Page 81 of West Wind

“Nothing’s changed,” she whispered, as she lifted her lips to his. “You’re still my passion.”

He dropped his knee to the bed, his resolve eroding. One more night, then Annie was free to do as she pleased. She was fully recovered. She could go back to doing what she loved—singing—and he could leave San Francisco behind again. What would it hurt if he spent one more night in her arms?

He tumbled her onto the bed, landing beside her and bouncing lightly as he started to undress her, the buttons flying through his hands as he expertly freed her from the restraints of his old shirt. She smiled, a self-assured grin that said I won as surely as if she’d shouted it from the rooftop.

Once free of the nightshirt, Annabelle sat beside Shelley and finished undressing him. It had been a long time—much too long—since she’d felt his body against hers. She was hungry for him. Hungry for the touch of his skin against hers, his hands on her body, his lips…

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, every fiber of her being, her heart, her soul, her body, his for the taking. They lay side by side on the big bed, her breasts against his chest, her leg over his hip. They kissed, and kissed some more. She didn’t ever want to tear her lips away from his. He sucked on her bottom lip, teased her with his tongue, moaned when she did the same to him.

He pulled away from her and lowered his head, kissing her throat, trailing his lips across her skin until his mouth found her taut nipple and then another. When he drew her into his mouth she whispered his name and her hips moved toward him, rocking gently, until he rolled her onto her back so he held himself above her.

She looked into the hazel eyes that delved into her very soul. She was his. He was hers. He held her there, prisoner of his gaze, as he entered her, torturously slow in his deliberation.

She raised her hips to meet him and wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him ever farther inside her as she clung to him. She started to cry out his name when her climax began; he smothered her scream with a deep kiss. Searching, complete, perfect. Release tore through her body on endless waves. Shelley joined her in that sweet torture, their lips still locked together, their bodies wondrously joined.

It was so perfect she wanted to cry. She loved him. She’d known that for a long time, just as she knew that her love was the last thing he wanted. She wanted to take his face in her hands and tell him how much she loved him, that she never wanted to be apart from him, that she wanted to sleep with him each night, wake every morning to that grin of his, have his babies. But she couldn’t tell him any of that or he would run, He’d run so far and so fast she’d never see him again.

Shelley rolled onto his side and brought Annie with him. Her head rested on his shoulder. He should’ve realized what was happening. He’d fallen in love with her, and that was the worst thing in the world. For her and for him. She was Annabelle St. Clair, and she belonged in San Francisco, and New York, and Paris. She was at home in silk dresses and satin slippers, at dinner parties and the opera. That’s who she was. He was just Shelley, a restless bounty hunter with too much blood on his hands. He was at home in Cheyenne and Kansas City and Brayton. Sometimes he lived with nothing more than dust over his head, one change of clothes if he was lucky, and a bottle of tequila in his saddlebag.

They had no future together. It was good that she didn’t love him, that she called him her passion instead of her love. How many times during her illness had she grabbed his hand and said, “I don’t love you, Shelley.” Enough for him to know it was true. That was good. She wouldn’t be hurt when he left.

But he would be. It was going to hurt one hell of a lot. She lowered her head and rested her ear against his chest. He brushed the wealth of dark hair away from her face so he could see her clearly, a slice of moonlight across her face.

“Can I sleep here?” she whispered as she closed her eyes.

He ran his fingers through her silken hair. “Anything you want, darlin’. Anything you want.”

Annabelle turned around, and around again. She was so confused. Fine gowns were everywhere, tossed over Shelley’s chair and across the bed. Matching slippers lined the dresser in a neat row, shimmering footwear in every color she could imagine. She had to choose.

Lisette had been selecting her clothing since she’d turned thirteen, so this was new for her. Tonight was so very important. Somehow she had to convince Shelley to stay. After the night they’d shared that shouldn’t be a problem, but she was unsure. She hadn’t seen him all day. He’d been gone when she awakened, absent from her bed, missing from his chair by the window. As soon as the breakfast tray Andrew had brought her had been cleared away, Bart had arrived with a tiny older woman, a discreet dressmaker who took measurements, mumbled under her breath about the lack of time, and smiled just a little when Bart pressed a wad of bills into her hand.

The result surrounded her. Readymade dresses, surely, but taken in here and there so they fit her perfectly. She was so overwhelmed with choices she developed a nagging headache that refused to go away. When Rose knocked softly on the door late in the afternoon, Annabelle practically dragged her into the room.

“I’ll be helping you prepare for the evening,” Rose said primly, frowning at the disarray around her. “Have you decided what to wear?”

Annabelle shook her head.

Rose studied the options that were spread across the room. “They’re all beautiful. You’ll look lovely in any one of them, Miss St. Clair.”

“It has to be perfect,” she said desperately, chewing on her lower lip.

A slight rise of her left eyebrow was Rose’s only response.

“Not the red,” Annabelle said, grabbing the red silk dress from the bed and tossing it aside. It reminded her too much of Cherry Red, that little tramp. “I don’t look good in pink.” That gown landed on top of the red one. A lavender gown followed, and Rose discarded a green silk for being much too dark. Within minutes they’d narrowed the choices to two gowns, a sapphire blue and a champagne silver.

Annabelle held up the gowns, one after the other, unable to decide. She looked at Rose beseechingly, and the older woman came to her rescue.

Rose laid the two gowns side by side on the bed and they studied them intently. The sapphire blue was low cut and had a full skirt, a flounce at the hem. The champagne was a sleeker, off-the-shoulder style, the material shot with gold threads that caught the light.

“This one,” Rose said, lifting the blue dress, “if you want to impress Master Bartholomew.” She laid it down and lifted the champagne gown. “This one for Master Travis.”

Annabelle smiled for the first time that afternoon. Her headache vanished. “Thank you, Rose.” She impulsively threw her arms around the stunned woman’s shoulders. “This one it is.” She tossed the blue over the chair with the other discarded options, and took the gown she’d wear for Shelley from Rose. “Do you really think he’ll like it?”

Rose smiled widely, causing wrinkles to bloom on her face. “I have a feeling it wouldn’t matter if you went down dressed in another of Master Travis’s shirts and a baggy pair of trousers, but in that gown you will be irresistible.”

Annabelle’s smile faded. “What do you think Dorothea Cole will wear?”

“Something garish and in poor taste, no doubt.” Rose’s suddenly stern face and clipped speech gave away her unkind thoughts about the woman. “You will put Mrs. Cole to shame no matter what you wear.” She pursed her lips into a tight grimace. “I’m afraid I owe you an apology, Miss St. Clair. It’s my fault that Mrs. Cole found out that Master Travis was home, and that you were with him. It was not my intention to spread rumors. You see, I’ve been… Well, I spend an occasional day off walking or picnicking with Mrs. Cole’s butler, William.”