Almost a Lady Page 11

  The paper in Brandt's hand crinkled as he clutched it, his knuckles going white in anger. “Another body was found just two nights ago. What the hell is going on in this town? Five women are dead and no one seems to be out looking for the bastard who's murdering them."

  "We've got a problem,” Robert said, clearing his throat at the understatement. “That much is obvious. Unfortunately, because all of the victims were prostitutes, no one seems eager to find the killer. The wealthier citizens who could raise enough of a fuss to form a full-scale manhunt aren't overly concerned. They consider themselves far enough removed from that element to be perfectly safe going about their everyday lives.” He cast his eyes downward before continuing in a low tone, “And frankly, some people think these women deserve it. Being morally corrupt and all."

  "Nobody deserves this,” Brandt spat and slapped the newspaper on the desktop.

  "And Yvonne Xavier wasn't a prostitute,” Willow reminded them softly. “She was the daughter of a wealthy merchant. Her status in Society didn't save her."

  "You're right,” Robert agreed. “But I don't think people realize that. The details of Yvonne's death were covered up. Partially by us, at the family's request, but mostly by the family themselves. They didn't want it known that she was found down by the docks. It was bad enough that she'd gone missing and was then found dead; they didn't want her memory and reputation tarnished any further."

  "The point is,” Brandt put in, “whoever is committing these murders isn't limiting himself to only dock whores."

  "Unless Yvonne's death was simply made to look like the others.” Willow lifted her head and exchanged glances with both men. “She could have been killed by someone else, for another reason entirely, and then dumped by the docks to throw off the authorities’ suspicions."

  "In which case, it was probably by someone she knew. Someone who traveled in the same circles."

  Brandt picked up the stack of newspapers Robert had shown them, each containing a different article about the dockside killings, and began rifling through the pages. “Wasn't a carriage seen near the scene of one of the murders? An expensive carriage, with some sort of crest that the witness couldn't quite make out?"

  He continued hunting until he found the information he was looking for. “Yes. An expensive, black, personal carriage was seen shortly before a body was found."

  "That doesn't prove anything.” Robert cleared his throat, casting a quick glance at Willow before looking away and adding, “Wealthy gentlemen are often seen in that area of the city, picking up and dropping off. . .” He cleared his throat again. “Um, women."

  Willow ignored Robert's discomfort with the subject of women bartering their bodies for money. He'd been fine discussing the case when the victims had been anonymous prostitutes. But now that he had to discuss the actual events that took place when a man paid for a woman's favors, he seemed decidedly uncomfortable.

  "Maybe that's exactly what he was doing,” she said. “Dropping someone off. Only this time, she was dead."

  "So you really believe the killer is someone in high society,” Robert remarked. It was more of a statement than a question. “Not a drunken sailor or a prisoner escaped from the asylum, but someone with enough money to have my job if you're wrong."

  "It's a distinct possibility,” Brandt said simply, bringing one booted leg up to rest on the opposite knee.

  Robert sighed. “I was afraid of that. So what do you propose we do?"

  "I think our first plan of action should be to talk to Yvonne Xavier's family,” Willow said. “They might remember someone who attended the ball at their home the night Yvonne disappeared. Or recall a gentleman who paid their daughter a bit too much attention."

  Robert nodded. “It's a delicate situation, but hopefully the Xaviers will cooperate if they think it will help bring their daughter's killer to justice."

  Willow turned her focus to Brandt. He seemed to be deep in thought, tapping his steepled hands against his lips. Full, pale lips that had touched her flesh just last evening. Touched her everywhere.

  But she didn't want to think about that. She didn't want to think about any part of what had passed between them. Especially since she was determined that it would never happen again.

  She tamped down on the warm rush of sensation that threatened to flood her belly . . . and lower . . . and forced herself to look elsewhere. Which caused her to notice a slight frown marring his brow.

  She gave a silent sigh and watched him for a moment, awaiting the inevitable. Waiting for him to disagree with her suggestion, as she knew he would.

