Steal Me, Sweet Thief Read online

  "Out of your grazing territory, aren't you, Lennox?" He purposely ignored the man's remark.

  Lennox merely shrugged, accentuating the ill fit of his cheaply made coat. "No more'n you, I guess."

  Lennox glanced at Geneva a few feet away and nodded to her. "This your wife?"

  "This is none of your damned business," Macalester warned him in a low tone. "We're a long way from home, Lennox, both of us. Don't even think about it."

  "Got some business of my own." Lennox, unaffected by Macalester's threatening manner, spat a stream of tobacco juice. It landed on the platform and splashed onto the shoes of a lady who had passed too close. Macalester looked up from the shoes at a macabre funeral procession: a plain pine coffin strapped upright to a creaking dolly, pulled by a Negro porter. The parade passed before him, close enough to touch.

  "Billings," Lennox volunteered in response to Macalester's unvoiced question, and the latter could smell the reek of the wiry man's chaw. "He got careless in Abilene. Like you did, in Wichita. Only you're still alive, and Billings here is gonna eat worms."

  Billings. Sam Billings. A likable fellow whom Macalester and Deal had come across a few times, wanted in Tennessee for shooting the carpetbagger who had run his family off of their own land after the war. They used to joke about the five-hundred-dollar reward for his capture, dead or alive. And now he was dead. Killed by a man who'd as soon pay the portage on a casket as the train fare for a living captive. The casual manner in which Lennox dismissed a human life sickened Macalester. He remembered Geneva, sitting somewhere behind him, but he could not worry about her right now. They were a long way from Texas, but if Lennox would bring a corpse from Abilene to Memphis for five hundred dollars, he wouldn't hesitate to trade a bullet and a ticket to Austin for five thousand.

  "I'll settle your bacon when I'm through here, Macalester," Lennox said, backing away in the wake of Billings's coffin. "Count on it."

  He found a bitter smile for the unpleasant man.

  "Memphis isn't Wichita, Lennox," he called after him. "And I'm not Billings."

  "No. And you ain't Billy Deal, neither," Lennox rejoined, causing several heads to turn at the mention of that name. "See you around, Macalester."

  He was gone. Macalester drew a deep breath, wondering if he could get enough air into his lungs to stay alive.

  "Who in heaven's name was that?"

  Geneva's melodious voice sounded awed, if not horrified. A lie found him quickly, in spite of his agitation.

  "Just an old enemy of mine," he replied, hoping he sounded less worried than he felt. "I sent his brother to prison a few years ago, and he's had it in for me ever since. Nothing to worry about. Shall we go?"

  He effected a grin but, looking at last into Geneva's steady, green-eyed gaze, he had the uneasy sense that she was not deceived, at least not completely. He recalled an old expression suddenly, about being between a rock and a hard place.

  The fact that McAllister had not introduced the man spoke volumes to Geneva. She herself had formed an instant dislike for him: He had had the cheek to stare at her and then to make a remark in reference to her as though she might be no more than a piece of McAllister's luggage. She was filled with a morbid curiosity about him as well, and the puzzling exchange between him and McAllister, of which she had heard only bits and pieces: Billings. Wichita. Abilene. And Billy Deal. That last name had a familiar ring to it, although she could not quite recall why. And McAllister himself, effecting a casual demeanor, seemed nevertheless disturbed by the encounter, so much so that she refrained from voicing her questions during their brief ride to the hotel.

  The lobby was a spacious area decorated by polished-walnut furnishings, a large red Persian rug, clean but worn in spots, and lamps with umbrellalike shades, hung with gaudy yet pretty fringes of garnet-colored beads. It lacked the elegance of the hotel in Roanoke, but it was charming and clean and very close to the train station. Geneva waited for McAllister, who was arranging for their rooms, in an overstuffed brocade chair.

  "There are no suites available," he reported when he returned, his features thoughtful. "We have adjoining rooms. I have my business to attend to; I'm sorry I won't be joining you for dinner. Please have it brought up to your room. I'd rather you stayed there for the evening."

