, Donovan waved Libby inside. "And it would have kept right on working if you hadn't done something so
stupid
as getting on that train."

"Even if boarding that train was stupid," she muttered, marching straight through the foyer and into the parlor, where she dropped onto the first available chair, "and I'm not saying that it was, I only did it because I was trying to save my newspaper. What's your excuse for being so stupid?"

"For the last time..." He sighed heavily. "I was just trying to help you a little—still am, in fact. There's nothing more sinister than that to anything I've done."

"Even if I believed you," she lifted her foot and tore at the buttons on her shoe, "it wouldn't matter because I never asked for your help. Not once."

Tired of trying to defend himself—especially where his behavior was largely indefensible—Donovan strolled over to the bay window and propped himself against the scalloped molding near the frame. This is what helping folks got him, he thought sourly: scolded, like he was some kind of irresponsible kid. And by whom? A pretender to Calamity Jane's throne, that's who.

As Libby struggled with her footgear, he couldn't help but notice that she'd hiked her skirt and petticoats up to her knees, revealing a wide expanse of leg between her plain flannel drawers and drab woolen stockings. The woman didn't even know how to behave out of her buckskins, much less realize what the sight of those creamy legs could do to a man—even a man like himself, who would never, under normal circumstances, be drawn to a woman like her.

But drawn he was, Donovan acknowledged, and this situation was about as bizarre as any he'd been in. He wondered if Libby knew she was flashing him glimpses of her very shapely legs, or if she realized the state she'd worked herself into between her anger and the struggle she was having with her footgear. She looked positively untamed. A few tendrils of mahogany hair had escaped her carefully prepared coif, and now clung to her lightly perspiring cheeks and neck. She was also out of breath, her bosom straining against the ribbed bodice of her somber black dress, and her lips were parted, making room for the tip of her tongue at the edge of her mouth. Hell, he thought, a tug of desire working into a steady, pounding ache, even the real Andrew—a dead man—would sit up and take notice of Libby under these conditions.

"I think there's a buttonhook in the kitchen," he said, looking for a way to distract himself. "I'll just go get it for you."

"Don't bother. I don't want anything from you," she snapped. "Damnation, if I don't hate these stupid shoes, and I hate you, too. Nothing's gone right for me since I laid eyes on you. Everything has gone wrong, and it's all because of you—everything."

Though he was pretty well argued out, Donovan recognized her challenge as the distraction he sought. "I beg to differ with you... Lippy. If you could have kept your big mouth shut long enough for a man to get a word in edgewise, none of this would have happened in the first place. I tried to tell you more than once that I was not Andrew Savage, but you wouldn't give me a chance."

"You had plenty of chances to tell the truth—and all of this
is
your fault, including the fact that I rushed out and bought these miserable boots." The buttons unhooked at last, Libby strained, tugging on the shoe. When it finally popped off of her foot, she reared back and threw it at Donovan, hurling one last accusation along with it. "This is all your fault,
Willy."

Not a moment too soon, he ducked, leaving the boot to crash against the glass behind him. "Hey—hey. There's no cause to get violent. You damn near broke my window. And stop calling me, Willy!"

"I wanted to break your big fat head, you double-dealing snake in the grass, and I'll call you Willy any time I take a notion to." She leaped to her feet and stormed across the room, steam-piston style, one boot on, one boot off. Raising her fist when she reached him, she shook it in his face. "As for violence, you lousy flim-flammer, when I think about the things you said to me in Laramie and the way you had me groveling at your feet, doing something violent is the kindest thing I can think of."

"Now, Libb—"

"Don't 'now Libby' me. Not while I can still hear you saying,
'You want a camera, little lady?'"—
she
mimicked his voice, slaughtering it by adding a countrified accent.
"'Shore 'nuff, ma'am—you kin have anything you want. Juss ask, and it's all yours.'
Why I ought to punch you right in the mouth for leading me on that way."

He'd been halfway amused until Libby mentioned his mouth. Now suddenly, all Donovan could think of was hers—not punching it, but burying it beneath his own lips. Without thinking or even questioning himself, he impulsively dragged her into his arms.

"And what," he asked, his throat tight, "would you suggest I do to your mouth in return?"

He didn't wait for an answer, or expect one. He just came down on her, a little too hard at first, and took what he wanted.