  "I have a better idea,” he said finally, his hands falling to the arms of his chair. “Or rather, one that might work with your suggestion."

  "And just what might that be?” She wanted to sound annoyed. She was annoyed, but only slightly. More than that, she was resigned. She and Brandt hadn't agreed on anything thus far, why should their subsequent actions concerning the case be any different?

  "I think we should infiltrate the circle of friends Yvonne Xavier would have been in contact with. We might learn more if people thought they were confiding in their equals rather than answering questions for outsiders."

  Willow blinked. “How do you propose we do that?” she asked. She had never been a part of high society. Pretending to be a songbird was simple. Even disguising herself as a man barely posed a problem. But convincing mannered, sometimes snobbish citizens that she was one of them would be nearly impossible.

  Brandt cast a meaningful glance over her body, starting at her eyes and traveling well below her breasts. “You fill out that dress rather nicely,” he commented with obvious double meaning. “Provided you can keep your temper under control, I have no doubt you can convince everyone that you're a new member of the upper crust, just arrived in town."

  His fragrant perusal of her form raised just enough annoyance for her to snap, "Temper? I do not have a temper."

  It wasn't until Brandt raised a brow and Robert tried—unsuccessfully—to stifle a laugh that she realized her voice had risen. She immediately grew silent, pursing her lips and smoothing a hand serenely over the bodice of her gown. “What does my lack of temper have to do with being accepted within Society?"

  Brandt chuckled. “If you can get a handle on that temper you claim not to possess, I don't think we'll have a problem. All you have to do is pretend that you adore me."

  As hard as Willow tried, she couldn't muffle a dissenting snort. She could barely tolerate being in the same room with him. It would take all of the Argonauts in Jason's army and the Hounds of Hell besides to drag anything even resembling adoration from her.

  She fixed him with a glare that she hoped displayed the likelihood of her compliance with his request. She imagined birds would talk and man would fly long before she ever learned to adore anything about this man. “And why, pray tell, would I want to do that?"

  He flashed her a grin that warned her only a moment in advance that she was in trouble. Deep, dark trouble.

  "Don't all blushing new brides adore their husbands?"

  Chapter Seventeen

  Willow didn't blush. She did curse, beg, rant, and feign tears on Robert's arm. Anything to get out of the asinine plan Brandt had concocted—and of which Robert seemed highly enamored. To no avail. It seemed that she would soon become Mrs. Brandt Donovan—at least as far as New York's upper crust was concerned. Most of whom she would meet in only a few more minutes.

  The gown she wore tonight was emerald green, a shade Mary Xavier—who had insisted on a whole new wardrobe, made up of mostly French designs, of course—claimed suited Willow's coloring perfectly, especially her long, auburn hair. The dress was beautiful, Willow admitted, but the cut was somewhat risqué.

  Thin, braided strips of material held to the very curve of her shoulder, with strands of sparkling beads dangling another few inches down her arms. Her bosom, with the rather unnecessary aid of a bust-improver, was pushed high into the top of the bodice, which sl
oped down far enough to reveal a deep shadowing between her breasts. The back of the dress was cut even lower and flared out over her bottom with the help of a small bustle.

  Her only covering at the moment was a thin, black lace shawl that she alternately kept about her shoulders or let fall to the small of her back to drape over her arms. But once she arrived at their destination, the hosts would take her wrap and she would once again be virtually exposed to anyone who cared to look.

  Except when she'd worked at the Silver Spur, Willow didn't think she'd ever walked around baring quite so much flesh. Such were the ways of the French, Mrs. Xavier had assured her. And while she didn't know if that was true, she did assume she looked rather stunning—if Brandt's reaction when he'd first seen her could be taken as complimentary. He'd basically stopped his conversation with James Xavier in midsentence and stared at her like a hungry wolf during the rest of her descent of the stairs to the foyer, where the men awaited the ladies for their outing.