  He was ordering her to stay put. And in an abrupt tone, thinly camouflaged with words of courtesy. She searched his face, but his handsome features, carefully bland, yielded no clue as to his deeper meaning. Question upon question sprang up in her mind like ducks in a Coney Island shooting gallery, but she put them aside in favor of one.

  "Will you be out all evening, then?"

  McAllister opened his mouth and even started to reply. Then he seemed to find her a smile, not merely with his wide and sensuous mouth, but with his warm brown eyes as well, the kind of smile she had not seen upon his face since New York. It made her feel as though someone had lit a fire in an otherwise damp and chilly room. In another instant, she felt a warmth against her cheek, and she realized, stunned, that it was his hand.

  "Don't worry about that man," he said softly enough for her alone. "He won't trouble you. And I'll be back as soon as I can." Her cheek grew cool again. He had withdrawn his hand. She felt dizzy.

  Perhaps, she thought moments later, when she was able to think again as she followed the porter upstairs, tomorrow had come tonight, right here in Memphis.

  Geneva awoke hard from a sweet dream she could not remember. It was still dark, and she was chilly. Annoyed, she sat up, massaging her bare arms with the flats of her hands. Fumbling in the darkness, she lit the tiny lamp by her bedside. Its light was small, but adequate to her task. Must have left the window open, she thought, slipping her legs out from under the covers. Rubbing her eyes, she made her way across the room toward the window. The sheer white curtains billowed with the night breeze, and the same breeze caught her nightgown, sending the white lawn garment rippling like a gentle wave.

  All at once she was aware of a strange and unpleasant odor, like the smell of a wet animal. She paused in her quest, suddenly afraid—of what, she did not know. She did not want to go nearer to the window, but at the same time she did not want to turn her back on it. Something was wrong.

  She thought of calling to McAllister, who, if he had returned from his business, would be asleep in the room next to hers. She rejected the idea at once: It was probably nothing. She would cause herself needless embarrassment. She stood there a moment longer, shivering in the nightdress, and forced her irrational fear aside. This was silly. She would close the window and get back into bed, where it was warm.

  She took another bold step forward and remembered, feeling a cold shaft of sickening realization through her chest, that she had closed that window before she had retired. It was then that she became aware of a large shadow in the window alcove, not half a dozen feet from where she stood.

  Her scream was a loud and lusty reflex that forced the shadow from its hiding place and through the open window into the night. Geneva was overcome by wave upon wave of terror; she could not seem to stop her scream. It possessed her like a demon, even after McAllister had crashed into the room like some avenging angel, shoeless, shirtless, with a big Colt revolver drawn and poised for action.

  Paralyzed by shock and fear, she was reduced to sobs as she watched the attorney look about, then out of the window, for the unseen intruder. He closed the window and locked it, drawing the curtains. She felt herself begin to shake as he turned to her, his features distressed.

  "Are you all right, Geneva?" she heard him ask in a hoarse voice. She caught her breath.

  "I—" She tried to speak, but barely a sound came out. Her eyes filled with tears she tried desperately to hold back. She could only nod, biting down on her lip to keep from crying.

  "Was it him?" Macalester looked about as though searching for evidence. "Was it the man from the train station? Lennox?" He crossed the few feet between them, his expression becoming one of amazement. "My God,
you're trembling like an earthquake!"

  Was it instinct that made him draw her to his breast and enfold her in those magnificent, strong arms? She did not know. She did not care. She was in his arms, and she could no longer prevent the flood of tears. Only these were tears of relief She felt cold, so cold, and his touch was warm and unbearably tender. She laid her head against his shoulder, trying to quiet her sobs as he held her tightly.

  "It's all right," he said, barely above a whisper. "He's gone now. I'm here. Everything's all right."

  He loosened his hold. When his arms fell away from her, she thought she would faint. "Please," she managed in a whisper, clutching his arm. "Don't leave me alone!"

  She looked into his eyes and found him gazing down at her with a rapt expression that made her quiver with sudden desire. She knew, she could see very plainly, that he wanted her. Fear was gone, having vaporized quite as rapidly as it had advanced. McAllister did not blink. He seemed to be searching her face, and she saw him swallow hard.