As Donovan suspected she would, Libby fought him in the beginning, smashing her fists to his shoulders and twisting in his embrace. Although she struggled mightily, it wasn't long before her inviting mouth became soft and pliant, and moments after that, as eager as his own. Something exploded between them then, a power or force so strong and unfamiliar that Donovan couldn't identify the sensation. But he did recognize that what they shared here was no mere kiss. This was an assault on the senses, an awakening of dark and utterly insane hungers, a need urging him down a path he was quite sure he should never follow.

Shaken, in spirit, body, in every way imaginable, Donovan drew away from Libby's mouth, and caught his breath. He relaxed his grip then, unable to turn her loose the way he should have, but giving her freedom. Rather than try to escape him as he hoped she would, Libby clung to his jacket, her dark eyes and wondrous expression mirroring his own unexpected and tumultuous feelings. They stared into each other a long moment, briefly glimpsing private places and raw desires, and then as if frightened by what she saw in him, Libby finally broke out of his embrace.

"Holy hell," slipped out of her mouth before she fully realized the thought.

Embarrassed, she turned her back to Donovan and, on trembling legs, made her way to the chair she'd been sitting on earlier. Leaning heavily against the soft velvet upholstery, Libby tried to quell the shaking that had taken over her entire body. Her insides felt as if they'd melted into a big pot of jelly, and even though she was free of Donovan, she could still feel his vigorous embrace and the way his wicked mouth had plumbed her. How in God's name, after all she'd found out about the man, could she have responded to him this way? She ought to be lashing him within an inch of his life, not kissing him.

Libby breathed deeply, still trying to get a grip on herself, and caught Donovan's scent still lingering on her skin. There was something more to the aroma than spicy cologne, something infinitely more disturbing—the slightly salty, earthy tang of the man himself. She shook her head to clear it of such thoughts, and again wondered how she could be so attracted to someone who'd made such a fool of her.

"Libby," came his throaty voice from behind her. His tone wasn't particularly apologetic, but she thought she heard something akin to regret in it. Donovan touched her shoulder then, sending a little shudder up her spine, and gently turned her to face him. "I hope you won't make too much of what just happened here..." His gaze skimmed her lips. "I don't know what came over me, and maybe it's best that I don't. It might be a good idea if we just forget about it."

"Oh, well, of course. Why not?" She'd tried to sound relieved by the suggestion, but why did she feel so let down? Perhaps, Libby thought, that was the irony of it all. Back in Laramie, she'd all but busted her buttons in an effort to bedevil Donovan, and to no avail. Yet here in San Francisco, where she'd practically taken his head off with her boot, for some reason, he'd found her irresistible. Comforted by the thought, she smiled and added, "In fact, I've already forgotten about it."

She thought she saw Donovan's eyes narrow for a moment, but then he just shrugged and said, "Good. Now why don't we sit down a minute. There's a few things we ought to talk over."

"I'm fine right where I am. Besides, now that you've shown yourself for what you really are—a lying, cheating gambler—I don't see what we have left to talk about."

"You're still mad at me?"

She should have been madder than hell—Lord, if she shouldn't still have been angry enough to pound a few knots on his head—but for some reason, every drop of her outrage had sizzled away to nothing. It was probably that innocent act he was giving her, the charismatic charm-the-bloomers-off-a-nun grin he displayed whenever he thought he might be in trouble. "Of course I'm still mad," she said, unable to force any harshness in her tone. "But it seems I've calmed down considerably."

"Then we do have something to talk about. I really want to help you, now more than ever. Do you believe that?"

She didn't want to, but Libby knew she had to try to trust him a little if she were to stay in San Francisco long enough to confront R. T. Savage. She definitely required help from someone, and since Donovan was the only person she knew in all of California, her choices were narrow. Either she tossed her lot in with his—on her terms, of course—or she went back to Laramie empty-handed.

Determined to hang onto her newspaper and the fight for equal rights at almost any cost, she said truthfully, "I'm not sure what I believe where you're concerned or if there
is
a way you could help me now."

"There are several ways in which I can help. The first is the easiest—I'd make an excellent choice as an escort when you go to the depot to catch the train back to Laramie. Can I help you pack?"

"Absolutely not. I'm not going anywhere yet."

"I didn't think so." He favored Libby with a smile, not his usual smug or mocking expression, but one of admiration, she thought. "I guess that means you're planning to stay in San Francisco until R. T. returns?"