  His mouth had turned down in a momentary frown when she'd moved close enough for him to see the full effects of her combined décolletage, corset, and bust-improver, but had straightened a bit when she'd covered herself with the shawl.

  Judging by his expression, she'd been surprised he hadn't demanded she change. Not that it would have done him any good. She would have refused, simply on principle. And after the time and exertion it took to get into her current ensemble, she'd have walked Fifth Avenue

  naked before changing into another.

  So here she sat, laced into a corset so tight she could barely breathe, trying to remember the French she'd hastily studied, and praying they would be able to pull off their ruse.

  Brandt had come up with the idea of infiltrating Yvonne Xavier's circle of friends by pretending to be Society darlings themselves, but Robert had been the one to actually establish their false backgrounds. He'd discussed the plan with the Xaviers and procured their agreement to go along with the investigation, wherever it might lead. Brandt and Willow were to stay at their home, and the Xaviers would introduce them as a newly married couple just returned from an extended honeymoon in Paris. Brandt was to be of the St. Louis Donovans—at Mary Xavier's suggestion—while Willow would be touted as an American heiress who had been vacationing abroad . . . until she'd met and been swept away by the handsome and irresistible son of a wealthy riverboat family.

  The idea of Brandt sweeping her away on anything other than a wave of fury and annoyance made Willow nearly choke on her tongue. The fact that he had indeed swept her away that fateful night in her room at the Astor House was of no consequence. But she'd had very little say in the matter once Brandt and Robert put their-heads together. And when Mrs. Xavier joined the fray, Willow had known arguing about her role in the charade was a lost cause.

  Robert and Brandt had even decided that it was necessary for Brandt and Willow to share a bedroom—to avoid even a hint of something amiss about the visiting couple. They were worried unwitting servants would carry damning gossip from one household to another, tipping the killer off to Brandt's and Willow's true identities and purpose.

  Taking a short, shallow breath—the only kind that could be taken when she was tied up like a Christmas goose—she gave her low décolletage another yank upward and cursed her sudden run of bad luck.

  "Something wrong, darling?” Brandt sat on the opposite side of the carriage, his legs loosely splayed, his entire body a study of relaxation. They had moved into the Xavier home earlier that afternoon and were now accompanying the family to a neighboring fête. To avoid offending the moral sensibilities of the Xaviers, Robert had bent the truth a bit about Brandt's and Willow's true relationship. He'd told the Xaviers that though they were posing as newlyweds, they were, in actuality, already married, and had been for years. James and Mary Xavier were enamored with the idea of a married couple participating in the same, Somewhat dangerous career as investigators. They had not only supplied Brandt and Willow with a suite of rooms to share, but with a private coach so that they could come and go as they pleased. The latter convenience left Brandt and Willow alone during the short drive to this evening's event—a luxury Willow could well have done without. She wanted to spend as little time alone with Brandt Donovan as possible.

  The very idea that he seemed so comfortable in his tailored breeches and suit while she was so uncomfortable in her new gown, made her want to drive a fist into his belly. The sound of him calling her by such an intimate endearment made her want to aim much lower.

  "I am fine,” she said shortly.

  "Nervous?"

  She was, but she'd be damned if she would admit it. “Not at all. You?"

  A smile of pure male confidence crossed his face. “Not at all. Are you clear on your fictitious background?"

  She rolled her eyes. “As the dim-witted daughter of a wealthy shipping magnate, I'm an innocent lady who had the misfortune of crossing paths with the likes of you."

  He chuckled, shifting his gaze from the open window of the carriage to her. “On the contrary. As the quite intelligent, ravishing daughter of a shipping magnate, you are the lucky lady who had the exceptional fortune of falling madly in love with me."

  "There are two sides to every story,” she put in, raising her nose slightly in the air.

  Brandt shifted on the cushioned seat. “Just be sure that you come around to my side by the time the Xaviers begin introducing us at the Burton ball.” Not giving her a chance to retort, he continued, “It will be interesting during this little adventure to see how well we share a bedroom . . . and a bed, don't you think?"