  "Don't leave me," she repeated in a breathless whisper, feeling a burning deep within her that, she knew, could only be satisfied by one thing.

  He seemed paralyzed before her, but she could not wait for him. She needed him now. On her toes, reaching, she sought his wide mouth with her parted lips, brushing against them slowly once. And again. She felt their softness, and their strength. Another swell of desire spread from her loins upward through her breasts, and his lips stirred as she grazed them a third time.

  He tasted her, and she felt a surge of energy pass between them. He seemed to falter, then he sampled her lips again, and again. She slid her hands up along the contours of his pectoral muscles and along his broad, unyielding shoulders, and she felt his hand, firm but gentle, at the back of her neck. His kiss deepened as he held her, and he explored, to her delight, every aspect of her lips and her mouth. She felt him tug at the delicate capped sleeve of her nightgown, and she sighed as, with delicious slowness, he tugged the garment down the soft, willing flesh of her arm.

  In a moment her breast was exposed, and as he cupped it in his hand, caressing her hardened nipple between his thumb and forefinger, he began to devour her mouth as a condemned man might relish his last meal on earth. And she was happy to be the repast.

  Step by step, she drew him to the bed. He seemed strangely reluctant, but that reluctance served only to heighten her already strong desire to get him there. He was one of those men who preferred to keep himself under the most superb control, she supposed, and in her limited experience, they were precisely the sort who, once they lost that control, were the most wonderfully sensual of partners.

  At the edge of the bed, he drew away from her again, his dark eyes bright with heat, his angular jaw set and grim. "Gen, I can't—"

  She pressed her mouth to his, and her body against him. He couldn't mean it. His body told her so, in no uncertain terms. She slid her hands down along his sides, and slipped her fingertips into the waistband of his trousers. A low moan escaped his throat, and she knew he could. He would.

  Buttons dissolved, and in moments it was just her and him. She drew him down with her, down to the sheets. He pressed himself to her, as if every part of him wanted every part of her. Men had wanted her before, but never like this. She loved the feel of him, the bigness, the warmth, the fierce gentleness of his touch. And more, she loved that he could not seem to get enough of her. He teased the joining of her legs with his erection, and she opened for him, wanting to feel, wanting to know.

  "Oh, Mr. McAllis—"

  He stopped her whisper with a finger on her lips.

  "Call me Mac," he said, with a strange, compelling sadness in his eyes. "But don't talk. Please. Just don't…"

  He was frightening. He was wonderful. His sadness and his power drew her in a way no other man had. He seemed to want more from her than her body, her responses, yet he seemed to fear to take it, even though she wanted to give. His strokes were measured, as if he meant to pleasure her but to deny himself, for some reason she couldn't fathom. She couldn't allow that. Her climax neared, heightened for her by his silent, deliciously maddening control, and just before he drove her over the edge, she fastened her legs tightly about him like a trap so that he had no choice but to remain still within her as she came all around him. Her loins cried out with the joy she would not allow to pass her lips, and she looked up to see his features, betraying that she had broken him at last.

  When it was all over, he fell on her with a shudder. His weight was thrilling, all the more because she knew he'd meant to deny himself but had at last been unable to hold out against her. He whispered something beside her ear. It sounded like "God help me."

  In another minute, he tried to leave, but Geneva would not let him.

  "Stay," she urged, and pushed him gently onto his back. Laying her head upon his broad chest, she listened to his quieting heart and his deep, shuddering breath, her own body ringing like a newly cast bronze bell.

  Trust your heart, Audrey had advised her in New York. Her calculating had led her astray; her single-minded goal of achieving the adoration of a decidedly fickle public, and her use of people, especially men. McAllister was new. He was the symbol of her rebirth and renewal. He represented a new phase, not only in her career, but in her life. Perhaps, he had told her two days ago, his dark eyes reading and yet unreadable, I've been waiting for you.

  And perhaps, she thought, nestling closer to him, she had really been waiting all of this time for him, as well.

