Her fingers tickled the hair curling over his chest. She found and teased a small, rosy nub to erection. Batting her thick, ebony lashes for effect, she sent him a crookedly suggestive grin. “Besides,” she lowered her head and coaxed the tiny nipple with her tongue, “I find I rather like this room. I think I could live here quite happily.”
Drake chuckled. “Now who’s ‘insatiable’?” he mimicked. A shudder ran through him as her hand slipped down the tautness of his stomach. He grabbed her wrist and plopped it back on his chest before he lost all control. “I’m warning you, sunshine, if you keep playing with fire, be prepared to get burned.”
A flicker of emotion sparkled in her eyes, but was quickly doused. Drake cursed himself for all kinds of a fool and wished he could bite the thoughtless words back.
Hope stiffened and pulled away. Drake had no alternative but let her go.
“Hope, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” He reached for her, but she rolled away too fast.
“It’s alright!” Stooping, she withdrew her chemise from the bottom of the wrinkled pile of clothes and slipped it over her head with trembling fingers.
“But—”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she replied through gritted teeth. Woodenly, she walked toward the bed and climbed beneath the covers.
She heard Drake’s muffled footsteps approach the bed, but she scrunched her eyes closed and refused to open them. The comforter was tightly clutched beneath her chin.
Drake tried everything he could think of to get her to talk. Nothing worked. The only word she would utter was “Leave,” and even then, only once.
Eventually, he gave up. Not knowing what else to do, he retrieved his clothes, yanked them on, and left. Hope caught a brief glimpse of the rumpled shirttail hanging to mid-thigh and the polished shoes dangling from his fingers as he gave her a final glance, then closed the door quietly behind him.
She stared at the door for what seemed like hours.
Damn him! she swore. Damn Drake Frazier for taking something so wonderful and turning it so sour!
Chapter 18
Drake spent the rest of the night—the early hours of the morning, actually—closeted in the study, poring over files, reports, accounts, anything he could get his hands on. At seven o’clock, he’d stumbled on the copy of a sealed bid Charles had submitted to buy the lease to City Wharf—Boston’s largest and most lucrative block of wharves on the north shore. The wharves would be a definite boost to the floundering business. The problem was, Charles would have a great deal of trouble pulling the venture off without sufficient funds to cover the inev
itable expenses. His bankbook was already depleted.
About nine o’clock, less than an hour ago, Drake found an even more incriminating piece of evidence.
The desktop was scattered with discarded files and crumpled papers. Drake ignored the mess as he leaned back in his grandfather’s favorite red leather chair. His tired, bloodshot eyes flickered between the two rumpled sheets of paper he held in each hand. The more he looked, the angrier he became.
The Bradfield-Stillwell Home, one declared in bold, black script. Beneath were paragraphs of information regarding a home for wayward boys that handled only the most dire of cases. It was followed by a brief plea for funds to keep it in operation. The other, titled the same and written in the same crisp hand, had two long columns, one, names, the other, figures. The names were easily recognizable. Beecher, Lowell; Webster, Quincy; Frazier—none of Boston’s more prominent citizens was omitted. Scribbled beside each name was a dollar amount. The total at the bottom of that column was staggering.
“The fool!” Drake crunched the papers in his fist and slammed them on the desk. The glass mantel clock, ticking rhythmically atop the flat mahogany surface, rattled with the force of the blow. He should have known Charles was capable of using a fictitious charity to draw much-needed money. Should have, but didn’t. In his wildest dreams, he had never imagined his brother would stoop so low.
He waited for what seemed like hours, until his anger faded to a dull throb, then pushed himself from the chair and moved toward the door with purposeful strides. Once there, he slipped a key from the pocket of his denims and unlocked the door.
It was as he was returning the key to his pocket that his fingers reacted to the silky key ring. Looking down, he saw the lock of chestnut hair he’d stolen from Hope the day of the fight with Larzdon. The dark strands were worked into a fine plait, the reddish highlights glistening like molten copper in the morning sunshine. Absently, he ran his fingers over the braid, his thoughts drifting to the woman upstairs.
Sooner or later he was going to have to do something about Hope Bennett. What, and when, was another question. One that demanded contemplation.
Drake scowled darkly. He’d delayed her leaving by buying her services as his wife. The job was unnecessary. He could just as easily have ruined his brother and sister-in-law without Hope’s help. But when it had come time to send her on her way to Virginia, Drake found he couldn’t do it. He didn’t stop to ask himself why, or question his motives, he’d simply invented a need for a temporary wife. To his surprise, she’d agreed.
At the same time, Drake had told himself that his reasons were completely chivalrous, motives his grandfather would have been proud of. Now he wasn’t so sure. True, he couldn’t bear the thought of Hope making the last leg of the journey alone, but if he was honest with himself, he would also have to admit that his reasons were much more than mere concern. After all, he could easily have put her on the next stage for Virginia the second they’d reached civilization.
But he hadn’t. He’d offered her a job and dragged her, not totally unwillingly, back to this godforsaken place.
Why?
The answer hit him like a fist smashing into his gut, and he staggered with the blow. He leaned heavily against the door, his eyes flickering shut as his thoughts were barraged with unbidden memories.
Hope, drunker than a river rat as she collapsed in his arms, awarding Drake his first real look at her enticing curves and innocent profile. Hope, her face draining of color when Oren Larzdon’s knife had slicked toward his shoulder. Hope, her hair a tousled mass of chestnut curls upon a bed of sawdust. Hope, her skin moist with the water he’d sponged on her perfect body while she raged with fever. And, at last, Hope, as he had left her, curled and despondent in the large bed that had once belonged to his grandmother.
When did I fall in love with her? he wondered as his fingers crushed the lock of hair in his fist. He remembered her dark eyes flashing with fire that first night in his hotel room. He’d denied the feeling for months, but his love had started then, and had grown over the weeks that followed.