  What little oxygen the tight corset allowed froze in her lungs. She had done an admirable job thus far of pushing aside the incident that had taken place in her room at the Astor House. And of ignoring Brandt's occasional suggestive looks and innuendos.

  But to have him bring up the topic in so casual a way . . . and to know that they would indeed be sharing a room in the Xavier household . . . made her go hot and slightly light-headed.

  She thought about how well he filled his clothes. And how good he looked out of them. How he'd touched her and brought long-buried passions to the surface in such a short amount of time, when she'd spent years tamping them down and denying they even existed.

  Swallowing hard, she forced herself to look him in the eye. His lips were crooked in a sexy, suggestive grin, but she steeled herself against his charm. “We'll share accommodations by necessity, not by choice. And I'm trusting you to keep your hands—as well as your lascivious thoughts—to yourself,” she added with what she hoped was a firm, hands-off glare. “I don't let personal issues muddle the clear lines of an investigation."

  The cocky grin remained while his eyes drifted over her face, her shoulders, down to the swell of her breasts. “Usually.” he said softly.

  She raised a brow. “Excuse me?"

  "Usually,” he repeated. “You don't usually let personal issues conflict with professional ones."

  "I never do,” she reiterated, teeth tight, shoulders stiff.

  "But you did the night we were together,” he reminded her softly.

  She gasped. Just as softly, but she gasped all the same. The audacity of the man, to bring up their little indiscretion. As though it weren't difficult enough to be near him every hour of the day without wanting to either banish him to the farthest reaches of Hell or repeat the performance. She certainly didn't need him reminding her of one of the biggest mistakes of her life.

  "I know you'd like to put it behind you,” he continued. “Forget it ever happened.” He shifted again, his hands clenching and unclenching where they rested high on his upper thighs. “But we're going to be together indefinitely. Pretending to be husband and wife."

  His gaze held hers, his hazel eyes burning like hot coals. “And the plain fact is, I wouldn't mind if it happened again.” He paused for a moment, letting those words sink in. “You're a woman, I'm a man. It's obvious we're attracted to one another. It's going to be hard t
o ignore that attraction while sharing a chamber, a bed, a marriage—however fraudulent."

  The carriage came to a halt while Willow tried to grasp the meaning of his declaration. She stared at him, unblinking, her fingers digging into the soft leather of the cushion beneath her.

  What could she say? She shared his feelings and at least a fraction of his sentiments. But she couldn't admit that, couldn't allow him to think that anything further could happen between them. If it did, her head would likely fill with fancy notions of love and marriage and forever. And while she was sure Brandt wasn't looking for any one of those things, she was even more certain that she didn't want them.

  A quick tumble with an attractive man was preferable any day over the idea of sharing her life with someone. Of letting him close enough to know the real her, to learn her secrets.

  She thought of her brother, tucked away where he was safe and cared for, and where only she knew of his existence. It was best that way, considering her occupation. A man—this man, especially—would only complicate her carefully constructed lifestyle.

  Startling her out of her deep contemplation, the driver opened the carriage door and awaited their descent. She slid across the seat toward the door, then turned back to Brandt. “It may be difficult,” she said, responding to his earlier comment, “but I do hope you'll try.” Because God knew, she didn't have the strength to resist him alone.

  He would try, all right, but it certainly wouldn't be to ignore his attraction to her. Rather, Brandt thought it might be interesting to try seducing her.

  It wouldn't be difficult. He had already made love to her once; how hard could it be to topple her into bed again? This time, though, he planned to take things slow. To enjoy himself fully and be assured that she did, as well. And when it was over, he wouldn't roll away as he had so foolishly done before. No, if he got the chance to experience the delights of Willow's lovely body again, he would be sure to linger.

  Of course, this time, she would shield herself against him. Any impetuousness on Willow's part that had worked in his favor before would now be working against him. She would suspect his every action and combat against it