  Kieran Macalester wondered, holding the world in his arms, whether he was dead or alive. He could not recall ever being happier, or more profoundly sad, in his entire life. Geneva had fallen asleep beside him, her lovely face half-buried against his chest. He brushed a stray lock of soft chestnut hair from her cheek, allowing his finger to trace the outline of her jaw. He was filled, suddenly, with such pain that he was obliged to leave her bed.

  What had he done?

  What was he, after all? An outlaw, hired by Geneva's own husband to bring her back to a home she had left and had no wish to return to. A notorious and deadly bounty hunter was stalking him, even as they lay together. He pictured, in the darkness, the huge, impossible, deadly web Garland Humble had woven about him.

  He found his trousers and put them on. Geneva slept, rolling onto her stomach, settling in for a long and peaceful slumber. How she would despise him, he realized, swallowing the rock that had abruptly risen in his throat, when she discovered, as she surely must, what his true mission was! He closed his eyes, unwillingly visualizing her anger and her disdain. How could he have placed himself in the untenable position of falling in love, and falling hard, for a woman who, under the best of circumstances, would be completely wrong for him, but under these conditions could prove to be a foolish, even fatal, mistake?

  He shook his head hard and flexed his back. This was ridiculous. There had to be a better way out of this whole damned mess. He was no fool. He'd gotten himself and Billy out of more than a few ticklish spots in the past.

  But none of them had included all of these elements: Garland Humble, Lennox and a beautiful woman whom he loved to distraction…

  A small sigh behind him brought his thoughts back to the moment with a jolt. Geneva was stirring, and the very sound of her stretching in bed was sufficient to reawaken a keen desire in him.

  "Mac?" he heard her murmur, and against his will, he smiled. How fortunate that he had chosen so ambiguous an alias. The nickname was perfect. Perhaps, he thought, rolling his tense shoulders, he would share with her the nickname that Billy preferred. He pushed aside his dark, troubling thoughts and turned to her again. The pale light of the lamp beside the bed revealed her drowsy, sensuous smile, and she drew back the covers invitingly.

  "Come back to bed," she coaxed, her rich voice husky with renewed desire.

  He was drawn to her, like a moth to a bright and deadly flame. Before he even meant to move, he was back in the bed, his body eager for hers. She took h
im this time, and that was even more exciting than before. She straddled him as he lay upon the bed, working him until his loins ached to deliver their essence, but then she cleverly held him back, even as he'd tried without success to hold back from her, before. The torture was exquisite and poetic. His hands spanned her waist, wanting to make her go on and on.

  "Lord," he moaned, sliding his hands down to her thighs. "Oh, sweet Lord…"

  Just at the very moment when he thought he could no longer bear the pleasure, he felt her begin to tremble. Her body arched and her head fell back, sending her hair cascading down her shoulders like a mahogany waterfall. A hoarse and primitive cry issued from her throat, and it triggered his own climax. In another moment, they were crying out and clinging together as she fell upon him, covering his chest with her soft, warm, slender body. As the glittering waves subsided, Kieran wondered if he would ever move again. Geneva was still warm and all around him, and the faint suggestion of jasmine in her soft curls was like a paralyzing drug. She had drawn his climax from him like the most cunning of thieves. Twice. He slid his fingers along her back, tracing her narrow shoulders and ribs, to that sumptuous swelling of her backside. He breathed a deep sigh and held her as tightly as any lunatic would cling to his slim thread of reality, whispering "I love you, Geneva" so low that he felt certain she could not have heard it.

  Chapter Nine

  Every time Macalester started to tell her his tangled tale of deceit during the brief trip to Little Rock, Geneva would look at him with those infinitely trusting green eyes and rob him of his tongue. He had rehearsed the scene dozens of times in his mind and decided that any way he tried it, it sounded shabby at best and unconscionable at worst. Either way, she would never forgive him for it, even if he swore to help her escape from Humble again.

  Could Garland Humble really hold Geneva in his magnificent Fort Worth prison if she was of a mind to leave it? Macalester, knowing what he did of Geneva Lionwood, doubted it. Surely, he ruminated further, staring out of the train window, Geneva's gloved fingers entwined in his, Humble must know it, too.